Transcriber's Notes:

 Italics are marked with underscores, like _this_, oe ligatures have been changed to 'oe'. The original hyphenation was preserved even when inconsistent, obvious typos have been fixed. 

 THE

 FAITH DOCTOR

 _A STORY OF NEW YORK_

 BY

 EDWARD EGGLESTON AUTHOR OF THE HOOSIER SCHOOLMASTER, ROXY, ETC. 

 [Illustration: Publisher's emblem]

 _THIRD EDITION_

 NEW YORK D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 1891

 COPYRIGHT, 1891, BY EDWARD EGGLESTON. 

 _All rights reserved. _

PREFACE. 

Though there is no life that I know more intimately and none that I haveknown for so long a period as that of New York, the present story is thefirst in which I have essayed to depict phases of the complex society ofthe metropolis. I use the word society in its general, not in its narrowsense, for in no country has the merely "society novel" less reason forbeing than in ours. 

The prevailing interest in mind-cure, faith-cure, Christian science, andother sorts of aërial therapeutics has supplied a motive for this story, and it is only proper that I should feel a certain gratitude to theadvocates of the new philosophy. But the primary purpose of this novelis artistic, not polemical. The book was not written to depreciateanybody's valued delusions, but to make a study of human nature undercertain modern conditions. In one age men cure diseases by potable goldand strengthen their faith by a belief in witches, in another theysubstitute animal magnetism and adventism. Within the memory of those ofus who are not yet old, the religious fervor of millenarianism and theimitation science of curative mesmerism gave way to spirit-rappings andclairvoyant medical treatment. Now spiritism in all its forms is passinginto decay, only to leave the field free to mind-doctors andfaith-healers. There is nothing for it but to wait for the middle agesto pass; when modern times arrive, there will be more criticism and lesscredulity, let us hope. 

The propositions put into the mouth of Miss Bowyer, though they soundlike burlesque, are taken almost verbatim from the writings of those whoclaim to be expounders of Christian science. While Miss Bowyer was drawnmore closely from an original than is usual in fictitious writing, I amwell aware that there are professors of Christian science much superiorto her. There are, indeed, souls who are the victims of their owngenerous enthusiasm; and it grieves me that, in treating the subjectwith fidelity and artistic truthfulness, I must give pain to many of thebest--to some whose friendship I hold dear. 

For the idea of a novel on the present theme I am indebted to anunpublished short story entitled An Irregular Practitioner, by Miss AnneSteger Winston, which came under my eye three or four years ago. Isecured the transfer to me of Miss Winston's rights in the subject, and, though I have not followed the lines of her story, it gives me pleasureto acknowledge my obligation to her for the suggestion of a motivewithout which this novel would not have had existence. 

For the comfort of the reader, let me add that the name Phillida shouldbe accented on the first syllable, and pronounced with the second vowelshort. 

JOSHUA'S ROCK ON LAKE GEORGE, _September, 1891_. 

CONTENTS. 

 CHAPTER PAGE

 I. THE ORIGIN OF A MAN OF FASHION 7 II. THE EVOLUTION OF A SOCIETY MAN 19 III. A SPONTANEOUS PEDIGREE 29 IV. THE BANK OF MANHADOES 37 V. THE ARRIVAL OF THE HILBROUGHS 55 VI. PHILLIDA CALLENDER 69 VII. THE LION SOIRÉE 91 VIII. IN AVENUE C 110 IX. WASHINGTON SQUARE AND ELSEWHERE 120 X. BROKEN RESOLVES 132 XI. IN THE PARK 144 XII. PHILIP 155 XIII. MRS. FRANKLAND 162 XIV. MRS. FRANKLAND AND PHILLIDA 176 XV. TWO WAYS 185 XVI. A SÉANCE AT MRS. VAN HORNE'S 193 XVII. A FAITH CURE 201 XVIII. FAITH-DOCTOR AND LOVER 208 XIX. PROOF POSITIVE 213 XX. DIVISIONS 225 XXI. MRS. HILBROUGH'S INFORMATION 232 XXII. WINTER STRAWBERRIES 242 XXIII. A SHINING EXAMPLE 249 XXIV. THE PARTING 256 XXV. MRS. FRANKLAND'S REPENTANCE 266 XXVI. ELEANOR ARABELLA BOWYER 280 XXVII. A BAD CASE 294 XXVIII. DR. BESWICK'S OPINION 302 XXIX. MILLARD AND RUDOLPH 314 XXX. PHILLIDA AND PHILIP 321 XXXI. A CASE OF BELIEF IN DIPHTHERIA 332 XXXII. FACE TO FACE 345 XXXIII. A FAMOUS VICTORY 352 XXXIV. DOCTORS AND LOVERS 364 XXXV. PHILLIDA AND HER FRIENDS 374 XXXVI. MRS. BESWICK 383 XXXVII. DR. GUNSTONE'S DIAGNOSIS 388 XXXVIII. PHILIP'S CONFESSION 398 XXXIX. PHILIP IMPROVES AN OPPORTUNITY 407 XL. THE RESTORATION 415 XLI. AS YOU LIKE IT 422

THE FAITH DOCTOR. 

I. 

THE ORIGIN OF A MAN OF FASHION. 

It was the opinion of a good many people that Charles Millard was"something of a dude. " But such terms are merely relative; every fairlydressed man is a dude to somebody. There are communities in this freeland of ours in which the wearing of a coat at dinner is a mostdisreputable mark of dudism. 

That Charles Millard was accounted a dude was partly Nature's fault. Ifnot handsome, he was at least fine-looking, and what connoisseurs inhuman exteriors call stylish. Put him into a shad-bellied drab and hewould still have retained traces of dudishness; a Chatham street outfitcould hardly have unduded him. With eyes so luminous and expressive in aface so masculine, with shoulders so well carried, a chest so deep, andlegs so perfectly proportioned and so free from any deviation from thetrue line of support, Millard had temptations to cultivate naturalgifts. 

There was a notion prevalent among Millard's acquaintances that one soversed in the lore and so deft in the arts of society must belong to afamily of long standing; the opinion was held, indeed, by pretty mucheverybody except Millard himself. His acquaintance with people ofdistinction, and his ready access to whatever was deemed desirable inNew York, were thought to indicate some hereditary patent to socialprivilege. Millard had, indeed, lines of ancestors as long as thelongest, and, so far as they could be traced, his forefathers werehonest and industrious people, mostly farmers. Nor were they withoutdistinction: one of his grandfathers enjoyed for years the felicity ofwriting "J. P. " after his name; another is remembered as an elder in thelittle Dutch Reformed Church at Hamburg Four Corners. But CharleyMillard did not boast of these lights of his family, who would hardlyhave availed him in New York. Nor did he boast of anything, indeed; histaste was too fastidious for self-assertion of the barefaced sort. Butif people persisted in fitting him out with an imaginary pedigree, justto please their own sense of congruity, why should he feel obliged toobject to an amusement so harmless?

Charles Millard was the son of a farmer who lived near the village ofCappadocia in the State of New York. When Charley was but twelve yearsold his father sold his farm and then held what was called in thecountry a "vendoo, " at which he sold "by public outcry" his horses, cows, plows, and pigs. With his capital thus released he bought amiscellaneous store in the village, in order that his boys "might have abetter chance in the world. " This change was brought about by thediscovery on the part of Charley's father that his brother, acommission merchant in New York, "made more in a week than a farmercould make in a year. " From this time Charley, when not in school, busied himself behind the counter, or in sweeping out the store, with noother feeling than that sweeping store, measuring calico, and drawingmolasses were employments more congenial to his tastes and less hard ongood clothes than hoeing potatoes or picking hops. Two years after hisremoval to the village the father of Charley Millard died, and thestore, which had not been very successful, was sold to another. Charleyleft the counter to take a course in the high school, doing odd jobs inthe mean while. 

When young Millard was eighteen years old he came into what was a greatfortune in village eyes. His father's more fortunate brother, who hadamassed money as a dealer in country produce in Washington street, NewYork, died, leaving the profits of all his years of toil over eggs andbutter, Bermuda potatoes and baskets of early tomatoes, to his twonephews, Charley Millard and Charley's elder brother, Richard. After thelawyers, the surrogate, the executor, and the others had taken each hisdue allowance out of it, there may have been fifty or seventy-fivethousand dollars apiece left for the two young men. Just how much it wasthe village people never knew, for Charley was not prone to talk of hisown affairs, and Dick spent his share before he fairly had time tocalculate what it amounted to. When Richard had seen the last of hismoney, and found himself troubled by small debts, he simplified mattersby executing a "mysterious disappearance, " dropping out of sight of hisold associates as effectually as though he had slipped into somecosmical crack. Charley, though nominally subject to a guardian, managedhis own affairs, husbanded his money, paid Dick's debts, and contrivedto take up the bank stock and other profitable securities that hisbrother had hypothecated. He lived with his mother till she died, andthen he found himself at twenty-one with money enough to keep him atease, and with no family duty but that which his mother had laid uponhim of finding the recreant Dick if possible, and helping him to somereputable employment--again if possible. 

In Cappadocia Charley's little fortune made him the beau of the town;the "great catch, " in the slang phrase of the little society of thevillage--a society in which there were no events worth reckoning butbetrothals and weddings. In such a place leisure is productive of littleexcept ennui. To get some relief from the fatigue of moving around acircle so small, and to look after his investments, Charley made a visitto New York a month after the death of his mother. His affection for hismother was too fresh for him to neglect her sister, who was the wife ofa mechanic living in Avenue C. He would have preferred to go to a hotel, but he took up his abode dutifully in his aunt's half of a floor inAvenue C, where the family compressed themselves into more than theirusual density to give him a very small room to himself. His Aunt Hannahdid her best to make him comfortable, preparing for him the first day aclam chowder, which delicacy Charley, being an inlander, could not eat. His cup of green tea she took pains to serve to him hot from the stoveat his elbow. But he won the affection of the children with littlepresents, and made his aunt happy by letting her take him to see CentralPark and the animals. 

As seen in the narrow apartment of his Aunt Hannah Martin, life in themetropolis appeared vastly more pinched and sordid than it did in thecottages at Cappadocia. How the family contrived to endure living inrelations so constant and intimate with the cooking stove and thefeather beds Charley could not understand. But the spectacle of thestreets brought to him notions of a life greatly broader and morecultivated and inconceivably more luxurious than the best in Cappadocia. 

The third day after his arrival he called at the Bank of Manhadoes, inwhich the greater part of his uncle's savings had been invested, to makethe acquaintance of the officers in control, and to have transferred tohis own name the shares which his brother had hypothecated. He was verycordially received by Farnsworth, the cashier, who took him into theinner office and introduced him to the president of the bank, Mr. Masters. The president showed Charley marked attention; he was verysensible of the voting importance of so considerable a block of stock asCharley held, now that he had acquired all that was his uncle's. Masterswas sorry that his family was out of town, he would have been pleased tohave Mr. Millard dine with him. Would Mr. Millard be in town long?Dining with a New York bank president would have been a novelexperience for young Millard, but he felt obliged to go home the last ofthe week. Not that there was anything of pleasure or duty to render hisreturn to Cappadocia imperative or desirable, but the pressure he wasdaily putting on his aunt's hospitality was too great to be prolonged, and the discomfort of his situation in Avenue C was too much for afastidious man to endure. 

Though his return to Cappadocia made a ripple of talk among the youngwomen of the village, to whom he was at least a most interesting themefor gossip, he found the place duller than ever. His mind reverted tothe great, dazzling spectacle of the thronged streets of the metropolis, with their unceasing processions of eager people. Since he had all theworld to choose from, why not live in New York? But he did not care togo to the city to be idle. He liked employment, and he preferred to earnsomething, though he had no relish for speculation, nor even any desireto run the risks of trade. But he thought that if he could contrive tomake enough to pay a portion of his own expenses, so as to add thegreater part of each year's dividends to his principal, such cautiousproceeding would entirely suit his prudent temperament and content hismoderate ambition. After taking time to revolve the matter carefully, hewrote to the obliging Mr. Masters, suggesting that he would like tosecure some position in the bank. The letter came at an opportunemoment. A considerable number of the stockholders were opposed to thepresident in regard to the general policy to be pursued. The oppositionwas strong enough to give Masters some anxiety. What was known as "theMillard stock" had been held neutral in consequence of Charley'sminority. If now Masters could attach this young shareholder to himself, it would be a positive gain to the administration party in thestockholders' meetings, and indeed it would put the opposition beyondany chance of doing much mischief. 

When Masters got the letter Farnsworth, the cashier, was called into hisroom. But Farnsworth could not give him any information about Millard'scharacter or capacities. That he would not do without special trainingfor a teller or bookkeeper was too evident to require discussion. Allthat could be said of him at first glance was that he wrote a good handand composed a letter with intelligence. He might be made of assistanceto the cashier if he should prove to be a man of regular habits andapplication. What Masters wrote in reply was: "We should be most happyto have the nephew and heir of one of our founders in the bank. Atpresent we have no vacancy suitable to you; for, of course, a man ofyour position ought not to be assigned to one of the lowest clerkships. But if an opportunity to meet your wishes should arise in the future wewill let you know. "

It was only after some years' experience in the bank that Millard, inlooking over this letter, was able to conjecture its real significance. Then he knew that when that letter went out of the bank addressed to himat Cappadocia another must have gone with it to a certain commercialagency, requesting that Charles Millard, of Cappadocia, New York, becarefully looked up. Two weeks later Masters wrote that it had beenfound necessary to employ a correspondent to aid the cashier of thebank. The salary would be two thousand dollars if Mr. Millard wouldaccept it. The offer, he added, was rather larger than would be made toany one else, as the officers of the bank preferred to have astockholder in a semi-confidential position such as this would be. Invillage scales two thousand dollars a year was much, but when Charleycame to foot up the expenses of his first year in New York, this salaryseemed somewhat less munificent. 

Millard's relations were directly with the cashier, Farnsworth, aneager, pushing, asthmatic little man, wholly given to business. Farnsworth's mind rarely took time to peep over the fence that dividedthe universe into two parts--the Bank of Manhadoes and its interestslying on the one side, and all the rest of creation on the other. Notthat he ignored society; he gave dinner parties in his eleganthousekeeping apartment in the Sebastopol Flats. But the dinner partiesall had reference to the Bank of Manhadoes; the invitations were allcalculated with reference to business relations, and the dinners wereneatly planned to bring new business or to hold the old. But there weredinners and dinners, in the estimation of Farnsworth. Some were aimedhigh, and when these master-strokes of policy were successful theytended to promote the main purposes of the bank. The second-rate dinnerswere meant merely to smooth the way in minor business relations. 

It was to one of these less significant entertainments, a dinner of notmore than three horse-power, that he invited his correspondent-clerk, Mr. Millard. It would make the relations between him and Millardsmoother, and serve to attach Millard to his leadership in the bankmanagement. Millard, he reasoned, being from the country, would be justas well pleased with a company made up of nobodies in particular and hiswife's relatives as he could be if he were invited to meet a railwaypresident and a leather merchant from the swamp turned art connoisseurin his old age. 

Charley found his boarding-house a little "poky, " to borrow his ownphrase, and he was pleased with Farnsworth's invitation. He honored theoccasion by the purchase of a new black satin cravat. This he tied withextreme care, according to the approved formula of "twice around and upand down. " Few men could tie a cravat in better style. He also got outthe new frock-coat, made by the best tailor in Cappadocia, carefullycherished, and only worn on special occasions--the last being theevening on which he had taken supper at the house of the Baptistminister. If there was something slightly rustic about the cut or set ofthe coat, Millard did not suspect it. The only indispensable thing aboutclothes is that the wearer shall be at peace with them. Poor Richardventured the proposition that "our neighbors' eyes" are the costliestthings in life, but Bonhomme Richard may have been a little off the markjust there. Other people's opinions about my garments are of smallconsequence except in so far as they affect my own conceit of them. Charley Millard issued from his room at half-past six content withhimself, and, what was of much more importance to the peace of hissoul, content with his clothes. 

At eleven o'clock Millard is in his room again. The broadcloth PrinceAlbert lies in an ignominious heap in the corner of the sofa. The satincravat is against the looking-glass on the dressing-case, just asCharley has thrown it down. Nothing has happened to the coat or thecravat; both are as immaculate as at their sallying forth. But Millarddoes not regard either of them; he sits moodily in his chair by thegrate and postpones to the latest moment the disagreeable task ofputting them away. 

No matter what the subject under consideration, we laternineteenth-century people are pretty sure to be brought face to facewith the intellect that has dominated our age, modified our modes ofthinking, and become the main source of all our metaphysicaldiscomforts. It is this same inevitable Charles Darwin who says that aman may be made more unhappy by committing a breach of etiquette than byfalling into sin. If Millard had embezzled a thousand dollars of thebank's funds, could he have been more remorseful than he is now? And allfor nothing but that he found himself at dinner with more cloth in thetail of his coat than there was in the coattails of his neighbors, andthat he wore an expensive black cravat while all the rest of the worldhad on ghostly white linen ties that cost but a dime or two apiece. 

Of course Millard exaggerated the importance of his mistake. Young menwho wear frock-coats to dinner, and men of respectability who do notpossess a dress-coat, are not entirely lacking in New York. If he hadknown more of the world he would have known that the world is to betaken less to heart. People are always more lenient toward a mistake inetiquette than the perspiring culprit is able to imagine them. In afteryears Millard smiled at the remembrance that he had worried overFarnsworth's company. It was not worth the trouble of a dress-coat. 

His first impulse was to forswear society, and to escape mortificationin future, by refusing all invitations. If he had been a weakling suchan outcome would have followed a false start. It is only a man who canpluck the blossom of success out of the very bramble of disaster. 

During that dinner party had come to him a dim conception of a societycomplicated and conventional to a degree that the upper circle inCappadocia had never dreamed of. He firmly resolved now to know this inall its ramifications; to get the mastery of it in all its details, sothat no man should understand it better than he. To put it under foot bysuperior skill was to be his revenge, the satisfaction he proposed tomake to his wounded vanity. As he could not even faintly conceive whatNew York society was like--as he had no notion of its Pelions on Ossaspiled--so he could as yet form no estimate of the magnitude of thesuccess he was destined to achieve. It is always thus with a man on thethreshold of a great career. 

Among the widely varying definitions of genius in vogue, everybody ispermitted to adopt that which flatters his self-love or serves hisimmediate purpose. "Great powers accidentally determined in a givendirection" is what some one has called it. Millard was hardly a man ofgreat powers, but he was a man of no small intelligence. If he had beensufficiently bedeviled by poverty at the outset who knows that he mightnot have hardened into a stock-jobbing prestidigitator, and made theworld the poorer by so much as he was the richer? On the other hand, hemight perhaps have been a poet. Certainly a man of his temperament andingenuity might by practice have come to write rondeaus, ballades, andthose other sorts of soap-bubble verse just now in fashion; and if hehad been so lucky as to be disappointed in love at the outset of hiscareer, it is quite within the limits of possibility that he should havecome to write real poetry, fourteen lines to the piece. But as the firstgreat reverse of Millard's life was in a matter of dress and etiquette, the innate force of his nature sent him by mere rebound in the directionof a man of fashion--that is to say, an artist not in words or pigments, but in dress and manners. 

II. 

THE EVOLUTION OF A SOCIETY MAN. 

It is the first step that costs, say the French, and Millard made thosefalse starts that are inevitable at the outset of every career. Abeginner has to trust somebody, and in looking around for a mentor hefell into the hands of a fellow-boarder, one Sampson, who was a quietman with the air of one who knows it all and is rather sorry that hedoes. Sampson fondly believed himself a man of the world, and he had thepleasure of passing for one among those who knew nothing at all aboutthe world. He was a reflective man, who had given much thought to thatgravest problem of a young man's life--how to keep trousers from baggingat the knees, the failure to solve which is one of the most patheticfacts of human history. After he had made one or two mistakes infollowing the dicta that Sampson uttered with all the diffidence of apapal encyclical, Millard became aware that in social matters pretensionis often in inverse ratio to accomplishment. About the time that he gaveup Sampson he renounced the cheap tailor into whose hands he hadunwarily fallen, and consigned to oblivion a rather new thirty-dollardress-suit in favor of one that cost half a hundred dollars more. He hadby this time found out that the society which he had a chance to meetmoved only in a borderland, and, like the ambitious man he was, he beganalready to lay his plans broad and deep, and to fit himself, by everymeans within his reach, for success in the greater world beyond. 

Having looked about the circle of his small acquaintance in vain for aguide, he bethought him that there were probably books on etiquette. Heentered a bookstore one day with the intention of asking for some workof the sort, but finding in the proprietor a well-known depositor of thebank, Charley bought a novel instead. Behold already the instinct of aman of the world, whose rôle it is to know without ever seeming tolearn!

When at length Millard had secured a book with the title, "Guide to GoodManners as Recognized in the Very Best Society. By One of the FourHundred, " he felt that he had got his feet on firm ground. 

It chanced about this time that Sampson brought an old college chum ofhis to eat a Sunday dinner at the boarding-house in Eighteenth street. He introduced this friend to Millard with that impressiveness whichbelonged to all that the melancholy Sampson did, as "Mr. Bradley, Mr. Harrison Holmes Bradley, the author; you know his writings. "

Millard was covered with concealed shame to think that he did not happento know the books of an author with a name so resonant, but he did notconfess his ignorance. This was his first acquaintance with a realliterary man--for the high-school teacher in Cappadocia who wrotepoetry for the country papers would hardly count. The aspiring Millardthought himself in luck in thus early making the acquaintance of a manof letters, for to the half-sophisticated an author seems a person whoreflects a mild and moonshiny luster on even a casual acquaintance. Toknow Mr. Bradley might be a first step toward gaining access to the moredistinguished society of the metropolis. 

Harrison Holmes Bradley proved to be on examination a New-Englander ofthe gaunt variety, an acute man of thirty, who ate his roast turkey andmashed potatoes with that avidity he was wont to manifest when runningdown an elusive fact in an encyclopædia. At the table Millard, for wantof other conversation, plucked up courage to ask him whether he wasconnected with a newspaper. 

"No; I am engaged in general literary work, " said Bradley. 

Neither Millard nor any one else at the table had the faintest notion ofthe nature of "general literary work. " It sounded large, and Bradley wasa clever talker on many themes fresh to Millard, and when he went awaythe author exacted a promise from Charley to call on him soon in his"den, " and he gave him a visiting card which bore a street number inHarlem. 

Two weeks later Millard, who was quite unwilling to miss a chance ofmaking the acquaintance of a distinguished man through whom he mightmake other eligible friends, called on Bradley. He found him at work inhis shirt-sleeves, in a hall bedroom of a boarding-house, smoking andwriting as he sat with a gas-stove for near neighbor on the left hand, and a table, which was originally intended to serve as a wash-stand, onthe other side of him. The author welcomed his guest with unaffectedcondescension and borrowed a chair from the next room for him to sit on. Finding Millard curious about the ways of authors, he entertained hisguest with various anecdotes going to show how books are made andtending to throw light on the relation of authors to publishers. Millardnoted what seemed to him a bias against publishers, of whom as a humanspecies Bradley evidently entertained no great opinion. Millard's lovefor particulars was piqued by Bradley's statement at their first meetingthat he was engaged in general literary work. He contrived to bring theauthor to talk of what he was doing and how it was done. 

"You see, " said Bradley, pleased to impart information on a theme inwhich he was much interested himself, "a literary life isn't what peoplegenerally take it to be. Most men in general literary work fail becausethey can do only one thing or, at most, two. To make a living one mustbe able to do everything. "

"I suppose that is so, " said Millard, still unable to form any notion ofwhat was implied in Bradley's everything. To him all literature wasdivided into prose and poetry. General literature seemed to include bothof these and something more. 

"Last week, " Bradley continued, illustratively, "I finished an index, wrote some verses for a pictorial advertisement of Appleblossom's ToiletSoap, and ground out an encyclopædia article on Christian Missions, anda magazine paper on the history of the game of bumblepuppy. I am nowjust beginning a novel of society life. Versatility is the veryfoundation of success. If it hadn't been for my knack of doing all sortsof things I never should have succeeded as I have. "

Judging by Bradley's surroundings and his own account of the sordiddrudgery of a worker in general literature, his success did not seem toMillard a very stunning one. But Bradley was evidently content with it, and what more can one ask of fortune?

"There is another element that goes a long way toward success inliterature, " proceeded the author, "and that is ability to work rapidly. When Garfield was shot I was out of work and two weeks behind with myboard. I went straight to the Astor Library and worked till the libraryclosed, gathering material. When I went to bed that night, or rather thenext morning, I had a paper on 'Famous Assassinations of History' readyfor the best market. But what I hate the most about our business is thehaving to write, now and then, a thunder and lightning story for theweekly blood-curdlers. Now there is Milwain, the poet, a man of genius, but by shop girls and boys reading the Saturday-night papers he isadored as Guy St. Cyr, the author of a long list of ghastly horriblesthrown off to get money. "

"This sort of work of all kinds is what you call general literary work?"queried Millard. 

"General literary work is the evening dress we put on it when it has topass muster before strangers, " said Bradley, laughing. 

What Millard noted with a sort of admiration was Bradley's perfectcomplacency, his contentment in grinding Philistine grists, the zesteven that he evinced for literary pot-hunting, the continualexhilaration that he got out of this hazardous gamble for a living, andthe rank frankness with which he made his own affairs tributary to theinterest of his conversation. 

At length Bradley emptied his pipe and laid it across his manuscript, atthe same time rising nervously from his chair and sitting down on thebed for a change. 

"Millard, " he said, with a Bohemian freedom of address, "you must knowmore about society than I do. Give me advice on a point of etiquette. "

Charley Millard was flattered as he never had been flattered before. Hehad not hoped to be considered an oracle so soon. 

"You see, " Bradley went on, "the publisher of a new magazine called the'United States Monthly' has asked me to dinner. It is away over inBrooklyn, and, besides, the real reason I can't go is that I haven't gota dress-coat. Now what is the thing to do about regrets, cards, and soon?"

Fresh from reading his new "Guide to Good Manners, " Millard feltcompetent to decide any question of Bristol-board, however weighty orcomplicated. He delivered his opinion with great assurance in the verywords of the book. 

"I believe in my soul, " said Bradley, laughing, "that you prigged thatfrom the 'Guide to Good Manners as Recognized in the Very BestSociety. '"

Millard looked foolish, but answered good-naturedly, "Well, what if Idid? Have you read the book?"

Bradley rocked his long slender body backward and forward as thoughabout to fall into a spasm with suppressed merriment. 

"There is only one good thing I can say for that book, " he said, recovering himself. 

"What's that?" asked Millard, a little vexed with the unaccountablemirth of his host. 

"Why, that I got two hundred dollars for writing it. "

"You wrote it?" exclaimed Millard, not concealing his opinion thatBradley was not a suitable person to give lessons in politeness. 

"You see I was offered two hundred for a book on manners. I needed themoney most consumedly. There was Sampson, who knew, or thought he knew, all about the ways of the world, though, between you and me, Sampsonalways did do a large business on a plaguy small capital. So I putSampson to press and got out of him whatever I could, and then Irehashed a good deal in a disguised way from the old 'Bazar Book ofDecorum' and the still older Count D'Orsay, and some others. You have toknow how to do such things if you're going to make a living as aliterary man. The title is a sixpenny publisher's lie. In the day ofjudgment, authors, or at least those of us doing general literary work, will get off easy on the ground that poor devils scratching for theirdinners can not afford to be too high-toned, but publishers won't havethat excuse. "

Millard made his way home that night with some sense of disappointment. Being a fine gentleman was not so easy as it had seemed. The heightsgrew more and more frosty and inaccessible as he approached them. Yet hehad really made a great advance by his talk with Bradley. He had clearedthe ground of rubbish. And though during the next week he bought two orthree of the books of decorum then in vogue, he had learned to dependmainly on his own observations and good sense. He had also acquired abeginning of that large stock of personal information which made him inafter years so remarkable. Natural bent is shown in what a manassimilates. Not an item of all the personal traits and anecdotes ofwriters and publishers brought out in Bradley's unreserved talk hadescaped him, and years afterward he could use Bradley's funny stories togive piquancy to conversation. 

It was this memory of individual traits and his tactful use of it thathelped to launch him on the sea of social success. The gentleman who satnext to him at dinner, the lady who chatted with him at a tea or areception, felt certain that a man who knew all about every person inany way distinguished in society could not be quite withoutconspicuousness of some sort himself. This belief served to open doorsto him. Moreover, his fund of personal gossip, judiciously andgood-naturedly used, made him a valuable element in a small company; theinterest never flagged when he talked. Then, too, Millard had a knackof repeating in a way that seemed almost accidental, or at least purelyincidental, what this or that noted person had said to him. It was inappearance only an embellishment of his talk, but it served to keep up abelief in the breadth, and especially the height, of his acquaintance. If he had only been presented to Mrs. Manorhouse, and she had repeatedher stock witticism in his presence, Millard knew how to quote it as aremark of Mrs. Manorhouse, but the repose of his manner left theimpression that he set no particular store by the Manorhouses. He earlylearned the inestimable value of a chastened impudence to a man withsocial ambitions. 

Some sacrifice of self-respect? Doubtless. But what getter-on in theworld is there that does not have to pay down a little self-respect nowand then? Your millionaire usually settles at a dear rate, and to be agreat statesman implies that one has paid a war tariff in this specie. 

One of the talents that contributed to Millard's success was a knack oftaking accomplishments quickly. Whether it was fencing, or boxing, orpolo that was the temporary vogue; whether it was dancing, or speakingsociety French, he held his own with the best. In riding he was easilysuperior to the riding-school cavaliers, having the advantage offamiliarity with a horse's back from the time he had bestrode theplow-horses on their way to water. Though he found time in his firstyears in New York for only one little run in Europe, he always had theair of a traveled man, so quickly did he absorb information, imitatefashions, and get rid of provincial manners and prejudices. His friendsnever knew where he learned anything. When a Frenchman of title wasbasking in New York drawing-rooms it was found that Millard was equal toa tête-à-tête with the monolingual foreigner, though his accent wasbetter than his vocabulary was copious. His various accomplishments ofcourse represented many hours of toil, but it was toil of which hisassociates never heard. He treated himself as a work of art, of whichthe beholder must judge only by the charming result, with no knowledgeof the foregoing effort, no thought of the periods of uglyincompleteness that have been passed on the way to perfection. 

III. 

A SPONTANEOUS PEDIGREE. 

It was not until the battle was more than half won, and Millard hadbecome a welcome guest in some of the most exclusive houses, that he wasoutfitted with a pedigree. He knew little of his ancestors except thathis father's grandfather was a humble private soldier at the storming ofStony Point. This great-grandfather's name was Miller. Dutch or Germanneighbors had called him Millerd by some confusion with other nameshaving a similar termination, and as he was tolerably illiterate, andrarely wrote his name, the change came to be accepted. A newschoolmaster who spelled it Millerd in the copy-book of Charley'sgrandfather fixed the orthography and pronunciation in the new form. About the time that Millard Fillmore became President by succession, thecontemporary Millerds, who were Whigs, substituted _a_ for the _e_ inthe name. After he came to New York, Charley shifted the accent to thelast syllable to conform to a fashion by which a hundred old Englishnames have been treated to a Gallic accent in America. After thisacquisition of a new accent Charley was frequently asked whether he werenot of Huguenot descent; to which he was wont to reply prudently that hehad never taken much interest in genealogy. Just why it is thought morecreditable for a resident of New York to have descended from a Huguenotpeasant or artisan than from an English colonist, those may tell whofancy that social pretenses have a rational basis. 

Charley's mother's father was named Vandam. The family had been a littleashamed of the old Dutch cognomen; it had such a wicked sound that theytried to shift the accent to the first syllable. Among the fads thatCharley had taken up for a time after he came to New York was that ofcollecting old prints. In looking over a lot of these one day in asecond-hand book-shop, he stumbled on a picture of the colonial periodin which was represented one of the ancient Dutch churches of New York. There was a single stately carriage passing in front of the church, andthe artist had taken the pains to show the footman running before thecoach. The picture was dedicated to "Rip Van Dam, Esq. , " president ofthe council of the colony of New York. As a Christian name "Rip" did nottend to take the curse off the Van Dam. But this picture made Charleyaware that at least one of the Van Dams had been a great man in his day. He reflected that this must be the old Rip's own carriage delineated inthe foreground of the picture of which he was the patron; and this mustbe his footman charging along at breakneck pace to warn all vulgar cartsto get out of the great gentleman's road. Millard bought the print andhung it in his sitting-room; for since he had been promoted in the bankand had been admitted to a fashionable club, he had moved into bachelorapartments suitable to his improving fortunes and social position. Hehad also committed himself to the keeping of an English man-servant--hedid not like to call him his valet, lest the appearance of ostentationand Anglomania should prejudice him with his business associates. Butsomehow the new dignity of his own surroundings seemed to lend somethingbordering on probability to the conjecture that this onceacting-governor of New York, Rip Van Dam, might have been one ofCharley's ancestors. 

Millard hung this print on one side of the chimney in his apartment, achimney that had a pair of andirons and three logs of wood in it. Butwhether this or any other chimney in the Graydon Building was fitted tocontain a fire nobody knew; for the building was heated by steam, and noone had been foolhardy enough to discover experimentally just what wouldhappen if fire were actually lighted in fireplaces so unrealistic asthese. On the other side of his chimney Charley hung a print of thestorming of Stony Point. One evening, Philip Gouverneur, one ofMillard's new cronies, who was calling on him, asked "Millard, what haveyou got that old meeting-house on your wall for?"

"Well, you see, " said Millard, with the air of a man but languidlyinterested, --your real gentleman always affects to be bored by what hecares for, --"you see I put it there because it is dedicated to old RipVan Dam. "

"What do you care for that old cuss?" went on Gouverneur, who, being ofthe true blue blood himself, had a fad of making game of the whole raceof ancient worthies. 

"I don't really care, " said Charley; "but as my mother was a Vandam, shemay have descended from this Rip. I have no documents to prove it. "

"Oh, I see. Excuse me for making fun of your forefathers. I say everymean thing I can think of about mine, but another man's grandfather issacred. You see I couldn't help smiling at the meeting-house on one sideand that old-fashioned, bloody bayonet-charge on the other. "

"Oh, that's only another case of ancestor, " said Millard; "mygreat-grandfather was at Stony Point. "

"The more fool he, " said Gouverneur. "My forefathers, now, contrived tokeep out of bayonet-charges, and shed for their country mostly ink andoratory, speeches and documents. "

Though Philip Gouverneur did not care for ancestors, his mother did. Theone thing that enabled Mrs. Gouverneur to look down on the whole broodof railway magnates, silver-mine kings, and Standard Oil operators, who, as she phrased it, "had intruded into New York, " was the fact that herown family had taken an historic part in the Revolutionary struggle. Atthis very moment she was concocting a ball in memory of the evacuationof New York, and she was firmly resolved that on this occasion noupstart of an Astor or a Vanderbilt, much less any later comer, shouldassist--nobody but those whose families were distinctly of Revolutionaryor colonial dignity. In truth, Mrs. Gouverneur had some feeling ofresentment that the capitalist families were of late disposed to takethemselves for leaders in society, and to treat the merely old familiesas dispensable if necessary. This assembly to be made up exclusively ofantiques was her countermove. 

It cost her something of a struggle. There were amiable people, otherwise conspicuously eligible, whom she must omit if she adhered toher plan, and there were some whom she despised that must be asked onaccount of the illustriousness of their pedigree. But Mrs. Gouverneurhad set out to check the deterioration of society in New York, and shewas not the woman to draw back when principle demanded the sacrifice ofher feelings. She had taken the liveliest fancy to young Millard, who bya charming address, obliging manners, and an endless stock of usefulinformation had made himself an intimate in the Gouverneur household. Hehad come to dine with them informally almost every alternate Sundayevening. To leave him out would be a dreadful cut; but what else couldshe do? What would be said of her set of old china if she inserted sucha piece of new porcelain? What would Miss Lavinia Vandeleur, specialoracle on the genealogy of the exclusive families, think, if Mrs. Gouverneur should be so recreant to right principles as to invite ayoung man without a single grandfather to his back, only because he hadvirtues of his own?

"I say, mother, " said Philip, her son, when he came to look over thelist, "you haven't got Charley Millard down. "

"Well, how can I invite Mr. Millard? He has no family. "

"No family! Why, he is a descendant of old Governor Van Dam, and one ofhis ancestors was an officer under Wayne at Stony Point. "

"Are you sure, Philip?"

"Certainly: he has pictures of Stony Point and of Rip Van Dam hanging inhis room. No Revolutionary party would be complete without him. "

Mrs. Gouverneur looked at Philip suspiciously; he had a way of quizzingher; but his face did not flinch, and she was greatly relieved to thinkshe had missed making the mistake of omitting a friend with so eligiblea backing. Millard was invited, rather to his own surprise, and takeninto preliminary councils as a matter of course. When the introductoryminuet had been danced, and the ball was at its height, PhilipGouverneur, with a smile of innocence, led his friend straight to MissVandeleur, who proudly wore the very dress in which, according to arather shaky tradition, her great-great aunt had poured tea for GeneralWashington. 

"Miss Vandeleur, " said Philip, "let me present Mr. Millard. "

Miss Vandeleur gave Millard one of the bows she kept ready for people ofno particular consequence. 

"Mr. Millard is real old crockery, " said Philip in a half-confidentialtone. "Some of us think it enough to be Revolutionary, but he is adescendant of Rip Van Dam, the old governor of New York in theseventeenth century. "

Miss Vandeleur's face relaxed, and she remarked that judging from hisname, as well as from something in his appearance, Mr. Millard musthave come, like herself, from one of the old Huguenot families. 

"Revolutionary, too, Charley?" said Philip, looking at Millard. Then toMiss Vandeleur, "One of his ancestors was second in command in thecharge on Stony Point. "

"Ah, Philip, you put it too strongly, I--"

"There's Governor Cadwallader waiting to speak to you, Miss Vandeleur, "interrupted Philip, bowing and drawing Millard away. "Don't say a word, Charley. The most of Miss Vandeleur's information is less sound thanwhat I told her about you. Nine-tenths of all such a genealogy huckstertakes for gospel is just rot. I knew that Rip Van Dam would impress herif I put it strongly and said seventeenth century. You see the furtheraway your forefather is, the more the virtue. Ancestry is likehomeopathic medicine, the oftener it is diluted the greater thepotency. "

"Yes, " said Millard; "and a remote ancestor has the advantage thatpretty much everything to his discredit has been forgotten. "

Charley knew that this faking of a Millard pedigree by his friend wouldprove as valuable to him as a decoration in the eyes of certainexclusive people. His conscience did not escape without some qualms; hedid not like to be labeled what he was not. But he had learned by thistime that society of every grade is in great part a game of Mild Humbug, and that this game, like all others, must be played according to rule. Each player has a right to make the most of his hand, whatever it maybe. He had begun without a single strong card. Neither great wealth, personal distinction, nor noted family had fallen to him. But in thegame of Mild Humbug as in almost all other games, luck and good play gofor much; with skill and fortune a weak card may take the trick, andMillard was in a fair way to win against odds. 

IV. 

THE BANK OF MANHADOES. 

When a farmer turns a strange cow into his herd she has to undergo acompetitive examination. The fighter of the flock, sometimes areckless-looking creature with one horn turned down as a result offormer battles, walks directly up to the stranger, as in duty bound. Theduel is in good form and preceded by ceremonious bowing on both sides;one finds here the origin of that scrape with the foot which was anessential part of all obeisance before the frosty perpendicular Englishstyle came in. Politeness over, the two brutes lock horns, and there isa trial of strength, weight, and bovine persistency; let the one thatfirst gives ground look out for a thrust in the ribs! But once thenewcomer has settled her relative social standing and knows which of herfellows are to have the _pas_ of her at the hayrick and thewatering-place, and which she in turn may safely bully, all is peace inthe pasture. 

Something like this takes place in our social herds. In everygovernment, cabinet, party, or deliberative body there is thepreliminary set-to until it is discovered who, by one means or another, can push the hardest. Not only in governments and political bodies butin every corporation, club, Dorcas society, base-ball league, church, and grocery store, the superficial observer sees what appears to beharmony and even brotherly unity; it is only the result of preliminarypushing matches by which the equilibrium of offensive and defensivequalities has been ascertained. And much that passes for domesticharmony is nothing but a prudent acquiescence in an arrangement based onrelative powers of annoyance. 

This long preamble goeth to show that if the Bank of Manhadoes had itsrivalries it was not singular. In the light of the general principles wehave evoked, the elbowings among the officers of the bank are liftedinto the dignity of instances, examples, phenomena illustrating humannature and human history. More far-reaching than human nature, they areoffshoots of the great struggle for existence, which, as we moderns havehad the felicity to discover, gives rise to the survival of the toughand the domination of the pugnacious--the annihilation of the tender andthe subjugation of the sensitive. 

When Millard entered the bank there existed a conflict in the board ofdirectors, and a division of opinion extending to the stockholders, between those who sustained and those who opposed the policy of theMasters-Farnsworth administration. But the administration provedfortunate and successful to such a degree that the opposition andrivalry presently died away or lost hope. Once the opposition to the twomanagers had disappeared, the lack of adjustment between the presidentand cashier became more pronounced. Farnsworth was the victim of achronic asthma, and he was as ambitious as he was restless. The wanlittle man was untiring in his exertions because the trouble he had toget breath left him no temptation to repose. He contrived to find ventfor his uneasiness by communicating a great deal of it to others. Masters, the president, was a man of sixty-five, with neither diseasenor ambition preying on his vitals. For a long while he allowedFarnsworth to have his way in most things, knowing that if one enteredinto contention with Farnsworth there was no hope of ever making an endof it except by death or surrender. That which was decided yesterdayagainst Farnsworth was sure to be reopened this morning; and thoughfinally settled again to-day, it was all to be gone over to-morrow; norwould it be nearer to an adjustment next week. Compromise did no good:Farnsworth accepted your concession to-day, and then higgled you tosplit the difference on the remainder to-morrow, until you had so smalla dividend left that it was not worth holding to. 

But in dealing with a man like Masters it was possible to carry thepolicy of grand worry too far. When at length this rather phlegmatic manmade up his mind that Farnsworth was systematically bullying him--aconclusion that Mrs. Masters helped him to reach--he became the verygranite of obstinacy, offering a quiet but unyielding resistance to thecashier's aggressiveness. But an ease-loving man could not keep up thissort of fight forever. Masters knew this as well as any one, and hetherefore felt the need of some buffer between him and his associate. There were two positions contemplated in the organization of the bankthat had never yet been filled. One was that of vice-president, theother that of assistant cashier. By filling the assistant cashier'splace with an active, aggressive man, Masters might secure an ally whocould attack Farnsworth on the other flank. But in doing that he wouldhave to disappoint Millard, who was steadily growing in value to thebank, but who, from habitual subordination to Farnsworth, and thenatural courtesy of his disposition, could not be depended on to offermuch resistance. To introduce a stranger would be to disturb the statusquo, and the first maxim in the conduct of institutions is to avoidviolent changes. Once the molecules of an organization are set intounusual vibration it is hard to foretell what new combinations they mayform. And your practical man dislikes, of all things, to invite theunforeseen and the incalculable. 

The election of a vice-president would bring a new man into the bankover the head of Farnsworth, but it would also produce a disturbancefrom which Masters felt a shrinking natural to an experienced andconservative administrator. Moreover, there was no one connected withthe direction, or even holding stock in the bank, suitable to be putover Farnsworth. Unless, indeed, it were thought best to bring Hilbroughfrom Brooklyn. To introduce so forceful a man as Hilbrough into themanagement would certainly be a great thing for the bank, and it wouldnot fail to put an end to the domination of Farnsworth. But Mastersreflected that it might equally reduce his own importance. And with allhis irritation against Farnsworth the president disliked to deal him toosevere a blow. 

If the matter had been left to Mrs. Masters, there would have been norelentings. In her opinion Farnsworth ought to be put out. Aren't youpresident, Mr. Masters? Why don't you _be_ president, then? Don't liketo be too hard on him? That's just like you. I'd just put him out, andthere'd be an end of his fussiness once for all. _Of course_ you _could_if you set about it. You are always saying that you don't like to letfeeling interfere with business. But I wouldn't stand Farnsworth--littleshrimp!--setting up to run a bank. Ill? Well, he ought to be; makeshimself ill meddling with other people. He'd be better if he didn'tworry about what doesn't belong to him. I'd give him rest. It's all wellenough to sneer at a woman's notion of business, but the bank would bebetter off if you had entire control of it. The directors know that, they _must_ know it; they are not blind. 

There were no half-tones in Mrs. Master's judgment; everything waspainted in coal blacks or glittering whites. She saw no mediums incharacter; he who was not good in every particular was capable of mostsorts of deviltry, in her opinion. 

This antagonism between the president and the cashier did not reach itsacute stage until Millard had been in the bank for more than threeyears. Millard had made his way in the estimation of the directors inpart by his ever-widening acquaintance with people of importance. Hissocial connections enabled him to be of service to many men whosegood-will was beneficial to the bank, and he was a ready directory tofinancial and family relationships, and to the business history andstanding of those with whom the bank had dealings. Add to theseadvantages his considerable holdings of the bank's stock, and it is easyto comprehend how in spite of his youth he had come to stand next toMasters and Farnsworth. The dissensions between these two weredisagreeable to one who had a decided preference for quietude andplacidity of manners; but he kept aloof from their quarrel, though hemust have had private grievances against a superior so pragmatical asFarnsworth. 

A sort of magnanimity was mingled with craft in Masters's constitution, and, besides, he much preferred the road that was likely to give him thefewest jolts. The natural tendency of his irritation was to die away. This would have been the result in spite of the spur that Mrs. Masterssupplied--applied, rather--if Farnsworth could have been content to letthings take their natural course; but he could not abide to let anythinggo its natural way: he would have attempted a readjustment of therelations between the moon and tides if he had thought himself favorablysituated for puttering in such matters. The temporary obstruction whichMasters offered to his fussy willfulness seemed to the cashier anoutrage hard to be borne. After he had taken so many tedious years toestablish his ascendancy in nine-tenths of the bank's affairs it wassheer impertinence in Masters to wish to have any considerable share inthe management. The backset to his ambition made him more sleepless thanever, bringing on frequent attacks of asthma. He lost interest even inthe dinner parties, with a business squint, that he had been so fond ofgiving. Mrs. Farnsworth was under the frequent necessity of holding aplatter of burning stramonium under his nose to subdue the paroxysms ofwheezing that threatened to cut short his existence. Along with thesmoke of the stramonium she was wont to administer a soothing smudge ofgood advice, beseeching him not to worry about things, though she knewperfectly that he would never cease to worry about things so long as hisattenuated breath was not wholly turned off. She urged him to makeMasters do his share of the work, and to take a vacation himself, or toresign outright, so as to spend his winters in Jacksonville. But everynew paroxysm brought to Farnsworth a fresh access of resentment againstMasters, whom he regarded as the source of all his woes. In his wakefulnights he planned a march on the very lines that Masters had proposed. He would get Millard made assistant cashier, and then have himselfadvanced to vice-president, with Millard, or some one on whom he couldcount more surely, for cashier. He proposed nothing less than to forcethe president out of all active control, and, if possible, to compel himto resign. No qualms of magnanimity disturbed this deoxygenated man. Itwas high time for Masters to resign, if for no other reason than thatFarnsworth might occupy the private office. This inner office was abadge of Masters's superiority not to be endured. 

There was one director, Meadows, whom Farnsworth lighted on as aconvenient agent in his intrigue. Meadows had belonged to the oldopposition which had resisted both the president and cashier. He wassuspected of a desire to make a place for his brother, who had beencashier of a bank that had failed, and who had broken in nerve forcewhen the bank broke. Farnsworth, who rode about in a coupé to save hisbreath for business and contention, drove up in front of Meadows's shopone morning at half-past nine, and made his way back among chandeliersof many patterns in incongruous juxtaposition, punctuated with wallburners and table argands. In the private office at the back he foundMeadows opening his letters. He was a round-jawed man with blue eyes, aniron-oxide complexion, stiff, short, rusty hair, red-yellowside-whiskers, an upturned nose, and a shorn chin, habitually thrustforward. Once seated and his wind recovered, Farnsworth complained atsome length that he found it hard to carry all the responsibility of thebank without adequate assistance. 

"You ought to have an experienced assistant, " said Meadows. This was thefirst occasion on which any officer of the bank had shown his good senseby consulting Meadows, and he was on that account the more disposed toencourage Farnsworth. 

"If, now, " said Farnsworth, "I could have as good a man as they say yourbrother is, I would be better fixed. But an experienced man like yourbrother would not take the place of assistant cashier. "

Meadows was not so sure that his brother would refuse any place, but hethought it better not to say anything in reply. Farnsworth, who had nodesire to take Meadows's brother unless he should be driven to it, sawthe dangerous opening he had left. He therefore proceeded, as soon ashe could get breath:

"Besides, the assistant's place belongs naturally to young Millard, andhe would have influence enough to defeat anybody else who might beproposed. He is a good fellow, but he can't take responsibility. IfMasters were not the cold-blooded man he is, he would have made Millardassistant cashier long ago, and advanced me to be vice-president. "

"And then you would want some good man for cashier, " said Meadows. 

"Precisely, " said Farnsworth; "that is just it. "

"I think we can do that with or without Masters, " said Meadows, turninghis head to one side with a quiet air of defiance. He was only too wellpleased to renew his fight against Masters with Farnsworth for ally. Thequestion of his brother's appointment was after all an auxiliary one; heloved faction and opposition pure and simple. 

"I am sure we can, " said Farnsworth. "Of course my hand must not appear. But if a motion were to be made to advance both Millard and me one step, I don't think Masters would dare oppose it. "

"I'll make the motion, " said Meadows, with something like a sniff, asthough, like Job's war-horse, he smelled the battle and liked the odor. 

In taking leave Farnsworth told Meadows that he had not yet spoken toMillard about the matter, and he thought it not best to mention it tohim before the meeting. But the one thing that rendered Meadowstolerably innocuous was that he never could co-operate with an ally, even in factious opposition, without getting up a new faction within thefirst, and so fomenting subdivisions as long as there were two todivide. The moment Farnsworth had left him he began to reflectsuspiciously that the cashier intended to tell Millard himself, and sotake the entire credit of the promotion. This would leave Farnsworthfree to neglect Meadows's brother. Meadows, therefore, resolved to tellMillard in advance and thus put the latter under obligation to furtherhis brother's interest. He gave himself great credit for a device bywhich he would play Farnsworth against Masters and then head offFarnsworth with Millard. Farnsworth wished to use him to pull somerather hot chestnuts out of the fire, and he chuckled to think that hehad arranged to secure his own share of the nuts first. 

With this profound scheme in his head, Meadows contrived to encounterMillard at luncheon, an encounter which the latter usually took somepains to avoid, for Millard was fastidious in eating as in everythingelse and he disliked to see Meadows at the table. Not that the latterdid not know the use of fork and napkin, but he assaulted his food witha ferocity that, as Millard once remarked, "lent too much support to theDarwinian hypothesis. "

On the day of his conversation with Farnsworth, Meadows bore down on thetable where Millard sat alone, disjointing a partridge. 

"Goo' morning, " he said, abruptly seating himself on the rail of thechair opposite to Millard, and beckoning impatiently to a waiter, whoresponded but languidly, knowing that Meadows was opposed to the tipsystem from both principle and interest. 

When he had given his order and then, as usual, called back the waiteras he was going out the door, waving his hand at him and uttering a"H-i-s-t, waitah!" to tell him that he did not want his meat so fat asit had been the last time, he gave his attention to Millard andintroduced the subject of the approaching meeting of the directors. 

"Why doesn't old Rip Van Winkle wake up?" said Meadows. "Why doesn't hemake you assistant cashier? I'm sure you deserve it. "

"Well, now, if you put it that way, Mr. Meadows, and leave it to me, Iwill say candidly that I suppose the real reason for not promoting me isthat Mr. Masters, being a man of sound judgment, feels that he can notdo me justice under the circumstances. If I had my deserts I'd bepresident of the bank; but it would be too much to ask a gentleman atMr. Masters's time of life to move out of his little office just to makeroom for a deserving young man. "

"You may joke, but you know that Masters is jealous. Why doesn't hepromote Farnsworth to be vice-president? You know that Farnsworth reallyruns the bank. "

"It isn't his fault if he doesn't, " said Millard in a half-whisper. 

"I believe that if I made a move to advance both you and Farnsworth itcould be carried. " Meadows looked inquiringly at his companion. 

"What would become of the cashiership?" asked Millard. "I suppose wecould divide that between us. " "Won't you try a glass of Moselle?" Andhe passed the bottle to Meadows, who poured out a glass of it--he neverdeclined wine when some one else paid for it--while Millard kept ontalking to keep from saying anything. "I like to drink the health of anyman who proposes to increase my salary, Mr. Meadows. " Millard observedwith disgust that the bank director drank off the wine at a gulp as hemight have taken any vulgar claret, with an evident lack ofappreciation. Millard himself was a light drinker; nothing but thedelicate flavor of good wine could make drinking tolerable to him. Themind of Meadows, however, was intent on the subject under discussion. 

"The cashiership, " he said, "could either be filled by some experiencedman or it might be left vacant for a while. "

Millard saw a vision of Meadows, the discouraged brother, stepping inover his head. 

"If a cashier should be put in now, " said Meadows, "it would endpresently in old Rip Van Winkle's resigning, and then an advance alongthe whole line would move you up once more. " Meadows thought that thissop would reconcile Millard to having his brother interpolated abovehim. 

"That's a good plan, " said Millard, using his finger-bowl; "and then ifMr. Farnsworth would only be kind enough to die in one of his attacks, and the other man should get rich by speculation and retire, I'd cometo be president at last. That is the only place suited to a modest andworthy young man like myself. "

This fencing annoyed Meadows, who was by this time salting and pepperinghis roast beef, glaring at it the while like a boa-constrictorcontemplating a fresh victim in anticipation of the joys of deglutition. Millard saw the importance of letting Masters know about this new move, and feared that Meadows would attempt to put him under bonds of secrecy. So, as he rose to go, like a prairie traveler protecting himself byback-firing, he said:

"If you're really serious in this matter, Mr. Meadows, I suppose you'lltake pains not to have it generally known. For one thing, if you won'ttell anybody else, I'll promise you not to tell my wife. "

"And if Farnsworth speaks to you about it, " said Meadows, "don't tellhim that I have said anything to you. He wanted to tell you himself. "

"I'll not let him know that you said anything about it. "

And with that Millard went out. The bait of the assistant cashiershipwas not tempting enough to draw him into this intrigue. The greater partof his capital was in the bank, and he knew that the withdrawal ofMasters would be a misfortune to him. Finding that Farnsworth was out, Millard went to the president's room under color of showing him a letterof importance. A man of dignity doesn't like to seem to bear tales withmalice prepense. When he was about to leave Millard said:

"I hear that a motion is to be made looking to changes in the personnelof the bank. "

The president was a little startled; his first impression from thisremark being that somehow Millard had got wind of the plans he hadrevolved and then discarded. 

"What do you hear?" he said, in his usual non-committal way. 

"Nothing very definite, but something that leads me to think that Mr. Farnsworth would like to be vice-president and that Meadows wouldconsent to have his brother take the cashiership. "

"No doubt, no doubt, " said Mr. Masters, smiling. It was his habit tosmile when he felt the impulse to frown. He did not like to seemignorant of anything going on in the bank, so he said no more toMillard, but let the conversation drop. He presently regretted this, andby the time Millard had reached his desk he was recalled. 

"You understand that Mr. Farnsworth and Meadows are acting in concert?"

"I have reason to think so. "

"Do you think it would be wise to make Mr. Farnsworth vice-president?"

Millard turned the palms of his hands upward and shrugged his shoulders. He made no other reply than to add, "You know him as well as I do. "

"Who would be a good man for the place?"

"Have you thought of Hilbrough?"

"Yes, he would bring real strength to the bank; and, Mr. Millard, thereis one promotion I have long had in mind, " said the president. "Youought to be made assistant cashier, with a considerably larger salarythan you have been getting. "

Millard made a slight bow. "I'm sure you don't expect me to offerserious opposition to that proposal. " Then he could not refrain fromadding, "I believe Mr. Farnsworth and Meadows have also reached thatconclusion. "

There was no opportunity to reply to this; Farnsworth was heard wheezingoutside the door. 

Masters thought rapidly that afternoon. He admitted to himself, as hehad hardly done before, that he was growing old and that a successfulbank ought to have some more vigorous man than he in its management;some man of ideas more liberal than Farnsworth's, and of more age andexperience than this young Millard. His mind turned to Hilbrough, thereal-estate agent in Montague Street, Brooklyn. First a poor clerk, thena small collector of tenement-house rents, then a prosperous real-estateagent and operator on his own account, he had come by shrewd investmentto be a rich man. He was accustomed to make call loans to a large amounton collateral security, and his business was even now almost that of aprivate banker. A director in the Bank of Manhadoes from its beginningand one of its largest stockholders, he was the most eligible man tosucceed Masters in the active management of its affairs, and the onlyman whose election once proposed would certainly command the support ofthe directors against the scheme of Farnsworth. He was the one possibleman who would prove quite too large for Farnsworth's domineering. Itwas with a pang that Masters reflected that he too would be effaced in ameasure by the advent of a man so vital as Warren Hilbrough; but therewas for him only the choice between being effaced by Hilbrough'ssuperior personality and being officially put out of the way byFarnsworth's process of slow torture. He saw, too, that a bank with fourhigh-grade officers would have a more stable official equilibrium thanone where the power is shared between two. The head of such aninstitution is sheltered from adverse intrigues by the counterpoise ofthe several officers to one another. 

If Masters had needed any stimulus to his resolution to contravene theambitious plans of the cashier, Mrs. Masters would have supplied it. When she heard of Farnsworth's scheme, she raised again her old cry of_Carthago delenda est_, Farnsworth must be put out. In her opinionnothing else would meet the requirement of poetic justice; but shedespaired of persuading Masters to a measure so extreme. It was alwaysthe way. Mr. Masters was too meek for anything; he would let people runover him. 

But Masters had no notion of being run over. He went to the office everyday, and from the office he went to his country-place in New Jerseyevery afternoon. There was nothing in his actions to excite thesuspicion of the cashier, who could not know that negotiations withHilbrough, and the private submission of the proposition to certaindirectors, had all been intrusted to the tact of Charley Millard. It wasrather hard on Millard, too; for though he enjoyed his success in anundertaking so delicate, he regretted two dinner parties and onedesirable reception that he was compelled to forego in order to carry onhis negotiations out of bank hours. 

The day before the directors met, Farnsworth confided to Millard hisintention to have him made assistant cashier. Millard said that if Mr. Masters and the directors should agree to that he would be very wellpleased. Considering his evident loyalty to Masters, Farnsworth did notthink it wise to tell Millard anything further. 

In the board of directors Meadows sat with a more than usually defiantface--with a face which showed premonitions of exultation. Farnsworthfelt sure of his game, but he found breathing so laborious that he didnot show any emotion. Masters thought it best to soften the humiliationof his associate as much as possible by forestalling his proposition. Soat the first moment he suggested to the directors that the bank needednew force, on account both of his own advancing years and of Mr. Farnsworth's ill-health, much aggravated by his excessive industry. Hetherefore proposed to have Mr. Hilbrough made vice-president with thesame salary as that paid to the president, to add a thousand to thecashier's salary, and to promote Mr. Millard to be assistant cashier ona salary of five thousand a year. He said that the prosperity of thebank justified the increased expense, and that the money would be wellinvested. 

Meadows opposed this plan as extravagant. He favored the promotion ofMr. Millard, and the promotion of Mr. Farnsworth to be vice-president, leaving the cashiership vacant for a while. But the directors, accustomed to follow the lead of Masters and Hilbrough, and suspiciousof Meadows as habitually factious, voted the president's proposition. 

Farnsworth went home and to bed. Then he asked for a vacation and wentSouth. The bank officers sent him a handsome bouquet when he sailed awayon the Savannah steamer; for commerce by the very rudeness of itsencounters makes men forgiving. In business it is unprofitable tocherish animosities, and contact with a great variety of character makesbusiness men usually more tolerant than men of secluded lives. Farnsworth, for his part, was as pleased as a child might have been withthe attention paid him on his departure, and Mrs. Farnsworth wasdelighted that her husband had consented to take rest, and "make theothers do their share of the work. "

V. 

THE ARRIVAL OF THE HILBROUGHS. 

Of course there is a small set who affect not to mingle freely withnewly prosperous people like the Hilbroughs. These are they in whoseestimation wealth and distinction only gain their proper flavor--theirbouquet, so to speak--by resting stagnant for three generations, forgentility, like game, acquires an admirable highness by the lapse oftime. Descendants of the Lord knows whom, with fortunes made the devilknows how, fondly imagine that a village storekeeper who has risen toaffluence is somehow inferior to the grandson of a Dutch sailor whoamassed a fortune by illicit trade with the Madagascar pirates, or aworse trade in rum and blackamoors on the Guinea coast, and that aquondam bookkeeper who has fairly won position and money by his ownshrewdness is lower down than the lineal descendant of an Indian traderwho waxed great by first treating and then cheating shivering Mohawks. Which only shows that we are prone to plant ourselves on the soundtraditions of ancestors; for where is the aristocracy which does notregard wealth won by ancient thievery as better than money modernlyearned in a commonplace way? But among a gentry so numerous and sodemocratic, in spite of itself, as that of our American Babel, exclusiveness works discomfort mainly to the exclusive. The Hilbroughsare agreeable Americans, their suppers are provided by the bestcaterers, their house has been rendered attractive by boughten taste, and the company one sees there is not more stupid than that in othermiscellaneous assemblies. 

People who are Livingstons of the manor on their great-grandmother'sside, and Van Something-or-others on the side of a great-great-uncle byhis second marriage, and who perhaps have never chanced to be asked tothe Hilbroughs' receptions, shrug their shoulders, and tell you thatthey do not know them. But Mrs. Hilbrough does not slight such familiesbecause of the colonialness of their ancestry. Her own progenitors cameto America in some capacity long before the disagreement about the StampAct, though they were not brilliant enough to buy small kingdoms fromthe Hudson River Indians with jews'-harps and cast-iron hatchets, norsupple enough to get manor lordships by bribes to royal governors. 

I suppose the advent of the Hilbroughs in society might be dated fromthe first reception they gave in New York, though, for that matter, theHilbroughs do not take pains to date it at all. For it is a rule of goodsociety that as soon as you arrive you affect to have always been there. Of other ascents men boast; of social success, rarely. Your millionaire, for example, --and millionairism is getting so common as to be almostvulgar, --your millionaire never tires of telling you how he worked themultiplication table until cents became dimes, and dimes well sownblossomed presently into dollars, till hundreds swelled to hundreds ofthousands, and the man who had been a blithe youth but twenty yearsbefore became the possessor of an uneasy tumor he calls a fortune. Oncethis narrative is begun no matter that you beat your breast withreluctance to hear out the tedious tale, while loud bassoons perchanceare calling you to wedding feasts. Pray hear the modern Whittington withpatience, good reader! The recital of this story is his main consolationfor the boredom of complicated possession in which his life isinextricably involved--his recoupment for the irksome vigilance withwhich he must defend his hoard against the incessant attacks of cheatsand beggars, subscription papers and poor relations. But the man who haswon his way in that illusive sphere we call society sends to swiftoblivion all his processes. In society no man asks another, "How did youget here?" or congratulates him on moving among better people than hedid ten years ago. Theoretically society is stationary. Even whilebreathless from climbing, the newcomer affects to have been always atop. 

Warren Hilbrough's family had risen with his bettered circumstances froma two-story brick in Degraw street, Brooklyn, by the usual stages to abrownstone "mansion" above the reservoir in New York. When he came to bevice-president of the Bank of Manhadoes, Hilbrough had in a measurereached the goal of his ambition. He felt that he could slacken thestrenuousness of his exertions and let his fortune expand naturallyunder prudent management. But Mrs. Hilbrough was ten years younger thanher husband, and her ambition was far from spent. She found herself onlyon the threshold of her career. In Brooklyn increasing prosperity hadmade her a leader in church fairs and entertainments. The "ChurchSocial" had often assembled at her house, and she had given a receptionin honor of the minister when he came back from the Holy Land--a partywhich the society reporter of the "Brooklyn Daily Eagle" had pronounced"a brilliant affair. " This last stroke had put her at the head of herlittle world. But now that Hilbrough was vice-president of the Bank ofManhadoes, the new business relations brought her invitations frombeyond the little planetary system that revolved around the Reverend Dr. North. It became a question of making her way in the general society ofBrooklyn, which had long drawn its members from the genteel quarters ofthe Heights, the Hill, and the remoter South Brooklyn, and, in laterdays, also from Prospect Park Slope. But at the houses of the officersof the bank she had caught somewhat bewildering vistas of those involvedand undefined circles of people that make up in one way and anothermetropolitan society on the New York side of East River. Three yearsbefore Hilbrough entered the bank his family had removed into a newhouse in South Oxford street, and lately they had contemplated buildinga finer dwelling on the Slope. But Mrs. Hilbrough in a moment ofinspiration decided to omit Brooklyn and to persuade her husband toremove to New York. There would be many advantages in this course. InNew York her smaller social campaigns were unknown, and by removal shewould be able to readjust with less difficulty her relations with oldfriends in Dr. North's congregation. When one goes up one must alwaysleave somebody behind; but crossing the river would give her a cleanslate, and make it easy to be rid of old scores when she pleased. So itcame about that on the first of May following Hilbrough's accession tothe bank the family in a carriage, and all their belongings on trucks, were trundled over Fulton Ferry to begin life anew, with painted walls, more expensive carpets, and twice as many servants. A carriage with acoachman in livery took the place of the top-buggy in which, by twos, and sometimes by threes, the Hilbroughs had been wont to enjoy ProspectPark. The Hilbrough children did not relish this part of the change. Theboys could not see the fun of sitting with folded hands on a carriageseat while they rumbled slowly through Fifth Avenue and Central Park, even when the Riverside Park was thrown in. An augmentation of familydignity was small compensation for the loss of the long drive betweenthe quadruple lines of maples that shade the Ocean Parkway in full viewof the fast trotting horses which made a whirling maze as they flew pastthem in either direction. 

"There was some fun in a long Saturday's drive to Coney Island, andround by Fort Hamilton and the Narrows, " muttered Jack, as the horsestoiled up a steep in Central Park; "this here is about as amusing asriding in a black maria would be. "

Ah, Jack! You are too young to comprehend the necessity that rests uponus of swelling our dignity into some proportion to a growing stockbalance. It is irksome this living on stilts, but an unfortunateinability to match our fortune by increasing our bulk leaves us noalternative but to augment our belongings so as to preserve the fitnessof things at any cost. There is as yet no Society for the Emancipationof Princes, and the Association for the Amelioration of the Condition ofthe Children of the Rich has no place in the list of New Yorkphilanthropies. 

Mrs. Hilbrough prudently spent her first winter on Manhattan Island inlooking about her. She ventured a dinner company two or three times, butwent no further. She received calls from the wives of those who had, andthose who wished to have, business relations with her husband, and shereturned them, making such observations as she could on the domesticeconomy, or rather the domestic extravagance, of those she visited. Thefirst result of this was that she changed her door-boy. The fine-lookingmulatto she had installed in imitation of some of her richer Brooklynacquaintances had to be discharged. The Anglomania of the early eightiescruelly abolished the handsome darky hall-boy, that most artistic livingbronze, with all his suggestion of barbaric magnificence, and all hisOriental obsequiousness. His one fault was that he was not English. Fashion forbade the rich to avail themselves of one of the finestproducts of the country. The lackey who took his place had the Englishsuperciliousness, and marked the advance of American civilization byadding a new discomfort and deformity to the life of people of fashion. 

The minister of the church in which the Hilbroughs had taken pews senthis wife to call on Mrs. Hilbrough, and two of the church officers, knowing the value of such an acquisition to the church, showed theirChristian feeling in the same way. Many of her old Degraw street andSouth Oxford street friends called at the new house, their affectionbeing quickened by a desire "to see what sort of style the Hilbroughsare putting on now. " Some of her Brooklyn calls she returned out of apositive liking for good old friends, some because the callers werethose who could introduce her to people she desired to know in New York. She excused herself from calling on the most of her trans-East-Riveracquaintances by urging that it is so much farther from New York toBrooklyn than it is from Brooklyn to New York, you know. She attendedseveral large evening receptions in New York, and drank five o'clock teaat six in the evening at a good many places. She thus madeacquaintances, while with a clever woman's tact she kept her wits abouther and began to "get the hang of the thing, " as she expressed it to oneof her confidential friends. Meantime she was as constant in herattendance at the opera as she had been at the prayer-meeting in formerdays. 

It was at the beginning of her second winter in New York that she servednotice on Hilbrough that she meant to give a reception; or, as she putit, "We must give a reception. " The children had gone to school, thebutler was otherwise engaged, and there was nobody but a waitresspresent. 

Hilbrough's face was of that sunny, sanguine sort which always seems toindicate that things are booming, to borrow a phrase from our modernargot. His plump, cheery countenance, and the buoyant spontaneity of hislaugh, inspired a confidence which had floated his craft over more thanone financial shoal. But when Mrs. Hilbrough proposed a reception, justas he finished his coffee, he became meditative, leaned his two largearms on the table, and made a careful inspection of the china cup: hiswife--Brooklyn woman that she was--had lately made a journey across thenew bridge to buy the set at Ovington's. 

"You don't mean one of those stupid crushes, " he began, "where all thepeople outside are trying to butt their way in, and all those inside arewishing to heaven that they were well out again--like so many June bugsand millers on a summer night bumping against both sides of a windowwith a candle in it?" Hilbrough finished with a humorous little chuckleat his own comparison. 

"Well, " rejoined Mrs. Hilbrough, firmly, "a reception is the thing togive. We owe it to our social position. "

"Social position be hanged!" said Hilbrough, half in vexation, but stilllaughing, while his wife tried by frowning to remind him that the use ofsuch words in the presence of a servant was very improper. 

"It seems as though I never could get square with that thing you callsocial position. I pay all my other debts and take receipts in full, butthe more money we have the more we owe to social position. I have agreat mind to suspend payment for a while and let social position go tosmash. I detest a reception. I don't mind a nice little gathering ofgood friendly folks such as we used to have in Degraw street at thechurch socials--"

"Church socials!"

His wife's interruption took Hilbrough's breath. She muttered ratherthan spoke these few words, but with a contemptuousness of inflectionthat was most expressive. Hilbrough was left in some doubt as to whetherall the contempt was intended for the church socials in Degraw street, or whether a part of it might not be meant for a husband whose mind hadnot kept pace with his fortune. 

"I am sure there was real enjoyment in a church social, " he said, with adeprecating laugh, "to say nothing of the money raised to recarpet thechurch aisles. And I confess I rather enjoyed the party you gave inOxford street when Dr. North got back from the Holy Land. "

While Hilbrough was making this speech his wife had, by dumb show, ordered the waitress to take something down-stairs, in order that theremight be no listener to Hilbrough's autobiographical reminiscences butherself. 

"Well, my dear, " she said, taking a conciliatory tone, "our walk in lifehas changed, and we must adapt ourselves to our surroundings. You knowyou always said that we ought to do our share toward promotingsociability. "

"Sociability!" It was Hilbrough's turn now. His laugh had a note ofderision in it. "W'y, my dear, there is rather more sociability in acue of depositors at the teller's window of an afternoon than there wasat Mrs. Master's reception last winter. "

"Well, don't let's argue. I hate arguments of all things. "

"Most people do, when they get the worst of them, " rejoined Hilbrough, merrily. 

"You are positively rude, " pouted Mrs. Hilbrough, rising from the table. If she hated arguments, her husband hated tiffs, and her look ofreproach accomplished what her arguments could not. Hilbrough knew thatat the game of injured innocence he was no match for his wife. Thequestion in his mind now was to find a line of retreat. 

"You ought to have more consideration for my feelings, Warren, " she wenton. "Besides, you know you said that whatever widened our acquaintancewas likely to do the bank good. You know you did. "

"So I did, my dear; so I did, " he answered, soothingly, as he rose fromthe table and looked at his watch. "There's one comfort, anyhow. Youdon't know a great many people on this side of the river yet, and so Iguess I sha'n't have to put hoops on the house this time, unless youfetch all Brooklyn across the new bridge. "

Mrs. Hilbrough did not care to contradict her husband now that he hadrelented. But as for crowding the house she felt sure there was a way todo it, if she could only find it, and she was resolved not to have fewerpeople than Mrs. Masters, and that without depleting Brooklyn. 

What she needed was an adviser. She went over the bead-roll of heracquaintance and found nobody eligible. Those who could have pointed outto her what were the proper steps to take in such a case were just thepeople to whom she was not willing to expose herself in her unfledgedcondition. At last she felt obliged to ask Mr. Hilbrough about it. 

"Don't you know somebody, my dear, who knows New York better than I do, who could give me advice about our reception?" This was her opening ofthe matter as she sat crocheting by the glowing grate of anthracite inthe large front room on the second floor, while her husband smoked, andread his evening paper. 

"I? How should I know?" he said, laying down the paper. "I don't knowmany New York ladies. "

"Not a woman! I mean some man. You can't speak to a woman about suchthings so well as you can to a man;" and she spread her fancy-work outover her knee and turned her head on one side to get a good view of itsgeneral effect. 

"I should think you would rather confide in a woman. " Hilbrough lookedpuzzled and curious as he said this. 

"You don't understand, " she said. "A woman doesn't like to give herselfaway to another woman. Women always think you ridiculous if you don'tunderstand everything, and they remember and talk about it. But a manlikes to give information to a woman. I suppose men like to have a womanlook up to them. " Mrs. Hilbrough laughed at the explanation, which wasnot quite satisfactory to herself. 

"Well, " said Hilbrough, after a minute's amused meditation, "the men Iknow are all like me. They are business men, and are rather dragged intosociety, I suppose, by their wives, and by"--he chuckled merrily at thispoint--"by the debts they owe to social position, you know. I don'tbelieve there's a man in the bank that wouldn't be as likely to ask meabout what coat he ought to wear on any occasion as to give me anyinformation on the subject. Yes, there is one man. That's young_Mil_lard, or Mil_lard_, as he calls it. He's a sort of a dude, and Inever could stand dudes. I asked Mr. Masters the other day whether theassistant cashier was worth so large a salary as five thousand dollars, and he said that that man had the entry--the _ontray_, as he calledit--to the best houses in New York. He's cheek by jowl with a dozen ofthe richest men, he's invited everywhere, and is considered a greatauthority on all matters of that kind. He brings some business to thebank, and he's one of the best judges in New York of a man's characterand responsibility. He knows all about pretty nearly every man whosenote is presented for discount, and, if he does not know at once, he cangenerally find out in an hour. I believe he could tell us the name ofthe grandmother of almost every prominent depositor if we wished toknow, and how every man got his money. "

"Is he rich?"

"Well, nobody seems to know for certain. He has a large slice of thebank's stock, and he's known to have good investments outside. He's wellenough off to live without his salary if he wanted to. But I am prettysure he isn't rich. Belongs to some old family, I suppose. "

"I should be afraid of him, " said Mrs. Hilbrough, ruefully. 

"You needn't be. He's a good enough sort of fellow if he only wouldn'tpart his hair in the middle. I can't abide that in a man. But it's nouse being afraid of him. He probably knows all about you and me already. He first came to see me about coming into the bank, and I don't know butit was his move to get me. "

"Would he come up to dinner some evening?"

"He'd rather like to oblige me. I'll have to get him when he'sdisengaged. What shall I tell him?"

"Tell him that Mrs. Hilbrough wishes his advice, and would be glad if hewould come to dinner with us some evening. "

"Why do I need to say anything about your wanting advice? I don't justlike to ask a favor of such a dude. I'll ask him to dinner, and you canask his advice as though by accident. "

"No; that won't do. That kind of man would see through it all. Tell himthat I wish his advice. That will show him that I recognize his positionas an authority. He'll like that better. "

Warren Hilbrough suddenly discovered that his wife was cleverer--or, ashe would have said, "smarter"--than he had thought her. 

"You are a good hand, Jenny, " he said. "You'll win your game. " And afterhe had resumed the reading of his paper he looked over the top of itonce or twice in furtive admiration of her as she sat between him andthe dark portière, which set her form in relief against the richbackground and made her seem a picture to the fond eyes of her husband. He reflected that perhaps after all managing church fairs and runningsewing societies was no bad training for a larger social activity. 

VI. 

PHILLIDA CALLENDER. 

"Hilbrough has sent for me, " said Millard to Philip Gouverneur, who wassitting so as to draw his small form into the easy-chair as he smoked bythe open fire in the newspaper room at the Terrapin Club. Millard, whohad never liked tobacco, was pretending to smoke a cigarette becausesmoking seemed to him the right thing to do. He had no taste for anymore desperate vice, and tobacco smoke served to take the gloss off acharacter which seemed too highly finished for artistic effect. 

"Hilbrough"--Charley smiled as he recalled it--"always gets uneasy whenhe's talking to me. He takes his foot off the chair and puts it on thefloor. Then he throws himself forward on the table with his elbowsoutward, and then he straightens up. He's a jolly kind of man, though, and a good banker. But his wife--she is the daughter of a Yankeeschool-teacher that taught in Brooklyn till he died--is a vigorouslittle woman. She hasn't come to New York to live quietly. She's beenhead and front of her set in Brooklyn, and the Lord knows what she won'tundertake now that Hilbrough's getting rich very fast. I haven't seenher yet, but I rather like her in advance. She didn't try to trap meinto an acquaintance, but sent me word that she wanted advice. There's awoman who knows what she wants, and goes for it with a clear head. Butwhat can I do for her? She'll be wanting to give a tea or a ball beforeshe has acquaintances enough. It's awfully ticklish making such peopleunderstand that they must go slow and take what they can get to beginwith. "

"Why, " said Gouverneur, "you can tell her to take the religious or moralreform dodge, and invite all the friends of some cause to meet somedistinguished leader of that cause. Bishop Whipple, if she could capturehim, would bring all the Friends of the Red Man, just as Miss Willard orMrs. Livermore would fetch the temperance and woman-suffrage people. Youremember the converted Hindu princess they had over here last winter?Between her rank, and her piety, and her coming from the antipodes, andher heathen antecedents, she drew beautifully. Fine woman, too. Even mymother forgave her for not having a drop of Dutch or Revolutionary bloodin her veins, and we all liked her very much. Give Mrs. Hilbrough thattip. "

Millard shook his head, and smiled. He had the appreciative smile of aman with a genius for listening, which is a better, because a rarer, contribution to conversation than good speech. Philip, crouched in hischair with his face averted from the electric lights, went on:

"Well, then you know there is the literary dodge. Have papers read, notenough to bore people too deeply, but to bore them just enough to givethose who attend an impression of intellectuality. Have discussions ofliterary questions, seasoned with stewed terrapin, and decorated withdress coats and external anatomy gowns. Those who go to such placesflatter themselves that they are getting into literary circles andimproving their minds, especially if a popular magazinist or the son ofsome great author can be persuaded to read one of his rejected articlesor to make a few remarks now and then. Then there is the musical dodgeon the drawing-room scale, or by wholesale, like the Seidl Society, forexample. One is able by this means to promote a beautiful art andincrease one's social conspicuousness at the same time. Then there isthe distinguished-foreigner dodge, give a reception in honor of--"

"Hang it, Philip; I'll tell Mrs. Hilbrough to send for you, " saidMillard, laughing as he got up and threw his cigarette into the grate. "I don't like to interrupt your lecture, but it's eleven o'clock, andI'm going home. Good-night. "

Philip sat there alone and listened to the rain against the windows, andsmoked until his cigar went out. The mere turning of things over in hismind, and tacking witty labels to them, afforded so much amusement thatinactivity and revery were his favorite indulgences. 

Mrs. Hilbrough gave a good deal of thought to her dinner on the nextevening after the conversation between Philip Gouverneur and Millard. Tohave it elegant, and yet not to appear vulgar by making too much fussover a dinner _en famille_, taxed her thought and taste. Half an hourbefore dinner she met her husband with a perturbed face. 

"It's too bad that Phillida Callender should have come this evening. That's just the way with an indefinite invitation. Poor girl, I've beenasking her to come any evening, and now she has hit on the only one inthe year on which I would rather she should have stayed at home. "

"I'm sure Phillida is nice enough for anybody, " said Hilbrough, sturdily. "I don't see how she interferes with your plan. "

"Well, Mr. Millard'll think I've asked her specially to help entertainhim, and Phillida is so peculiar. She's nobody in particular, socially, and it will seem an unskillful thing to have asked her--and then she hasideas. Young girls with notions of their own are--well--you know. "

"Yes, I know, home-made ideas are a little out of fashion, " laughedHilbrough. "But I'll bet he likes her. Millard isn't a fool if he doespart his hair in the middle and carry his cane balanced in his fingerslike a pair of steelyards. "

"If he takes me to dinner, you must follow with Phillida. Give your leftarm--"

"I'll feel like a fool escorting Phillida--"

"But you must if Mr. Millard escorts me. "

Hilbrough could have cursed Millard. He hated what he called "flummery. "Why couldn't people walk to the table without hooking themselvestogether, and why couldn't they eat their food without nonsense? But heshowed his vexation in a characteristic way by laughing inwardly at hiswife and Millard, and most of all at himself for an old fool. 

Phillida Callender was the daughter of a Presbyterian minister who hadgone as missionary to one of the Oriental countries. After years of lifein the East, Mr. Callender had returned to America on account of hiswife's health, and had settled in Brooklyn. If illusions of his youthhad been dispelled in the attempt to convert Orientals to a belief inthe Shorter Catechism he never confessed it, even to himself, and hecherished the notion that he would some day return to his missionaryvocation. The family had an income from the rent of a house in New Yorkthat had been inherited by Mrs. Callender, and the husband receivedconsiderable sums for supplying the pulpits of vacant churches. He hadoccupied the pulpit of the church that the Hilbroughs attended duringthe whole time of Dr. North's journey to the Holy Land, and had thuscome into a half-pastoral relation to the Hilbrough family. Mr. Callender sickened and died; the fragile wife and two daughters wereleft to plan their lives without him. The sudden shock and the new draftupon Mrs. Callender's energies had completed her restoration to atolerable degree of health and activity. Between the elder daughter, whom the father had fancifully named Phillida, from the leafy grove inwhich stood the house where she was born, and Mrs. Hilbrough there hadgrown up a friendship in spite of the difference in age andtemperament--a friendship that had survived the shock of prosperity. Lately the Callenders had found it prudent to remove to their housesituate in the region near Second Avenue below Fourteenth Street, aquarter which, having once been fashionable, abides now in the meresttwilight of its former grandeur. The letting of the upper rooms of thehouse was a main source of income. 

Born in Siam, bred in a family pervaded with religious and propagandistideas, and having led a half-recluse life, Phillida Callender did notseem to Mrs. Hilbrough just the sort of person to entertain a man of theworld. 

When dinner was announced Millard did give Mrs. Hilbrough his arm, andPhillida was startled and amused, when Mr. Hilbrough, after pausing aninstant to remember which of his stout arms he was to offer, presentedhis left elbow. Despite much internal levity and external clumsiness, Hilbrough played his _rôle_ to the satisfaction of his anxious wife, andPhillida looked at him inquiringly after she was seated as though todiscover what transformation had taken place in him. 

Millard could not but feel curious about the fine-looking, dark youngwoman opposite him. But with his unfailing sense of propriety he gavethe major part of his attention to the elder lady, and, without utteringone word of flattery, he contrived, by listening well, and by an almostundivided attention to her when he spoke, to make Mrs. Hilbrough verycontent with herself, her dinner, and her guest. This is the sort ofpoliteness not acquired in dancing-school nor learned in books ofdecorum; it is art, and of all the fine arts perhaps the one that givesthe most substantial pleasure to human beings in general. Even Hilbroughwas pleased with Millard's appreciation of Mrs. Hilbrough; to think wellof Jenny was an evidence of sound judgment, like the making of aprudent investment. 

Meantime Millard somewhat furtively observed Miss Callender. From thesmall contributions she made to the table-talk, she seemed, to him, rather out of the common run. Those little touches of inflection andgesture, which one woman in society picks up from another, and which arethe most evanescent bubbles of fashion, were wanting in her, and thisconvinced him that she was not accustomed to see much of the world. Onthe other hand, there was no lack of refinement either in speech ormanner. That disagreeable quality in the voice which in an Americanwoman is often the most easily perceptible note of underbreeding was notthere. Her speech was correct without effort, as of one accustomed tohear good English from infancy; her voice in conversation was an alto, with something sympathetic in its vibration, as though a powerfulemotional nature lay dormant under the calm exterior. Millard was notthe person to formulate this, but with very little direct conversationhe perceived that she was outside the category to which he wasaccustomed, and that her personality might prove interesting, if one hadan opportunity of knowing it. He reasoned that with such a voice sheought to be fond of music. 

"Have you heard much of Wagner, Miss Callender?" he said when there wasa pause in the conversation. He felt before he had finished the questionthat it was a false beginning, and he was helped to this perception by amovement of uneasiness on the part of Mrs. Hilbrough, who was afraidthat Phillida's disqualifications might be too plainly revealed. But ifMrs. Hilbrough was rendered uneasy by the question, Phillida was not. She turned her dark eyes upon Millard, and smiled with genuine amusementas she answered:

"I have heard but one opera in my life, Mr. Millard, and that was notWagner's. "

"Miss Callender, " said Mrs. Hilbrough, quickly, "is one who hassacrificed social opportunities to her care for an invalid mother--agreat sacrifice to one at her time of life. "

"I don't think I have sacrificed much, " answered Phillida with a traceof embarrassment. "My social opportunities could not have been many atbest, and I would rather have led, "--she hesitated a moment, --"I don'tknow but I would rather have led my quiet life than--the other. "

In her effort to say this so as neither to boast of her own pursuits norto condemn those of others, Miss Callender's color was a littleheightened. Millard was sorry that his innocent question had led theconversation into channels so personal. Mrs. Hilbrough was inwardlyvexed that Phillida should be so frank, and express views so opposed tothose of good society. 

"You find Brooklyn a pleasant place to live, no doubt, " said Millard, taking it for granted that Phillida was from Brooklyn, because of herfriendship for the Hilbroughs. 

"I liked it when we lived there. I like New York very well. My relativesall live on this side of East River, and so I am rather more at homehere. "

"Then you don't find New York lonesome, " said Millard, with a fallingcadence, seeking to drop the conversation. 

"Oh, no! I live near Stuyvesant Square, and I have an aunt in WashingtonSquare of whom I am very fond. "

"I am often at the Gouverneurs, on the north side of the Square. I likeWashington Square very much, " said Millard, getting on solid groundagain. 

"We visit at the same house. Mrs. Gouverneur is my aunt, " said Phillida. 

Millard was a little stunned at this announcement. But his habitual tactkept him from disclosing his surprise at finding Miss Callender'saffiliations better than he could have imagined. He only said withunaffected pleasure in his voice:

"The Gouverneurs are the best of people and my best friends. "

Mr. Hilbrough looked in amusement at his wife, who was manifestlypleased to find that in Phillida she was entertaining an angel unawares. Millard's passion for personal details came to his relief. 

"Mrs. Gouverneur, " he said, "had a brother and two sisters. You must bethe daughter of one of her sisters. One lives, or used to live, in SanFrancisco, and the other married a missionary. "

"I am the missionary's daughter, " said Phillida. 

Millard felt impelled to redeem his default by saying something to MissCallender about the antiquity and excellence of her mother's family. Ifhe had been less skillful than he was he might have given way to thisimpulse; but with the knack of a conversational artist he contrived intalking chiefly to Mrs. Hilbrough to lead the conversation to MissCallender's distinguished great-grandfather of the Revolutionary period, who was supposed to shed an ever-brightening luster all the way down theline of his family, and Millard added some traditional anecdotes ofother ancestors of her family on the mother's side who had played aconspicuous part in the commercial or civic history of New York. All ofwhich was flattering to Miss Callender, the more that it seemed to beuttered in the way of general conversation and with no particularreference to her. 

Hilbrough listened with much interest to this very creditable account ofPhillida's illustrious descent, and longed for the time when he shouldhave the fun of reminding his wife that he had held the opinion from thebeginning that Phillida Callender was good enough for anybody. 

Mrs. Hilbrough took Phillida and left the table, Mr. Hilbrough rising asthe ladies passed out, as he had been instructed. When he and Millardhad resumed their seats the cigars were brought, but when Millard sawthat his host did not smoke he did not see why he should punish himselfwith a cigar and a _tête-à-tête_ with Hilbrough, whom he could see anyday at the bank. So by agreement the sitting was soon cut short, and thegentlemen followed the ladies to the drawing-room. Mrs. Hilbrough hadplanned a conversation with Millard about her reception while Phillidashould be left to talk with Mr. Hilbrough. But Phillida's position hadbeen changed during dinner. Mrs. Hilbrough found a new card in her hand. She drew Miss Callender into the talk about the reception, leaving herhusband to excuse himself, and to climb the stairs to the third floor, as was his wont, to see that the children had gone to bed well and werenot quarreling, and to have a few cheery words with Jack and the smallerones before they went to sleep. Receptions were nothing to him: the bedson the third floor contained the greater part of the world. 

Millard was relieved to find that Mrs. Hilbrough proposed nothing moreambitious than an evening reception. He commended her for beginning innew surroundings in this way. 

"You see, Mrs. Hilbrough, " he said, "a reception seems to me moreflexible than a ball. It is, in a sense, more democratic. There are manygood people--people of some position--who do not care to attend a ball, who would be out of place at a ball, indeed, which should be a veryfashionable assembly. The party with dancing can come after. "

This commendation had an effect opposite to that intended. Mrs. Hilbrough hadn't thought of a ball, and she now suspected that she wasgoing wrong. In proposing a reception she was imitating Mrs. Masters, and she had fancied herself doing the most proper thing of all. To havea reception called democratic, and treated as something comparativelyeasy of achievement, disturbed her. 

"If you think a reception is not the thing, Mr. Millard, I will followyour advice. You see I only know Brooklyn, and if a reception is goingto compromise our position in the future I wish you would tell me. I amafraid I can hardly accomplish even that. "

But Millard again said that a reception was a very proper thing to beginwith. By degrees he drew out a statement of Mrs. Hilbrough's resourcesfor a reception, and he could not conceal from her the fact that theyseemed too small, for numerousness is rather indispensable to thisspecies of entertainment. A reception is in its essence entertainment bywholesale. 

"If you could give a reception in honor of somebody, " he suggested, remembering Philip Gouverneur's suggestion, "it might serve to attractmany beyond your own circle, and--and--give you a reason for askingpeople whom--you know but slightly, if at all. "

But Mrs. Hilbrough did not know any proper person to honor with areception. Her embarrassment was considerable at finding herself sopoorly provided with ways and means, and she was slowly coming to theconclusion that she must wait another winter, or take other means ofwidening her acquaintance. A plan had occurred to Millard by which hecould help her out of the difficulty. But as it involved considerabletrouble and risk on his part, he rejected it. There was no reason why heshould go too far in helping the Hilbroughs. It was not a case forself-sacrifice. 

Hilbrough, in the nursery, had found the youngest little girl sufferingwith a slight cold, --nothing more than a case of infantilesniffles, --but Hilbrough's affection had magnified it into incipientcroup or pneumonia, and, after a fruitless search for the vial of toluand squills, he dispatched the maid to call Mrs. Hilbrough. 

When they were left alone, Millard turned to Phillida, who had shownnearly as much disappointment over the possible postponement of Mrs. Hilbrough's project as the projector herself. 

"You are deeply interested in this affair, too, Miss Callender, " hesaid. 

"I don't care much for such things myself, but I should dislike to seeMrs. Hilbrough disappointed, " answered Phillida. "She has been such agood friend to me, and in time of the greatest trouble she was such afriend to my family, and especially"--she hesitated--"to my father, whodied two years ago, that I am interested in whatever concerns herhappiness or even her pleasure. "

Somehow this changed the color of the enterprise in the eyes of CharlesMillard. The personality of Miss Callender was interesting to him, andbesides she was Mrs. Gouverneur's niece. It seemed worth whilegratifying Mrs. Hilbrough at considerable cost if it would give pleasureto this peculiar young lady. 

"Well, with such a certificate of Mrs. Hilbrough's qualities, " saidMillard, after a pause, "we must strain a point and get up thisreception for her. We must be good to the good. We can carry thisthrough together, you and I, Miss Callender, " he said. 

"What can I do?" asked Phillida, opening her large, dark eyes withinnocent surprise. "I know nobody. "

"You can get Mrs. Gouverneur's countenance, perhaps. That will be agreat deal for Mrs. Hilbrough hereafter. "

"Perhaps I can get it, with your help, Mr. Millard. My aunt is goodhearted, but she has queer notions. She has a great opinion of thesocial importance of her family. " And Mrs. Gouverneur's niece laughed ina way which went to show that she treated with some levity her aunt'sestimate of the value of ancestry. 

"One couldn't avoid being proud of such forefathers, " answered Millard. 

"Perhaps she will help if I ask her. She is very obliging to me--Ibelong to the royal family too, you know, " she said archly. 

"Together we can get her to lend her influence to Mrs. Hilbrough, " saidMillard, "or at least to attend the reception. And I think I know howthe whole thing can be managed. "

"I am so glad, and so much obliged to you, Mr. Millard, " said Phillida, a gleam of enthusiastic feeling, almost childlike, suddenly showingitself through the grave exterior. This little revelation of the selfshut within the disciplined self without puzzled Millard and piqued thecuriosity he felt to understand what manner of young girl this was, habitually so self-mastered, and apparently so full of unknown power orof unawakened sensibilities. An apprehension of potencies undeveloped inMiss Callender gave her new acquaintance the feeling of an explorer whostands on the margin of a land virgin and unknown, eager to discoverwhat is beyond his sight. For Millard's main interest in life lay in thestudy of the personalities about him, and here was one the like of whichhe had never seen. The social naturalist had lighted on a new genus. 

Mrs. Hilbrough returned with her husband, and Millard explained to herthat a certain Baron von Pohlsen, a famous archæologist, was at thattime in Mexico studying the remains of Aztec civilization with the viewof enriching the pages of his great work on the "Culturgeschichte" ofthe ancient Americans. He was to return by way of New York, where hismoney had been remitted to the Bank of Manhadoes, and he had beensocially consigned to Mr. Millard by a friend in Dresden. Pohlsen wasobliged to observe some economy in traveling, and had asked Millard tofind him a good boarding-house. If Mrs. Hilbrough cared to receive theBaron as a guest for a fortnight, Millard would advise him to accept theinvitation, and, as far as possible, would relieve Mr. Hilbrough of hisshare of the burden by taking the Baron about. This would furnish Mrs. Hilbrough with a good excuse for giving a reception to the nobleman, andthen, without any appearance of pushing, she could invite people farafield. 

It was not in the nature of things that a woman in Mrs. Hilbrough'sposition should refuse to entertain a baron. She saw many incidentaladvantages in the plan, not the least of which was that Mr. Millardwould be a familiar in the house during the Baron's stay. Hilbroughacquiesced with a rueful sense that he should be clumsy enough atentertaining a foreigner and a man of title. Mrs. Hilbrough thankedMillard heartily for his obliging kindness, but what he cared most forwas that Miss Callender's serious face shone with pleasure andgratitude. 

Having accepted another invitation for the evening, Millard took hisleave soon after ten o'clock, proposing to come at a later time to helpMrs. Hilbrough--"and Miss Callender, I hope, " he added with a bow toPhillida--to make up the list. Having but two blocks to go, he declined, in favor of Miss Callender, the Hilbrough carriage, which stood ready atthe door. 

The close carriage, with only Phillida for occupant, rattled down FifthAvenue to Madison Square, and along Broadway to Union Square, then overeastward by Fourteenth street, until after a turn or two it waked theechoes rudely in a quiet cross street, stopping at length before athree-story house somewhat antique and a little broader than itsneighbors. Phillida closed and bolted the outer doors, and then openedone of the inner ones with a night-key, and made her way to what hadbeen the back parlor of the house. In that densification of populationwhich proceeds so incessantly on Manhattan Island this old house, likemany another, was modernly compelled to hold more people than it hadbeen meant for in the halcyon days when Second Avenue was a fashionablethoroughfare. The second floor of the house had been let, without board, to a gentleman and his wife, and the rooms above to single gentlemen. The parlor floor and the basement were made to accommodate the motherand her two daughters with their single servant. The simple, old backparlor, with no division but a screen, had two beds for mother anddaughters, while the well-lighted extension made them a sitting room inpleasant weather. Mrs. Callender clung to one luxury persistently--therewas always a grate fire in the back parlor on cold evenings. 

To this back parlor came Phillida with a disagreeable sense that Mrs. Hilbrough's retreating carriage was rousing the quiet neighborhood asthe sleepy and impatient coachman banged his way over the pavement, thehummocky irregularities of which saved this thoroughfare from alltraffic that could avoid it; for only the drivers of reckless butchercarts, and one or two shouting milkmen, habitually braved its perils. 

Phillida, as she approached the old-fashioned mahogany door of the backparlor, in the dim light shed by the half-turned-down gas jet at theother end of the hall, raised her hand to the knob; but it eluded her, for the door was opened from within by some one who stood behind it. Then the head of a girl of seventeen with long, loose blond tressespeered around the edge of the door as Phillida entered. 

"Come in, Philly, and tell us all about it, " was the greeting she gotfrom her sister, clad in a red wrapper covering her night-dress, andshod with worsted bedroom slippers. "Mama wanted me to go to bed; but Iknew you'd have something interesting to tell about the Hilbroughs, andso I stuck it out and kept mama company while she did the mending. Comenow, Philly, tell me everything all at once. "

The mother sat by the drop-light mending a stocking, and she looked upat Phillida with a gentle, brightening expression of pleasure--thatsilent welcome of affection for which the daughters always looked onentering. 

"What, mama, not in bed yet?" exclaimed Phillida, as she laid off herouter garments, and proceeded to bend over and kiss her mother, tryingto take away her work at the same time. "Come now, you ought to be inbed; and, besides, this old stocking of mine is darned all over already, and ought to be thrown away. "

"Ah, Phillida, " said her mother with a sweet, entreating voice, holdingfast to the stocking all the time, "if it gives me pleasure let me doit. If I like to save old things I'm sure it's no harm. "

"But you ought to have been in bed at nine o'clock, " said Phillida, herhold on the stocking weakening perceptibly under the spell of hermother's irresistible entreaty. 

"It will take but a minute more if you will let me alone, " was all themother said as Phillida released the work, and the elaborate darningwent on. 

"There's a good deal more darn than stocking to that now, " said theyounger sister. "It's a work of genius. I'll tell you, Phillida: we'lltake it to the picture framer's to-morrow and have it put under glass, and then we'll get a prize for it as a specimen of fancy work at theAmerican Institute Fair. But now tell me, what did you have for dinner?How many courses were there? Was there anybody else there? What sort ofchina have they got? Do they keep a butler? How does Mr. Hilbrough taketo the new fixings? And, oh, say! are they going to give any parties?And--"

"Give me a chance, Frisky, and I'll answer you, " said Phillida, whobegan at the beginning and told all that she could think of, even todescribing the doilies and finger-bowls. 

"You said there was a gentleman there. Who was he?" said Agatha, theyounger. 

"That Mr. Millard that Cousin Phil is so fond of. He is at AuntHarriet's often on Sunday evenings. He's a good looking young man, dressed with the greatest neatness, and is very polite to everybody inan easy way. "

"Did he talk with you?"

"Not at first. He paid as much attention to Mrs. Hilbrough as he couldhave paid to a queen; treating her with a great deal of deference. Youcould see that she was pleased. Just think, he asked me if I likedWagner's music. "

"How did you get out of it?"

"I didn't get out of it at all. I just told him I had never heardanything of Wagner's. But when he found that I was Mrs. Gouverneur'sniece it made things all right with him, and he made as handsome aspeech about my great-grandfather and all the rest as Aunt Harriet couldhave done herself. "

"Wasn't Mrs. Hilbrough surprised to hear that you were somebody?"

"I don't know. "

"Well, don't you think she was?"

"May be so. "

"Didn't she seem pleased?"

"I think she was relieved, for my confession that I hadn't heard manyoperas bothered her. "

"You said Mr. Millard was polite. How was he polite?"

"He made you feel that he liked you, and admired you; I can't tell youhow. He didn't say a single flattering word to me, but when he promisedto meet Mrs. Hilbrough again, to arrange about the people she is to haveat the reception, he bowed to me and said, 'And Miss Callender, Ihope. '"

"I'll tell you what, Phillida, I'll bet he took a fancy to you. "

"Nonsense, Agatha Callender; don't talk such stuff. He's been for yearsin society, and knows all the fine people in New York. "

"Nonsense, yourself, Phillida; you're better than any of the fine ladiesin New York. Mr. Millard isn't good enough for you. But I just know hewas taken with you. "

"Do you think I'm going to have my head turned by bows and fine speechesthat have been made to five hundred other women?"

"There never was any other woman in New York as fine as you, Phillida. "

"Not among your acquaintance, and in your opinion, my dear, seeing youhardly know any other young woman but me. "

"I know more than you think I do. If you had any common sense, Phillida, you'd make the most of Aunt Harriet, and marry some man thatwould furnish you with a horse and a carriage of your own. But youwon't. You're just a goosey. You spend your time on the urchins down inMackerelville. The consequence is you'll never get married, and I shallhave you on my hands an old maid who never improved her opportunities. "

"What stuff!" laughed Phillida. 

"You've got a fine figure--a splendid figure, " proceeded the younger, "and a face that is sweet and charming, if I do say it. It's a dreadfulwaste of woman. You wrap your talent in a Sunday-school lesson-paper andbury it down in Mackerelville. "

At this point Mrs. Callender put away her elaborate hand-finishedstocking, saying softly:

"Agatha, why do you tease Phillida so?"

"Because she's such a goose, " said the younger sister, stubbornly. 

Twenty minutes later Agatha, looking from her bedside in the dark cornerof the room, saw her sister kneeling by a chair near the fireside. Thesight of Phillida at prayer always awed her. Agatha herself wasaccustomed to say, before jumping into bed, a conventional littleprayer, very inclusive as to subjects embraced, and very thin intexture, but Phillida's prayers were different. Agatha regarded the formof her sister, well developed and yet delicately graceful, now moregraceful than ever as she knelt in her long night-dress, her two handsfolded naturally the one across the other, and her head bowed. As shearranged the bed, Agatha followed mentally what she imagined to be thetenor of the prayer--she fancied that Phillida was praying to be savedfrom vanity and worldliness; she knew that each of the little urchins inthe mission Sunday-school class was prayed for by name. She turned awaya moment, and then caught sight of Phillida as she unclasped her handsand rested them on the chair. Agatha knew that when Phillida changed herposition at the close of her prayer it was to recite, as she always did, the "Now I lay me, " which was associated in her mind, as in Agatha's, with an oriental environment, a swarthy nurse in waist-cloth andshoulder scarf, and, more than all, was linked with her earliestmemories of the revered father at whose knees the children wereaccustomed to repeat it. When Phillida rose to her feet in that state ofexaltation which prayer brings to one who has a natural genius fordevotion, the now penitent and awe-stricken Agatha went to her sister, put her arms about her neck, and leaned her head upon her shoulder, saying softly:

"You dear, good Phillida!"

VII. 

THE LION SOIRÉE. 

Notwithstanding the romancing of her sister, Phillida built no castles. Millard's politeness to her had been very agreeable, but she knew thatit was only politeness. Almost every man's and every woman's imaginationis combustible on one side or another. Many young women are seta-dreaming by any hint of love or marriage. But Phillida had read onlysober books--knowing little of romances, there was no stock ofincendiary material in her memory. Her fancy was easily touched off onthe side of her religious hopes; all her education had intensified thenatural inflammability of her religious emotions, but in affairs of thisworld she was by nature and education unusually self-contained for awoman of one and twenty. 

Millard, on his part, had been exposed to the charms of many women, andhis special interest in Phillida amounted only to a lively curiosity. Always susceptible to the charm of a woman's presence, thissusceptibility had been acted on from so many sides as to make hisinterest in women superficial and volatile. The man who is too muchinterested in women to be specially interested in a woman is pretty surenot to marry at all, or to marry late. 

Baron Pohlsen arrived, and was duly installed at Mrs. Hilbrough's. Hewas greatly pleased with the hospitality shown him by this wealthyhousehold, and fancied that Americans were the most generous of peoples. Millard, as in duty bound, took pains to introduce him in many desirablequarters, and showed him the lions of the city in Hilbrough's carriage. But in spite of Millard's care to relieve him, Hilbrough afterwardconfessed that the panic of 1873 had not taxed his patience andcheerfulness so deeply as this entertainment for two weeks of a greatGerman antiquary. Dutifully the banker attended a session of theGeographical Society to listen to an address made by his guest in brokenEnglish, on the ancient importance of Uxmal and Palenque. Hilbrough alsoheard with attentive perplexity the Baron's account before theHistorical Society of the Aztec Calendar Stone, and his theory of itsreal purpose. 

When the American banker was left alone with the learned High Dutchman, it became very serious business. Von Pohlsen, with all his erudition, was extremely ignorant of the art of banking as practised in New York. He did not know, at least in English, the difference between collateraland real estate security, and "gilt-edged" paper was more foreign thanpapyrus to him. Nor could Hilbrough interest him much in the remarkablerise in Brooklyn real estate since 1860. Brooklyn was too new by amillennium for the Baron to care for it. Hilbrough tried the plan ofshunting the antiquary to his main lines of American hieroglyphs, aboriginal architecture, and Pueblo domestic economy. But this onlyshifted the difficulty, for under the steady downpour of Pohlsen'serudition, Hilbrough had continually to change position, now putting theright knee over the left and now placing the left atop, to keep fromnodding, and he was even reduced to pinching himself, sometimes, inorder to keep awake, just as the learned and ingenious Baron had got hispyramid of inference ready to balance on its rather slender apex offact. Archæology was new to Hilbrough, and deductive profits so largefrom inductive investments so small always seemed to the financier toindicate bad security. 

Mrs. Hilbrough, clever woman, appeared to understand it all. She hadcrammed on a copy of Stephens's "Travels in Yucatan" that had belongedto her father, and she gave Pohlsen no end of pleasure by asking himabout such things as the four-headed altars before the great idols atCopan, and the nature of the great closed house at Labphak. If you willlook in Pohlsen's book of travels in America (Reise durch Amerika:Leipzig, 1888) you will discover in his chapter on New York that in thismetropolis the ladies take a remarkable interest in science, and aregenerally better informed regarding such matters than their husbands, these latter being deeply immersed in mere dollar-hunting. 

But Mrs. Hilbrough was much more interested in her reception to be givenin honor of Baron Pohlsen than she was in the four-headed altars of theremoter Aztecs. If she could not fill her house with those very richestand most exclusive people who in a plutocratic society always try tothink themselves for some reason or other the best people, she foundthat under Millard's guidance she could succeed in getting some peopleof wealth and distinction who were desirous of being presented to abaron, and, what was better, she could get a considerable number fromthat class of lettered men and their families and the admirers ofliterature, art, and learning, who, together, form the really bestpeople in every metropolis. Most of these knew little of Pohlsen'sresearches, and cared less for his title, but since he was vouched foras a foreigner who had acquired distinction in his department ofknowledge, they were ready to do him honor with that generoushospitality for which Americans blame themselves while they practise it;as though it were not better for us to be good-hearted, remembering thatin the studious preservation of national dignity and socialperpendicularity we can never hope to emulate our English cousins. 

How was it all arranged? How, without violating the sanctities ofetiquette, did Mrs. Hilbrough contrive to invite people whom she did notknow, and how did they accept with no sacrifice of dignity? Millard wasan expert adviser; he knew that just as counters are made to stand formoney in a game of cards, so do little oblong bits of pastebord with thesender's name upon them pass current under certain conditions assubstitutes for visits, acquaintance, esteem, and friendship. By ajuggle with these social chips Mrs. Hilbrough became technically, andtemporarily, acquainted with a great many people, and that without muchsacrifice of time. Do not expect details here; your fashionablestationer is the best reliance in such a case, unless you chance to knowMr. Millard, or can find the law laid down in Mrs. Sherwood's tactfullyvague chapters, which, like the utterances of the Delphic oracle, aresure to hit the mark one way or the other. 

Now that Millard had taken Mrs. Hilbrough for a client he could not bearto be balked. The attendance of Mrs. Gouverneur he considered of thefirst importance, but this was not easily secured. If anything couldhave persuaded that lady to sacrifice her principles as an exclusive sofar as to attend, it would have been her dislike of refusing Phillida;but as it was, she made excuses without positively refusing. In tellingMrs. Hilbrough of her lack of success Phillida took pains to repeat Mrs. Gouverneur's pretexts, and not to betray what she knew to be her aunt'sreal reason for hesitation. Millard encountered Mrs. Hilbrough at theopera, and heard from her of the failure of Phillida's endeavors. Hefelt himself put on his mettle. 

Knowing that the next day was Mrs. Gouverneur's day for receiving, hemade himself her first caller before the rest began to arrive. Lookingfrom the old-fashioned windows of Mrs. Gouverneur's front parlor, hepraised the beauty of the winter scene, and admired especially thespotted boles of the great buttonwoods in Washington Square. He thoughtto make his call seem less on purpose by such commonplace civilities, but Mrs. Gouverneur, who was a soft-spoken lady of much cleverness, witha talent for diplomacy inherited from her grandfather, asked herself, while she replied in the same vein to Millard's preliminary vapidities, what on earth so formal a call and such a waste of adroitness mightlead up to. But Millard, even after this preparation, provided aninclined plane for approaching his proposition. 

"I had the pleasure of meeting a niece of yours the other evening, aMiss Callender, " he said. "I found her very agreeable. "

"Oh! You met Phillida Callender at Mrs. Hilbrough's, probably, " saidMrs. Gouverneur with a flush of pleasure. "She's as good as goodnessitself, and very clever. But rather peculiar also. She has a great dealof Callender in her. Her father gave up good prospects in this countryto preach in Siam. He might have had the pastorate of one of the bestPresbyterian churches in New York, but nothing could dissuade him fromwhat he fancied to be his duty. It only proves what I have always said, that 'blood will tell. ' It is related in some of the old books thatPhilip has upstairs that one of the women of the Callender family, before the Revolution, felt it her duty to go through the streets ofNewport, crying, 'Repent, repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand. 'She was a refined and delicate lady, and the people of the town felt somuch chagrin to see her expose herself to mortification in the publicstreet that they shut up their windows or turned away, which I think wasvery nice of them. I fancy that Phillida, with all her superiorintelligence, has a good deal of this great-great-aunt of her father'sin her. I was talking to her once about this story of Mary Callender'spreaching in the streets, and she really seemed to take more interest inthat Quaker lady's delusion than she did in her ancestors on our side;and you know, Mr. Millard, we think a good deal of our descent, thoughof course we never say anything about it. "

It was inevitable that a courteous man like Millard should meet thisspeech by saying, "When one has ancestors whose position is not one ofmere social prominence but whose acts are a part of the history of anation, it must be hard to forget so important a fact. " It was equallyinevitable that even the wary Mrs. Gouverneur could not helpappreciating flattery so apropos of the subject in hand. 

"But I have a notion, " Millard continued, "that if we could get MissCallender to take an interest in society she would prove an ornament toit and a credit to her family. "

Mrs. Gouverneur shook her head doubtfully. "I don't believe it can bedone, though I should be glad if it could. "

"Did she tell you that she is deeply interested in that reception toBaron Pohlsen next week?"

"Yes; she is attached to Mrs. Hilbrough. She makes friends without theleast regard to social consequences, and I believe even has friendshipsamong the people with whom she is only connected by her missionSunday-school class. She stoutly maintained here last night that sheknew a real lady living in three rooms with a husband and four children!I declare, I like Phillida all the better for this. Her impulses arevery noble, but I can't help wishing she wouldn't do it. It doesn't dofor one at her time of life to be too disinterested, you know. "

This turn in the talk threw Millard off the track for a moment. Themention of people living narrowly brought to his mind his own early lifein a farmhouse, and reminded him of his amiable but sociallyunpresentable aunt, whom he was wont faithfully to visit on one Sundayafternoon in every month. There was just a little cowardly feeling thatshould his relations with the family in Avenue C become known among hisfriends, his social position might become compromised. He did not knowthat all exclusive people in New York have unpresentable kinsfolk hiddenaway somewhere, and are ever trembling lest the fact should be known tosome other family that is likewise doing its best to hide somenever-get-on relatives. 

Mrs. Gouverneur noticed Millard's heightened color, and feared herslighting allusion to Mrs. Hilbrough might have annoyed him. Before hecould pull his wits together to reply to her last remark, she added, "Ihave no doubt your friend Mrs. Hilbrough is a very worthy person, Mr. Millard. But she is new in New York society. "

"Indeed I can not call her my friend, Mrs. Gouverneur. Her husband isthe real head of our bank at present; he is likely to be a very rich manin a few years, and he has obliged me in many ways. But I have only afew weeks' acquaintance with Mrs. Hilbrough, whose chief recommendationto me, I must confess, is that she is a friend of Miss Callender, who isyour niece. But Mrs. Hilbrough seems to have many admirable qualities. She is sure to make herself recognized, and I do not see any advantagein delaying the recognition. For my part, I think she will do a greatservice at the outset if she adds so attractive and clever a young ladyas Miss Callender to society. "

"Now, Mr. Millard, you are playing a strong game against me, " laughedMrs. Gouverneur. "You know my dislike for new acquaintances--forenlarging my circle. But when you propose to persuade my niece to see alittle more of the world you are taking advantage of my only weakness. You play a deep game. "

"I'll show you my whole hand at once, " said Millard, seeing that Mrs. Gouverneur's penetration had left him no resource but candor. "I verymuch desire to be Miss Callender's escort at Mrs. Hilbrough's reception, if she will accept me. Mrs. Callender, I fear, can not be persuaded togo. "

"You want me for chaperon, " interposed Mrs. Gouverneur. "What a cleverscheme! How could you dare to set such a trap for an old friend?"

"It will prove a clever scheme if it succeeds. But it wasn't cleverenough to deceive you. "

"Well, you and Phillida together have won. Of course I can not refuse ifPhillida consents. "

"Thank you from my heart, " said Millard, rising at hearing the door-bellring. "I will see Miss Callender, and if she refuses me for escort youwill be able to laugh at me. I'm sure I'm greatly your debtor. "

A notion, a mere notion, such as will enter the soberest woman's headsometimes, had bobbed to the surface of Mrs. Gouverneur's thoughts asshe talked with Millard. It was that her niece's future might somehowhang on her decision. She was not a matchmaker, but she had adiplomatic faculty for persuading things to come out as she wished. Mr. Millard would be a most eligible husband for any woman whoseexpectations in life were not unreasonably great. Her practical mindwent a step farther and she saw that in the event of anything soimprobable happening as that Millard should fall in love with a ladywithout fortune, say, for example, a clergyman's daughter, hisacquaintance with so prosperous a man as Hilbrough, who could help himto lucrative investments, might be very desirable. These thoughts werethe mere bubbles of fancy floating in her mind. The consideration whichmost affected her decision was that the presentation of her niece underthe auspices of Millard and herself might prove of great socialadvantage to Phillida. 

Millard left Mrs. Gouverneur with the intention of calling at once onMiss Callender, but when he reached Broadway he was smitten with ascruple, not of conscience, but of etiquette. Phillida had not asked himto call. After staring for a full minute in perplexity at the passingvehicles and the façade of the ancient theater on the opposite side ofBroadway, then in its last days of existence, he presently concludedthat Miss Callender, being a young woman somewhat unsophisticated, andhaving therefore nothing better than good sense for guide, wouldprobably not be shocked by the audacity of an uninvited call from agentleman whose character was well known to her. 

The bell rang as Mrs. Callender was just about to try a dress on herdaughter Agatha. Callers were not a frequent interruption to theirpursuits, and when the steps of a man ushered into the front parlor wereheard through the sliding doors, they concluded that it was some onecalling on the gentleman who occupied the second floor. Mrs. Callenderand her daughters lowered their voices to a whisper, that they might notbe heard through the doors; but Sarah, the servant, came to the backparlor, and said loud enough to be distinctly audible to the visitor:

"It's some cards for Mrs. Callender and Miss Callender. " Then she shutthe door and descended the basement stairs, without waiting to carry areply. 

Agatha took the cards and whispered, "Mr. Millard, " biting her lower lipand making big eyes at Phillida, with an "I-told-you-so" nod of thehead, and then she proceeded to give vent to her feelings by dancingsoftly about the room, a picturesque figure in her red petticoat andwhite waist, with her bare arms flying about her head. If the doors hadnot been so thin her excitement would have found vent in more noisyways. As noise was precluded there was nothing left for her but thisdumb show. In her muffled gyrations she at length knocked a chair overupon the fender, making a loud clatter. She quickly picked it up and satdown upon it in great confusion, with a remorseful feeling that by herimprudent excitement she had probably blasted Phillida's prospects inlife. 

"Come, mother, you must get ready and go in, " whispered Phillida. 

"No, please, Phillida. He doesn't really want to see me. It's only amatter of good form to ask for us both. You must beg him to excuse me. Ido so want to get this dress done. "

Agatha, recovering from her remorse by this time, helped Phillida to doa little hurried prinking. Luckily the latter had been getting ready togo out and had on the gown that served her on all except extraordinaryoccasions for both street and drawing-room. 

Millard had amused himself while waiting by noting the various antiquesabout the parlor, heirlooms of former family greatness, arranged with aneye to tasteful effect. On the shelves in the corner some articlesconnected with family history were intermingled with curiosities broughtfrom the East. A pair of brass-bound pattens hinged in the middle, onceworn instead of overshoes by some colonial ancestress, sat alongside apair of oriental sandals. Millard thought nothing could be more inkeeping with the ancient desk and table than the unaffected andstraightforward manner in which Miss Callender greeted him, holding outher hand with modest friendliness and just a touch of diffidence. Thislast was due to the innuendoes and antics of Agatha. 

"I ventured to call without permission, Miss Callender, " said Millard, with hesitation. 

"I'm glad you did, Mr. Millard. " Phillida could not see why anyrespectable gentleman should wait for an invitation to call on a lady, or how a young lady could ever be so bold as to ask a gentleman to call. She added, "My mother wished me to beg you to excuse her. She has sometroublesome affairs on hand just now. "

"Certainly; don't let me interrupt her. I came on business with you. Iwant to have the pleasure of escorting you to Mrs. Hilbrough's partywith your mother, if she will kindly accompany us. "

Phillida hesitated. She knew that chaperonage was required on suchoccasions. "Thank you. I should like to accept your kind offer, but mymother rarely goes out, " she said. "I don't believe I could persuade herto go, and I've no other chaperon. "

"How would Mrs. Gouverneur do?"

"But Aunt Harriet won't go. "

"I've just come from her house, and she assured me that if you neededher for a chaperon--if Mrs. Callender could not go--she would keep uscompany. "

"You have managed Aunt Harriet very well, " said Phillida, with someelation. "Better than I could have done. "

"I must have done well. Mrs. Gouverneur gives me great credit for mynice little scheme, as she calls it. But if she thinks I wish to be yourescort solely in order to get her to attend, I assure you that Mrs. Gouverneur with all her penetration is mistaken. "

Phillida colored a little at this polite speech as she said, "It willplease Mrs. Hilbrough to have my aunt there. "

"Yes, Mrs. Hilbrough also will give me great credit where I do notdeserve it. I may call for you with Mrs. Gouverneur?"

"Thank you, it will give me a great deal of pleasure. " Phillida saidthis with a momentary fear of hearing Agatha overturn another chairbehind the sliding doors; but Mrs. Callender had taken herself andAgatha to the basement, from motives of delicacy which Agatha was hardlyold enough to appreciate. 

Mrs. Gouverneur never did anything by halves. She made herself agreeableto Mrs. Hilbrough on the evening of the reception and complimented herheartily on the distinguished people she had brought together. For therewas the learned president of the Geographical, with overhanging browsand slow and gentle speech; there was the foreign correspondingsecretary of the Historical, a man better known as a diplomatist and anauthor, whose long years abroad had liberalized his mind withoutspoiling his open-hearted American manners. There were some of thedirectors of the Metropolitan Museum, to which institution Pohlsen hadgiven some Central American pottery. The senior New York poet wanderedin his childlike way among the guests, making gentle and affectionatespeeches to friends, who wondered at the widely contrary moods to whichhis susceptible nature is subject. Bolton, known in two hemispheres byhis prose and poetry, had come out of complaisance, protesting ratherindignantly to his friends that he didn't believe in Americans makingsuch an ado over a mere baron. In him the stranger saw a slight figurefull of character and not in any way to be trifled with; only men ofletters and his friends knew what pains he could be at to oblige and tohelp the humblest of struggling fellow-craftsmen, provided he was notforbidden to accompany the unstinted assistance with a little grumblingat the fearful wreck of his time which all sorts of people, even thetramps of the literary profession, make without remorse. 

"Charley, " said Philip Gouverneur, when he got Millard into a corner, "what have you been doing? This is society and it isn't; it is more likewhat Carlyle calls a 'lion soirée. '"

"Well, " said Millard, "it's either society or better. You understandthat the Baron's reputation as a scholar has modified things. "

"I say, Charley, " said Philip, "I was ashamed to find my little selflost among these know-it-alls until I met Mrs. Maginnis. She said, 'Oh, Mr. Gouverneur, I am so glad to see somebody that I know. Who are allthese people?' So I pointed out the university president over there; andI told her that St. John was our great sculptor, though I'm not sure shemakes any clear distinctions between a sculptor and a maker ofgravestones; and I assured her that we had several magazine editors, andwriters, and illustrators, and painters, and leading journalists, andsome of the very foremost of our German citizens. 'Oh, yes, ' shereplied, 'newspaper men, artists, and Germans! Just what I thought; butthere are not more than a dozen people here who were invited toMarshmallow's great ball last winter. '"

"It mightn't be a bad thing, " said Millard, "if Marshmallow, whopretends to be the boss of society, were to include more people ofartistic and literary distinction such as we have here to-night. "

"Nonsense, Charley! he couldn't do it. There are a few men who contriveto be great and to be men of the world at the same time. But whatsociety wants is polish. You can put gloss on varnish, but some of thesemen are too original to be sand-papered down to a fashionableuniformity. No, no! Old Red Sandstone and his wife over there are wellenough at a lion soirée, but how would their Silurian manners shine atthe Patriarchs' ball? You see my cousin Phillida, with all herseriousness, is getting too much of his talk. "

At this hint from Philip, Millard moved away and glanced hurriedly aboutthe room. His eye lighted on Lucas, who is a natural adept as a man ofthe world though a man of letters. Approaching him, Millard said:

"Mr. Lucas, let me introduce you to an interesting being. "

"That's what I've been looking for in vain all the evening, " said Lucas. 

The two forced a sinuous way to where Phillida was trying to enjoy thesmall talk of a man who was incapable of profitable speech at a depth ofless than fifty fathoms. Millard presented Lucas first to Mrs. Gouverneur on a chair in the corner, and then bowed politely to thegeologist as he interrupted his remarks on the curiosities of the BadLands, and made Lucas acquainted with Miss Callender. The latter showedher pleasure at thus encountering a favorite writer, but she had thegood sense not to assure him that she had "long known him through hisbooks. " She reflected in time that such a man must have heard remarks ofthis sort rather frequently. But when Millard had moved away he turnedabout to note the change in Miss Callender's countenance under theinfluence of that stream of sparkling talk that Lucas never fails togive forth when confronted with an inspiring listener. 

Later in the evening when the reception had passed its climax, and theantiquaries, geographers, historical investigators, and other lions, grown sleepy, were looking up their wives and daughters to be gone, Millard found time for conversation with his companion of the evening, who had drifted away from her chaperon, for chaperonage only halfflourishes in our society, and is indeed quite out of place at a NewYork lion soirée, where a maiden's heart is pretty safe withoutguardianship. 

"You have had a pleasant evening, Miss Callender, I hope. I'm sureyou've helped the rest of us to a pleasant evening. "

"Indeed, I have enjoyed myself, Mr. Millard. I have met my favoritepoet, have talked with the editor of my magazine, and have found thatMr. Lucas makes amends for the bores. "

"I hope this will not be the last time we shall meet you in society, "said Millard. "It would be a pity for one who can do so much to make anevening delightful to others, not to go more into society. "

"It takes a great deal of time, Mr. Millard. I don't think society anyharm as a recreation, but as a pursuit--" Here she checked herself. 

"It gives a great deal of happiness, though. "

"Yes; but only to those whose lot is fortunate enough anyhow. It seemsto me that we have something else to do in the world than just to amuseourselves. " At this point it occurred to Phillida that in defending herown view of life she was reflecting on her companion's. "I don't mean tofind fault with anybody else's pursuits, Mr. Millard, but rather todefend my own. "

The last remark, by focusing what she had said before upon Millard, onlymade the matter worse. But the talk was interrupted at this point byMrs. Gouverneur, who came to inquire if her younger companions wereready to go. Millard was a little sorry for the interruption. He couldnot but feel that he was in some sort under condemnation by MissCallender, and there was something about Miss Callender which made onerespect her moral judgment and desire to stand well in her estimation. But the conversation in the carriage took another turn, and as sheapproached her own home it occurred to Phillida that Millard's remark atthe time of his call implied that his acquaintance with the family mightdepend on her inviting him. She felt grateful to him for his gracefulattentions during the evening, and when he left her at the door sheextended her hand and said:

"We shall be glad to see you, Mr. Millard. "

When Millard had landed Mrs. Gouverneur in Washington Square, with manypolite speeches on both sides, and had reached his bachelor apartment, he sat down in front of the grate with a comfortable feeling ofcomplacency. He had helped Mrs. Hilbrough to launch her little barkwithout any untoward accident; he had secured for the Baron an honorwhich the latter would certainly not underestimate. Then, too, he hadobliged Mrs. Gouverneur while he gratified his own inclinations inescorting Miss Callender to the reception. Whenever he came around toPhillida he found the only uncomfortable spot in his meditations. He hadnever dreamed that anybody could think the life of a consummategentleman like himself deserving of anything but commendation. Therector of St. Mathias, who was a genial man of the world himself, withjust the amount of devoutness admixed that was indispensable to hisprofessional character, had never for a moment found fault with Millard, who was liberal in parish affairs and an ornament to the church. Herewas a young lady with a very different standard, who thought it aChristian duty to be useful not so much to the church as to people lessfortunate than herself. Millard tried to dismiss the matter from hismind by reflecting that Miss Callender's father must have been apeculiar man. But there was an elevation about Phillida's nature thatmade him feel his own to be something less than was desirable. Yet itwas clear to him that Miss Callender misjudged society people fromignorance of them. He would call some day and set her right. Then helaughed at the notion. What did it matter to him whether this youngwoman judged rightly or wrongly of people in society generally, and ofhimself in particular. He dismissed the matter from his mind. But by thetime he had taken off his ties, which were a trifle too narrow in thetoes to be comfortable, he had somehow returned to his first resolutionto set Miss Callender right in the matter if he should haveopportunity. 

VIII. 

IN AVENUE C. 

If Phillida could have known the thoughts that occupied the mind ofMillard on Sunday afternoon, two or three weeks later, as he started forhis monthly visit in Avenue C, she would not have judged his purposes inlife severely. His walk lay through a cross-street which steadilydeteriorated as he journeyed eastward, condescendingly assimilatingitself to the character of each avenue in turn. Beer saloons, cheapgrocery stores, carts against the curbstones with their shafts pointingskyward, and troops of children on the sidewalk, marked the increasingpoverty and density of the population. Millard wondered at the displayof trinkets and confectionery in the shop-windows, not knowing thatthose whose backs are cheaply clad crave ornaments, and those whosebellies lack bread are ravenous for luxuries. 

Being a fastidious man and for years accustomed to the refinements oflife, he exaggerated the discomforts of tenement-house living. Howpeople endured such misery and yet seemed so cheerful he could notimagine. And though he did not feel that diffusive benevolence whichprompted Phillida to try to ameliorate the moral condition of such ofthis mass as she could reach, he had a strong desire to lift his auntand her children to a little higher plane. To this, hitherto, he hadfound an obstacle in the pride of her husband. Henry Martin was atinsmith who had come to the city to work in a great factory for alittle higher wages than he could get as a journeyman tinker in acountry town. He did not refuse to let the children accept presents from"Cousin Charley, " but he was not willing "to be beholden to any of hiswife's folks, " as he expressed it. He resented the fact that even inCappadocia he had been somewhat outstripped by his brother-in-law, Charles Millard's father, and when the "Millard boys" had inheritedmoney from their father's brother, and Martin saw their mother, hiswife's sister, living in a style to which he could never hope to lifthis own family, it weighed on his mind, and this offense to his pridehad helped to fix his resolution in favor of a removal to New York. 

During the walk eastward Millard was debating what might be done for thepromising eldest girl in his aunt's family and for the two boys. Once, it is true, the throng of children that obstructed his path, as theychased one another round and round in a maze, did suggest to him thatfrom Miss Callender's standpoint he ought to do something "for thoseless fortunate than himself" even beyond the circle of relationship. Butwhat could he do? He felt that by his very nature he was disqualifiedfor contact and personal sympathy with humanity rough-hewn. And as hecrossed Avenue A, and paused to look up and down it, he saw suchinexhaustible swarms of people that what one man could do for themseemed of no avail. He might give something to some mission or otheragency, and thus get the disagreeables of benevolence done, as he gothis boots blacked, by paying for it. Then he wondered what MissCallender would think of such a device, and whether in the luminousmoral atmosphere which enveloped her it would seem mean to substitute amoney service for a personal one--to employ a substitute when you haveno stomach for the war yourself. 

He climbed the flights of dark stairs to his aunt's dwelling, whichoccupied half of the next to the top floor of a four-story building; theflat above being the dwelling and working-place of a slop-shop tailor. He was welcomed with sincere affection by Aunt Hannah Martin, and withshouts of delight by the two smaller children--the two older ones hadnot yet come back from Sunday-school. Mr. Martin, a tallish and ratherbroad-shouldered man, with a face whose habitual seriousness wasdeepened into a tombstone solemnity by its breadth and flatness in theregion of the cheek-bones, shook hands cordially, but with a touch ofreserve in favor of his own dignity, saying, "How are you, Charley?How's things with you?" He was proud enough of his connection with aprosperous man like Millard, and among his comrades in the shop he oftenaffected to settle points in dispute regarding finance or the ways ofpeople in high life by gravely reminding the others that he had superioropportunities for knowing, since his nephew was a banker and "knew allthe rich men in Wall street. " But face to face with Charley Millard hispride was rendered uneasy, and he generally managed to have somepressing occasion for absenting himself on the afternoons of Millard'svisits. 

Millard's attentions were soon engrossed by the little boy Tommy, who ofall the children was his favorite. Tommy climbed on his knees and rifledhis pockets, certain of finding something hidden there for himself. Presently Millard drew Uncle Martin into talk. With his chair tiltedback and his broad hands locked together on his lap, Uncle Martin gaveCharley an oracular account of all the mistakes which his employers hadrecently made in the conduct of their business. From his standpoint theaffairs of the company were usually on the high road to bankruptcy, andall because of certain failures of judgment which Uncle Martin couldhave pointed out in a moment had they taken the trouble to consult a manof his experience. When Charley suggested that the company had paid aneight per cent. Dividend during the past year Uncle Martin put on a lookof contempt, and shook his head. 

"Dividing their capital in order to keep up the price of stock, " he saidsagely. Then he proceeded to show that if they would only do this andnot do the other they might easily crowd their rivals to the wall. Heknew three months before it took place that tin would fall in price. Butthe company laid in a big stock just in time to get caught. 

Having done the polite by Uncle Martin, Millard turned to Aunt Hannah. Uncle Martin proceeded, therefore, to fill up the stove; which done, hesaid:

"Well, Charley, I am going to see one of the men in our shop that gothis foot hurt a week ago Friday. I'll see you at supper; you'll take teawith us. "

"Thank you, Uncle Martin, but this time I can't stay so long. I'vepromised to take dinner with some friends. "

He held out his hand, and Uncle Martin said good-by, and good luck toyou, and come again, and always glad to see you, Charley, and then madehis exit, stooping a little as he went out through the low door, leavingCharley what he wanted most, a chance to talk with his aunt about theprogress her children were making in their studies, and to find out whathe could do to help them. The mother told him that besides their schoolthey were reading some books brought to them by Dick's Sunday-schoolteacher, who took a great interest in all the children. Millard alwaysexpected to hear the praises of this Sunday-school teacher when he cameto see his aunt. Once on this theme good Aunt Hannah could not easilystop. 

"She doesn't put on the fine lady or talk to me as though I was somebodydifferent because I am a workingman's wife. I haven't many friends; thepeople down here are so different from the people up in the country. ButI think she is the best friend I ever had. There, she's coming up now, "she said, hearing the clatter of feet and voices ascending the stairway. 

Millard was a little curious to see the teacher of whom he had heard somuch. He figured to himself some one only a little above his aunt instation, and so the more ready to form an intimacy with humble people. When Mary and Dick threw open the hall door of the apartment, so as tomake the interior visible from the obscurity of the stair-landing, Millard, who was sitting with his back to the door, holding Tommy on hislap, heard the voice of Phillida Callender say:

"I'll not go in this time; you have company. "

"Do come in; it's only our Cousin Charley, " pleaded Mary Martin, a girlof fourteen. 

Millard felt himself caught, and he would have liked to sit there andlet Miss Callender go down the stairs without recognizing him. But hefelt that he must be polite to her above all things, and hisrelationship to the Martins was not a thing to be ashamed of, and mustbesides soon be known to Phillida. So he rose with quick decision andsaid as he walked towards the door:

"Don't let my presence keep you from coming in, Miss Callender; I am onthe point of leaving. "

"You, Mr. Millard!" Phillida came forward, coloring a little, while AuntHannah and the children stood and looked on in amazement. "Who wouldhave believed it! You are the cousin--the Cousin Charley of whom thechildren here speak as though he were a good fairy. They pronounce thename _Mill_erd, you know, and I didn't suspect _you_. "

"But fancy _my_ surprise!" said Millard. "I ought to have guessed thatsuch a famous Sunday-school teacher could not be anybody but MissCallender. But I didn't even think to ask the name. So you are theperson of whose praises I am so jealous when I come here. "

"Don't you think we're lucky to have such a cousin?" said Dick Martin, the second child and the eldest boy, looking up at Miss Callender. 

"Ah! now, Dick, you can't trap me into praising Mr. Millard to hisface, " said Miss Callender. "Maybe I'll tell you some time when he isn'there what I think of him. " She was patting Dick on the shoulder. "But Idon't mind telling Mr. Millard right here and now that he is a verylucky man to have such an aunt as your mother. "

"Well said and true, " answered Millard. "I like that better thananything Miss Callender could say about me, Dick, even if what sheshould say were to be all good; and that it wouldn't be, for she speaksthe truth, and I'll tell you for a secret that she doesn't quite approveof a man that wastes his leisure time as I do. She'd like me better if Iwere to come down to the mission every Sunday. "

"Well, there ain't anybody at the mission as good as you, except MissCallender, " objected Dick. 

That young lady only laughed and put her arms about Tommy, who haddeserted Millard and was now climbing on her lap. 

This encounter advanced Millard's acquaintance with Phillida more than adozen calls or conversations in formal society. Phillida was pleased tofind that Millard was not merely a male butterfly, and he in turn feltstrangely drawn to this young woman who had discovered the royalexcellence of Aunt Hannah Martin amid the rubbish of Avenue C. Millard, who was "just going" when Phillida came in, sat out the half-hour thatshe staid, and when she rose to go he asked her if he might have thepleasure of walking with her as far as Second Avenue. It seemed to him, though he did not say so, that a young lady needed an escort in thatpart of the town; but Phillida, who knew the people better, had no suchthought. 

"Thank you, Mr. Millard, " she said; "I should be glad of your company. But I am not going home; I am going to Washington Square: I promised myaunt that I would go directly there from Sunday-school, and now I'vestaid here longer than I intended, and I shall be late. "

"Why, I'm expected there too. If you don't object we'll go together. "

The two said good-by all around and descended the stairs, holding on tothe narrow steps with their heels, as it were. When they came into thelight, and breathed the cool salt air blowing into the avenue from theneighboring East River, Phillida, who had something on her mind, saidrather awkwardly:

"I did not know that you were expected at Aunt Harriet's this evening. "

The speech was one of maidenly modesty; if Aunt Gouverneur had plannedto bring the two people together at her table, Phillida wished it knownthat she was not a party to the plot. But Millard laughed and said:

"If you had known, I am to understand that you would have declined togo. "

"I did not say that I should be sorry to have you there, " she answered, with the hesitancy of one stepping among pitfalls. 

"Shall we take the Tenth street car?" asked Millard. "It runs throughEighth street on the west side. "

"As you please. I should have walked if alone, " said Phillida. 

"And I would much rather walk with good company than ride. So we willwalk. "

It took them full three-quarters of an hour to reach Washington Square, though either would have done it alone in a quarter less, for walking isa kind of work that is not shortened when shared with a friend. 

Millard purposely drew Miss Callender into talk about the work of themission, and he was soon rewarded by seeing her break through herhabitual restraint and reveal the enthusiastic self within. She told himof the reading-room at the mission, and of the coffee-room where rollsand hot coffee were served to men every day in the week, so as to keepthem from the saloons. Her face was aglow with interest as she talked, but Millard would rather have drawn her to speak of her own relation tothe work. This she avoided, beyond confessing that she took her turnwith the other ladies in superintending the coffee-room. At length, however, as they passed one of those open stairways that lead tothronged tenements above, --like the entrance to a many-chamberedant-hill, save that this mounts and that descends, --she spoke to a ladon the sidewalk, telling him to give her love to his sister and say thatshe was coming in to see her the next day. To Millard she explainedthat the boy's sister was an invalid young woman on one of the upperfloors, bed-ridden for many years. 

"And you visit her?" asked Millard, with a hardly concealed repulsion atthe notion of Phillida climbing these populous stairs and threading thedingy and malodorous hallways above. 

"Yes; she thinks so much of seeing me--because I am well, I suppose. Shesays it makes her stronger just to look at me. And if I can take her aflower, or some little bit of outdoors, it is more in her life than atrip to the country would be in mine. Poor Wilhelmina Schulenberg hasnot been down the stairs for five years. We talk of trying to get aninvalid's chair for her when the warm weather comes, so that her brothercan wheel her in the Square. "

Millard turned and looked again at the stairway as though noticing allthe particulars of its environment. It was a balmy day in the last ofFebruary, and they were soon crossing Tompkins Square diagonally towardsEighth street. He had caught the infection of Phillida's exaltation;instead of feeling repulsion at sight of the swarming children in cheapand often shabby clothes, racing madly up and down the broad asphaltedwalks, instead of turning in aversion from the commonplace peoplesitting talking, staring, smoking, sleeping, flirting, or courting onthe benches, he was able to take Miss Callender's view of the matter andto feel gratified that the poor, and especially the little folk so longwinter-cribbed in narrow tenements, were now able to get so muchhappiness in the open ground. 

IX. 

WASHINGTON SQUARE AND ELSEWHERE. 

Mrs. Gouverneur had invited both Phillida and Millard to a family dinnerthis evening with a notion of furthering their acquaintance and drawingher niece into society. She would not admit to herself any purpose orexpectation ulterior. She had engaged each one to come two hours beforedinner to make a quiet afternoon of it, and when she found them bothunpunctual she wondered. 

"Philip, " she said to her son, who was sitting by the window reading afolio volume of Sir Thomas Browne, "I asked Phillida to come early thisafternoon, and I can't imagine what keeps her. "

"Oh, some leper, or some one who has fallen among thieves. It's adreadful thing to be a Christian. I have only known three or four, andPhillida is one of them. "

"You don't mean to say we are not all Christians?" demanded Philip'sfather, a taciturn man with a rather handsome face of the broad Dutchtype. What history it carried was mainly one of good dinners and finewines. The senior Gouverneur had been sitting looking into the fire forhalf an hour without saying a word. His son's way of treating the sacredwhite elephants of conventionality was the main grief of thisdignified, well-bred, entirely commonplace man. 

"Yes, you're all--we're all, Christians in the sense that we're neitherJews, Mohammedans, nor Buddhists. But most of us don't belong to thesame totem with Jesus. "

"What do you mean by the same totem with Jesus?" said the mother, whocould not help shuddering a little at the temerity of her son'sparadoxes, though fondly indulgent of his irreverent cleverness. 

"A totem among the Indians is the subdivision of a tribe. The Mohawks orCayugas, for example, were subdivided into totems called the 'Wolf, ' the'Turtle, ' the 'Bear. ' Every man belonged to the totem of his mother andwas akin to everybody in it. If a Mohawk of the Wolf totem stopped inthe village of the Cayugas or the Senecas, he was entertained by someSeneca of the same totem who claimed him for a kinsman. "

"That's very curious, " said his mother. 

"I don't see what it's got to do with your cousin Phillida or withreligion, " said Mr. Gouverneur, who as an elder in the Dutch ReformedChurch, and as the descendant of a long line of men and women who hadtraveled in the same well-worn path since the good old days of the Synodof Dort, felt much annoyed at Philip's waywardness. 

"Well, " said Philip, leaning back in his chair and letting the foliorest on his knees, "you see there are religious totems that run throughall denominations of Christians and even through different religions, and the lines of cleavage between them are deeper than those betweenMoslems and Christians, or between Jews and idolaters. There is what Icall the totem of the Wahahbees--the people who translate religion intodispute or persecution. In central Asia they get rid of an opponent byassassination in the name of Almighty God and his prophet. In the UnitedStates doctrine defenders are inconveniently placed, and they have to becontent with newspaper and pulpit scolding and with excommunicatingthose who differ from them. Then there is the most respectable sect ofall--the Pharisees, which counts eminent divines and rabbis of everyreligion among its people. Great church-goers and Sabbath-keepers, greatdistributors of shalls and shall-nots, great observers of scruples andordinances. They hold a tight rein over recreations and keep theirmint-and-cumin tithes by double-entry. Now, Phillida is no Wahahbee andshe is no Pharisee. She is not above enjoying herself at your table onSunday evening, you see, or going to Mrs. Hilbrough's reception. Shetakes her religion in the noblest way. Her enthusiasms all have aphilanthropic coloring. She's what I call a Jesus-ite. "

"Ah, now, Philip, " said his mother, half-amused and half-startled by theirreverent sound of this expression, but full of admiration for Philip'soriginality. 

"And what are _you_, please?" demanded his father with some severity anda slightly heightened color. He knew that Philip must be wrong, for hehad never seen anything of this sort in the "Christian Intelligencer" inhis life. "What are you?" he repeated. 

"Only a poor doubting, mocking, useless Sadducee, I suppose, " said theson as he bent again over the Religio Medici. There was a touch ofdejection in his voice, which served to disarm that resentment which hisfather felt towards every view of anything that varied from theconsecrated commonplace. 

The door-bell rang, and Mrs. Gouverneur, who had intended that Phillidaand Millard should each consider the other a mere coincidence, was alittle disconcerted to have them enter together at a later time than shehad set, and with an air of slight fatigue, as though they had come froma long walk. And, moreover, without a chaperon. The acquaintance wasprogressing more rapidly than she had expected. 

Millard smilingly explained: "I encountered Miss Callender in a veryunfashionable quarter of the city, and I thought it my duty to takecharge of her. "

At ten o'clock that evening Phillida was escorted to her home, hercousin Philip Gouverneur walking on one side and Millard on the other. She left them with a pleased sense of having passed an uncommonly happyafternoon and evening, but was alarmed, nevertheless, to think what aromance Agatha would build out of the encounter with Mr. Millard inAvenue C and the detected contrivance of Aunt Gouverneur. 

And when she had finished deprecating Agatha's raptures and had escapedher sister's further questions by going to bed, Phillida found that herown imagination had at length been set a-going, and her pillow reverieskept her awake. Why was it always Mr. Millard? She had chanced upon himat Mrs. Hilbrough's; his desire to bring Mrs. Gouverneur to theHilbrough reception had made him her escort; and now most unexpectedlyshe finds that he and she are intimates and, in a sense, benefactors inthe same tenement in Avenue C; they are companions in a walk, and againguests at the same table. It made her superstitious; these coincidenceslooked like fate--or rather like a special manifestation of the will ofProvidence--to the mind of Phillida Callender. 

Undeniably there was something in Charles Millard that attracted her. Hewas not just of her own kind, but if he had been would she have likedhim so well? Certainly the young men at the mission, exemplary fellowsthat they were, did not excite even a languid interest in her mind. Millard took life less seriously than she did, but perhaps that veryotherness was agreeable: when one is prone by nature to travel dustypaths and dutifully to wound one's feet on mountainous rocky roads, acompanion who habitually beckons to green sward and shady seats, whomakes life put on a little more of the air of a picnic excursion intothe world, is a source of refreshment. She now knew that Millard was notwithout benevolence, that he clung faithfully to his aunt in spite ofhis connections in the great world, and that he was planning to assistin the education of his cousins. If she had not somewhat exaggeratedthese virtues of fidelity and generosity she would not have been awoman, for it is one of the crowning good fortunes of life that a womancan contrive to make so much of a little virtue in a man. 

Having left Phillida, Millard and Gouverneur walked together up SecondAvenue, past the closed gateways of Stuyvesant Park. Millard was doingthe talking, at a great rate. Philip was silent in regard to everything, or if he spoke he said only so much as a decent courtesy demanded. Thissoon became tiresome to Millard, who was relieving the internal pressureof his thoughts by mere bubble talk about things of no interest tohimself, while it seemed impossible to excite his companion's interestin anything. 

"You and I have changed places to-night, Phil, " he said at length; "youmake me do all the talking. Come now, it's your turn. "

"I don't feel in the humor, " said Philip. "Are you going to the club?"

"No; I shall go home and write some letters, maybe, now I think of it. So good-night. "

Philip's "Good-night" was more curt than courteous, and he made his wayto the club, where, according to his habit, he crouched his small forminto one of the great chairs, drawing his head down between hisshoulders, which were thrust upward by the resting of his elbows on thechair-arms. Here he sat long, taking no part in any conversation, butwatching the smoke from his cigar. 

The next morning he came late to breakfast, and his mother lingeredafter the rest had left the table, to see that his coffee and chops wereright and to mitigate his apparent depression. 

"Your little match-making scheme is likely to succeed beautifully, " hesaid to her when the servant had gone. 

"What do you mean? I'm sure I had no views of that kind in askingCharley Millard and Phillida. I only wished to encourage Phillida to gomore into society. "

"Views or no views, what it'll come to will be a match, " Philipretorted. 

"Well, there'll be no harm done, I suppose. "

"Not if you think Charley the best man for her. "

There was something of dejection in the tone of this last remark, and anote of reproach to her, that rendered Mrs. Gouverneur uneasy. WhenPhilip had left the table she revolved it in her mind. Was Philiphimself in love with Phillida? Or did he know anything to thedisadvantage of Millard?

"Tell Mr. Philip I wish to see him before he goes out, " she said to oneof the maids. 

When Philip came to her room she looked at him with anxiety. 

"Do you know anything against Charley, Philip?"

"Nothing whatever, " said Philip, emphatically, as he pulled on hisgloves. 

"Philip, tell me truly, do you care for your cousin yourself?"

"Why, of course. She is my cousin, and a good girl--a little toofearfully good. "

"You know what I mean, Philip. Don't trifle with me. "

"What would be the use of my caring for Phillida, as you call it?Charley, with his usual luck, will get her, I am sure. You've fixedthat. "

"Now, Philip, you reproach me unjustly. You've had years of intimacywith Phillida. Why did you never let her know what your feelings were?"

"I? I haven't said that I have any feelings in the matter. Do you thinkPhillida would have me if Charley were out of the way? She knows me toowell. She's a utilitarian. She would say, 'Cousin Phil is interesting, but he hides his talent in a napkin. He studied law, and now neglects topractise it because his uncle left him two or three thousand dollars ayear. ' To her I am only an idler, when I'm not a mocker. "

"She likes you, I am sure. "

"Yes, in a way, no doubt. But I'm a doubter, and a mocker, and afailure, and Phillida knows it. And so do I. "

"Ah, now, Philip, why will you be so discouraged with yourself? You'rethe cleverest young man in New York. "

But Philip only smiled and said, "Good-morning, mother, " and ran downthe stairs and out the door. 

When Philip had left Millard in Second Avenue the evening before, thelatter was puzzled. He had never seen Gouverneur so depressed andirritable. But when they had separated, Millard was relieved that he nolonger had to force a conversation about things of no interest tohimself, and that his thoughts were at length free to range where theywould. 

He turned his footsteps towards his apartment, making a detour throughMadison Square to lengthen the stroll. His interest in and affection forthe family of his aunt was a fact so paradoxical to the rest of his lifethat it was in some sense his main secret. It was not a thing he shouldlike to have explained to Philip Gouverneur, his bosom friend, forexample. But that Phillida Callender was now in possession of the chiefsecret of his life gave him a sort of pleasure he had never knownbefore. That she was in friendship with his aunt's family and a sharerin this off-color part of his existence made a sort of community offeeling between him and her. He turned the matter over in his mind, hewent over in memory all parts of his encounter with her in his aunt'stenement, he dwelt upon the glow of surprise on her countenance, and inimagination he again took her hand in friendly greeting. He recalledevery detail of the walk through Avenue C, in Tompkins Square, and thenthrough the cross-streets. He made himself feel over again the pleasurehe had felt in those rare moments when she turned her dark, earnest eyestoward him at some more than usually interesting moment in theconversation. 

This was the pleasant side of the reverie. For the rest, he wastormented with a certain feeling of unworthiness that had never troubledhim so much before. The more he thought of the purposes, sweet, high, and disinterested, that moved her, the more was he pained at a sense offrivolity, or, at least, at a want of "worthwhileness" in his own aims. He was a communicant at St. Matthias's, and highly esteemed for hisexemplary life and his liberality to the church. But the rector of St. Matthias's did not trouble himself, as Phillida did, about the lostsheep in the wilderness of the lettered avenues. His own flock, wellwashed and kempt, were much more agreeable subjects of contemplation. 

Millard sat in revery a long time. He was really afraid that he shouldpresently find himself in love with Miss Callender, and such a marriagewas contrary to his whole plan of life. His purpose was primarily toremain a bachelor, though he had dreamed of himself well established, but always with a wife whose tastes and connections should incline herto those pursuits that go with a fashionable career, and he always saw avision of himself and his wife entertaining the very elect of New YorkCity. Here suddenly a new path, hitherto untrodden by his imagination, opened before him as a possibility. Judged by the standards used amonghis friends it was an undesirable road. It involved a voluntarysacrifice of that position of social prominence and leadership which hehad striven so hard to secure. He resolved to put the thought away fromhim. 

A little later his lights were out and he was abed. But he did not sleepat once, for in spite of the best resolutions he could not helprecalling again and again the face and figure, the voice and movement, of Phillida Callender. Again and again he crossed Tompkins Square andwalked through Eighth street and Waverley Place with her; and she oncemore confronted him across Mrs. Gouverneur's dinner-table. 

One result of Millard's meditations was a desire to relieve hisconscience by sharing a little--if ever so little--in the effort toimprove the life of the multitudinous East-siders. To touch them bypersonal effort and contact was out of the question; he could not bringhimself to attempt it, nor would it have availed anything, perhaps, ifhe had, for the East-siders would have shrunk from his gloves asinstinctively as he did from their work-darkened palms. But there wasthe other resort of his check-book. He sent a check the next evening tothe superintendent of the mission. He stated that he remitted this asassistant cashier of the Bank of Manhadoes on behalf of a gentleman whodid not wish his name known, and requested that the subscription beannounced merely as from "A Well-wisher. " One half of the hundreddollars was to go to the expenses of the coffee-room and the other halfto be appropriated to the library and reading-room. 

Now it is not in the nature of things that a hen should see a new egg inher nest without cackling over it, or that a man in charge of abenevolent enterprise should have a hundred-dollar check mysteriouslyand unexpectedly dropped into his hat without talking about it. Such agift smacks of special divine favor, and offers a good theme for anaddress calculated to animate those engaged in the work. The very nextSunday, when the Testaments had been shut up and the lesson papers hadall been put away, Phillida and the others heard from the superintendentsome very inspiriting remarks on the subject of the encouragements whichought to make them take heart in their work. He wound up, of course, bytelling of this donation from an unknown well-wisher. Had he stoppedthere--but what talker to young people would or could have stoppedthere? He whisked out the check and showed it, and then the identicalletter from the assistant cashier of the Bank of Manhadoes was held upbefore the admiring boys and girls and read aloud to show how modestlythis benevolent well-wisher had hidden his hand. 

And thus the only person in the audience from whom Millard hadparticularly wished to conceal his agency in the matter knew perfectlythat the anonymous well-wisher was none other than the assistant cashierhimself. And she thought what a fine thing it was to have money whenthere was so much good to be done with it. 

X. 

BROKEN RESOLVES. 

Once the check was dispatched, Millard's conscience, which had beenaroused--irritated--by the standing rebuke of Phillida's superiordisinterestedness, was in a measure appeased. After sitting an hour inslippery meditation he resolved to master his inclination toward MissCallender's society, for fear of jeopardizing that bachelor ideal oflife he had long cherished. Hilbrough's especial friendship, supportedby Mrs. Hilbrough's gratitude, had of late put him in the way of makingmoney more rapidly than heretofore; the probable early retirement ofFarnsworth would advance him to the cashiership of the bank, and thereopened before him as much as he had ever desired of business and socialsuccess. It was not exactly that he put advantages of this sort into oneside of the scale and the undefinable charms of Phillida into the other. But he was restrained by that natural clinging to the main purpose whichsaves men from frivolous changes of direction under the wayward impulsesof each succeeding day. This conservative holding by guiding resolutionsonce formed is the balance-wheel that keeps a human life from wabbling. Western hunters used to make little square boxes with their namesgraven in reverse on the inside. These they fixed over a young gourd, which grew till it filled the box. Then the hunter by removing the boxand cutting off the end of the stem of the gourd, to make an openinglike the mouth of a bottle, secured a curious natural powder-flask, shaped to his fancy and bearing his name in relief on its side. Like theboxed gourd, the lives of men become at length rigidly shaped to theirguiding purposes, and one may read early resolutions ineffaceablyinscribed upon them. But the irony of it! Here was Millard, for example, a mature man of affairs, held to a scheme of life adopted almost byaccident when he was but just tottering, callow, from his up-countrynest. What a haphazard world is this! Draw me no Fates with solemnfaces, holding distaffs and deadly snipping shears. The Fates? Merechildren pitching heads and tails upon the paving-stones. 

But if the dominant purpose to which the man has fitted himself is notto be suddenly changed, there are forces that modify it by degrees andsometimes gradually undermine and then break it down altogether. The manwhose ruling purpose is crossed by a grand passion may say to himself, like the shorn Samson, "I will go out as at other times before, " for thechange that has come over him is subtle and not at once apparent to hisconsciousness. Millard resolutely repressed his inclination to call onMiss Callender, resolutely set himself to adhere to his old life asthough adherence had been a duty. But he ceased to be interested in thedecorations and amused by the articles of virtu in his apartment; he nolonger contemplated with pleasure the artistic effect of his richportières and the soft tone of his translucent window-hangings. Theplace seemed barren and lonely, and the life he led not much worth thehaving after all. 

But, like the brave man he was, he stuck to his resolution not to callon Miss Callender, from a sort of blind loyalty to nothing inparticular. Perhaps a notion that a beau like himself would make aridiculous figure suing to such a saint as Phillida had something to dowith his firmness of purpose. But when, a month later, he started oncemore for Avenue C, he became at length aware that he had not made anyheadway whatever in conquering his passion, which like some wildcreature only grew the fiercer under restraint. In spite of himself helooked about in hope of meeting Miss Callender in the street, and allthe way across the avenues he wondered whether he should encounter herat his aunt's. But Phillida had taken precautions against this. Sheremembered, this time, that the last Sunday in the month was his day forvisiting his aunt, and she went directly home from the mission, disturbed in spite of herself by conflicting emotions. 

Millard could not but respect her dignified avoidance of him, which hefelt to be in keeping with her character. He listened with such grace ashe could to Uncle Martin, whose pessimistic oration to-day chanced to beon the general ignorance and uselessness of doctors. His complaintsabout the medical faculty were uttered slowly and with long pausesbetween the sentences. Doctors, according to Uncle Martin, only pretendto know something, and use a lot of big words to fool people. "Now Idoctor myself. I know what does me good, and I take it, doctor or nodoctor. " This was said with a you-don't-fool-me expression on his solemnface. "W'y, one doctor'll tell you one thing, and another'll tell youanother. One says bathing's good for you, and another says no; one wantsyou to get up bright and early, and another says sleep a plenty; onewill half-starve you, and the other says the thing is to feed you up. "

At this point Uncle Martin rested his elbows against his sides, threwhis forearms outward and upward at an angle of forty-five degrees, holding his broad palms toward the ceiling, while he dropped his heavyshorn chin upon his breast and gazed impressively upon Millard fromunder his eyebrows. The young man was rendered uneasy by this climacticpause, and he thought to break the force of Uncle Martin's attitude bychanging the subject. 

"Doctors differ among themselves as much as ministers do, " he said. 

"Ministers?" said Uncle Martin, erecting his head again, and sniffing alittle. "They are just after money nowadays. W'y, I joined the Baptistchurch over here"--beckoning with his thumb--"when I came to New York, and the minister never come a-nigh us. We are not fine enough, Isuppose. Ministers don't believe the plain Bible; they go on about a lotof stuff that they get from somewheres else. I say take the plain Bible, that a plain man like me can understand. I don't want the Greek andLatin of it. Now the Bible says in one place that if a man's sick theelders are to pray over him and anoint him with oil--I suppose it wassweet oil; but I don't know--that they used. But did you ever know anyelder to do that? Naw; they just off for the doctor. Now, I say take theplain word of God, that's set down so't you couldn't noways make anymistakes. "

Here Uncle Martin again dropped his head forward in a butting position, and stared at Charley Millard from under his brows. This time theyounger man judged it best to make no rejoinder. Instead, he took thelittle Tommy in his arms and began to stroke the cheeks of the nestlingchild. The diversion had the proper effect. Uncle Martin, perceivingthat the results of his exhaustive meditations in medicine and theology, which were as plain as the most self-evident nose on a man's face, werenot estimated at their par value, got up and explained that he must goto Greenpoint and call on a man who had lately lost a child; and then, fearing he wouldn't get back to supper, he said good-by, and come again, and always glad to see you, Charley, and good luck to you; and so madehis way down the dingy stairs. 

Charley Millard now turned to his aunt, a thin-faced woman whose ratherhigh forehead, wide and delicately formed in the region of the temples, made one think that in a more favorable soil she might have blossomed. She was sitting by the window that looked out upon the narrow courtyardbelow and on the rear house to which Aunt Martin's apartment was boundby a double clothes-line running upon pulleys. In fact the wholestraitened landscape in view from the back windows was a vision ofropes on pulleys. Sunday was the only day that Mrs. Martin cared to lookon this view, for on week-days it was a spectacle of sheets andpillow-cases and the most intimate male and female garments flapping andstraddling shamelessly in the eddying wind. 

Millard, while yet the older children had not returned, broached thesubject of their education. He particularly wished to put Mary, theeldest, into a better school than the public school in her neighborhood, or at least into a school where the associations would be better. Heproposed this to his aunt as delicately as possible. 

"It's very kind of you, Charley, " she said. "You want to make a finelady of her. But what would you do with her? Would it make her anyhappier? She would want better clothes than we could give her; she wouldbecome dependent on you, maybe; and she would be ashamed of the rest ofus. "

"She could never be ashamed of you, aunt, " said Millard. But he wasstruck with a certain good sense and originality in his aunt which kepther from accepting anything for good merely because it was commonly sotaken. What service, indeed, would it be to Mary to declass her? Of whatadvantage to a poor girl to separate her from her surroundings unlessyou can secure to her a life certainly better?

"It would be well, " he said after a while, "if Mary could prepareherself for some occupation by which she might some day get a living ifother resources fail. You wouldn't like her to have to go out toservice, or to fall below her family, Aunt Hannah?"

"No; certainly not. But there's the trouble. Her father is like manyother men from the country; he can't bear the idea of Mary's earning herown living. He says he expects to support his own girls. And you knowHenry won't have her educated at your expense. He's very proud. But ifshe could somehow get into a school better than the public schools inthis part of the city, a school where she would get better teaching andmeet a better class of children, I would like it, provided she did notget a notion of being a fine lady. There is nothing worse than half-cutquality, and that's all she'd be. And are you sure, Charley, that richpeople are happier than we are? We don't worry about what we haven'tgot. "

The children were now upon the stairs, and the private talk was ended. They greeted their cousin eagerly, and began as usual to talk of MissCallender. 

"We tried to bring her home with us, " said Dick, "but she said, 'Notto-day, Dick, not to-day, ' and she stuck to it. I told her you'd behere, and I thought that would fetch her, but she only laughed and saidshe had to call and see a poor sick young lady that hadn't walked forfive years; and then she said, 'Give my love to your mother, ' and leftus. I sh'd thought she'd 'a' sent her love to Cousin Charley, too, butshe never done it. "

"Don't say 'never done it, ' Dick, " broke in Mary. "It's not proper. "

Millard accepted his aunt's invitation to tea, and then walked homewardby a very round-about way. He was not quite aware of the nature of theimpulse that caused him to turn downtown and thus to trace a part ofthe route he had walked over with Phillida four weeks before. He pausedto look again at the now dark stairway up which lived the bedriddenWilhelmina Schulenberg, and though he shuddered with a sort of repulsionat thought of her hard lot, it was not sympathy with Mina Schulenbergthat had arrested his steps at the mouth of this human hive. To hisimagination it seemed that these dark, uninviting stairs were yet warmwith the tread of the feet of Phillida Callender; it could not be morethan two hours since she came down. So instead of following the route ofa month ago through Tompkins Square and Eighth street, as he had halfunconsciously set out to do, he walked through Tenth street to SecondAvenue. This way Phillida must have gone this very afternoon, and thisway he felt himself drawn by an impulse increasing in force ever as hejourneyed. It seemed of prime importance that he should call on MissCallender without delay, just to consult her about Mary's education. Hisreasoning in favor of this course was convincing, for logic never getson so well as when inclination picks all the pebbles out of the pathway. 

A long discussion concerning Mary Martin's education was held thatevening between the young people sitting by the drop-lamp in Mrs. Callender's parlor. Many nice theories were broached by each of them, but during the whole of the discussion they were both in a state ofdouble consciousness. Canvassing Mary and her outlook in life in onecenter of thought, they were thinking and feeling more profoundlyregarding the outlook in life of two other people in another vortex ofbrain action. For Phillida could not conceal from herself the fact thatMr. Millard was only half interested in what he was saying, but wasutterly absorbed in her with whom he was talking. His passion, so longdenied, now had its revenge, and even the training of a man of the worldto conceal what he felt and to say what he did not think was of no availagainst it. 

Notwithstanding the divided state of their minds, in consequence ofwhich Mary's interests got only a minority of attention, her interestsdid not fare badly, for the very effort to keep the thoughts andfeelings that were eddying below the surface from engulfing their wholemental action forced both talkers to concentrate their minds earnestlyupon Mary's schooling. 

In the first place both of them admitted the force of Mrs. Martin'sobjection to declassing Mary in such a way as to leave her segregatedfrom family ties. Then it came out that Phillida did know a school--nota fine school, but a good school--where Mary would not be withoutcompanions in sober clothes, and where the teacher, a Miss Gillies, knewher business and had not too many scholars. But how to overcome UncleMartin's objection to being helped by his wife's nephew?

"If, " said Millard "the teacher of whom you speak had given to her asufficient amount to pay the tuition of some suitable girl from a plainfamily, she would naturally consult you?"

"Yes; I think so, " said Phillida. 

"And under such circumstances why could you not recommend Mary?"

Phillida hesitated. 

"I see you are more truthful than we men of business, who could not keepour feet without little ruses. There would be an implied deception ofUncle Martin, you think. Well, then, I will make the subscriptionabsolute, and will leave Miss Gillies in entire control of it. I willadvise her to consult you. If she does, and you think some other childthan Mary ought to have it, or if it should be refused for Mary, you maygive it to some one else. Do you know any one else who would profit bysuch a tuition?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Well, perhaps a better way would be this. I'll make it double, and youmay have the entire disposal of both scholarships, if Miss Gillies willlet you. Suppose I leave it to you to communicate the fact to her?"

"That will be very good, indeed"; and Phillida's face lost for a momentthe blushing half-confusion that had marked it during the conversation, and a look of clear pleasure shone in her eyes--the enthusiasticpleasure of doing good and making happiness. Millard hardly rose to theheight of her feeling; it was not to be expected. Whenever her faceassumed this transfigured look his heart was smitten with pain--themingled pain of love intensified and of hope declining; for thisexaltation seemed to put Phillida above him, and perhaps out of hisreach. Why should she fly away from him in this way?

"And may I come--to-morrow evening, perhaps--to inquire about thismatter?" he said, making a movement to depart. 

The question brought Phillida to the earth again, for Millard spoke witha voice getting beyond his control and telling secrets that he wouldfain have kept back. His question, tremulously put, seemed to ask somuch more than it did! She responded in a voice betraying emotion quiteout of keeping with the answer to a question like this, and with herface suffused, and eyes unable to look steadily at his, which weregazing into hers. 

"Certainly, Mr. Millard, " she said. 

He took her hand gently and with some tremor as he said good-evening, and then he descended the brownstone steps aware that all debate andhesitancy were at an end. Come what might come, he knew himself to beirretrievably in love with Phillida Callender. This was what he hadgained by abstaining from the sight of her for four weeks. 

When the elevator had landed him on one of the high floors of theGraydon Building, a bachelor apartment house, and he had entered his ownparlor, the large windows of which had a southern outlook, he stood along time regarding the view. The electric lights were not visible, buttheir white glow, shining upward from the streets and open squares, glorified the buildings that were commonplace enough in daytime. Milesaway across a visible space of water Liberty's torch shone like a starof the fifth magnitude. The great buildings about the City Hall Park, seen through a haze of light, seemed strangely aërial, like castles in amirage or that ravishing Celestial City which Bunyan gazed upon in hisdreams. A curved line of electric stars well up toward the horizonshowed where the great East River Bridge spanned the unresting tidesfar below. Millard's apartment was so high that the street roar reachedit in a dull murmur as of a distant sea, and he stood and absorbed theglory of the metropolitan scene--such a scene as was never looked uponin any age before our own decade--and it was to him but a fitaccompaniment to his passion for Phillida, which by its subjectiveeffect upon him had transformed all life and the universe itself. Amonth before he had sat and stared a hard-coal fire out of countenancein apprehension of falling in love with Phillida. Now he eagerly drankin the glory of earth and air, and loved her without reserve and withoutregret. 

XI. 

IN THE PARK. 

Although love had at length come to Millard like an inundation sweepingaway the barriers of habit and preconception, he was quite aware thatPhillida Callender's was not a temperament to forget duty in favor ofinclination, and the strength of his desire to possess her served as arestraint upon his action. He followed the habits of businessnegotiation even in love-making; he put down his impatience and made hisapproaches slowly that he might make sure of success. As a prudentbeginning to his courtship he called on Phillida at first but once aweek. She soon regained her wonted placidity of exterior, and Millardfound it difficult to divine how far his affection was reciprocated. 

For himself, he kept up his round of post-Easter social engagements. Itwould be time enough to lop these off if Phillida should require it whenhis affairs with her should be upon a more secure footing. Phillida, too, kept up a series of post-Easter engagements, but of another sort. Besides the ordinary work of the mission, and the extraordinary workattending the preparations for Fresh Air excursions for the invalid poorwhich were to be carried on in the heats of summer, she went once a weekto the parlor Bible readings of Mrs. Frankland, which were, in fact, eloquent addresses, and which served greatly to stimulate her zeal. Thusthese two lovers journeyed upon paths that had no convergence, evenwhile feeling themselves drawn irresistibly toward each other. 

As April wore into May, Millard ventured on more frequent attentions, and from day to day meditated how he might light on an opportunity totell her what he felt and wished. But at her house he was always held incheck by remembering the crash of an overturned chair at the time of hisfirst call, and he could not speak very confidential words with no otherscreen than those thin sliding doors. When on two occasions he contrivedto encounter Phillida returning from her Sunday afternoon mission to theeast, he thought he perceived certain traces of debate going on in hermind, and an apparent effort on her part to hold the talk to cool andindifferent topics. That she was strongly attracted to him he readilybelieved, and had she been a woman of the ordinary type this would havebeen sufficient. But she was Phillida Callender, and he who would winher must gain consent not alone of her affections but of her conscienceas well, and of her judgment. Such a decision as he should ask her tomake would be tried by the test of the high life purpose that ruled herand looked on all interfering delights and affections with somethinglike fierceness. For how shall one of the daughters of God be persuadedto wed one of the sons of men?

And thus, by the procrastination that comes of lack of opportunity, andthe procrastination that comes of timidity, the spring was fast passinginto summer. Hilbrough had taken Millard into partnership in anenterprise of his own--the reorganization of a bankrupt railway companyin the interest of the bondholders. It was necessary to secure theco-operation of certain English holders of the securities, and Hilbroughfelt sure that a man of Millard's address and flexibility would achievemore than he himself could in a negotiation abroad. So it was arrangedthat on the first Saturday in June the assistant cashier should sail forLondon on a ten weeks' leave of absence from the bank, and that when hisbusiness in London should be completed he was to make a short tour overthe well-beaten paths of European travel. This arrangement rendered itnecessary that Millard should bring his diplomatic delays to an end, andrun the risk of an immediate proposal to Phillida Callender. 

Memorial Day came round, and all the land showed its sorrow for theinnumerable host that perished untimely in deadly battle and deadlierhospital by keeping the day right joyously. This gave Millard a holiday, and he set off after a lazy breakfast to walk up Fifth Avenue andthrough Central Park. He proposed to explore the Ramble and meditate allthe time how he might best come to an understanding with Phillida thatvery evening. 

He entered the Park at the southeast corner, but instead of pushingstraight up to the Mall, a childish impulse to take a hurried glance atthe animals deflected him toward the old armory. The holiday crowdalready gathering proved quite too miscellaneous for his fastidiousnerves; the dumb brutes he could stand, but these pushing and chatteringhuman monkeys were uninteresting, and he went on through the region ofwild beasts to that of tame ones, where the patient donkeys were busilyemployed carrying timid little children and showing their skill in theirfavorite game of doing the least possible amount of work in any giventime. Though the motion of these creatures was barely perceptible, thepace seemed frightful to some of the alarmed infants clinging to theirbacks. Millard looked at them a moment in amusement, then refusing thedonkey path he turned to the left toward the shady Mall. The narrow walkhe chose was filled to-day with people, who, having fed the elephant, admired the diving of the seal, wondered at the inconceivable uglinessof the hippopotamus, watched the chimpanzee tie knots in the strands ofan untwisted rope by using her four deft hands, and shuddered a littleat the young alligators, were now moving away--a confused mass ofchildren, eager to spend their nickels for a ride at the carrousel, andelders bent on finding shelter from the heat under the elms thatoverhang the Mall. There was a counter-current of those who had enteredthe Park by remoter gateways and were making their way toward themenagerie, and Millard's whole attention was absorbed in navigatingthese opposite and intermingling streams of people and in escaping theimminent danger of being run over by some of the fleet ofbaby-carriages. From a group of three ladies that he had just passed alittle beyond the summer-house, he heard a voice say, half underbreath:

"Mr. Millard, I declare!"

It was Agatha Callender, and as he turned to greet her he saw behind herPhillida supporting her mother. 

"Mama is not very well, and we persuaded her to take a holiday, "explained Agatha; "and I am trying to find a way for her out of thiscrowd. "

Millard took charge of the convoy and succeeded in landing the party onshady seats at the lower end of the Mall, where the colossal WalterScott is asking his distinguished countryman Robert Burns, justopposite, if all poets engaged in the agonizing work of poeticcomposition fall into such contortions as Burns does in this perpetualbrass. 

After a while Agatha grew as restless as the poet seems in the statue. She had brought money enough to take her party about the Park in theregular coaches, and spending-money unspent always made Agatha unhappy. She now broached the subject of taking a coach, and remembered that itwas a free day at the Art Museum. Millard proposed to go to the FifthAvenue gate and get a carriage for the party. This extravagance theprudent Mrs. Callender would not consent to, and so Millard conductedthe ladies to the place where Shakspere, a little weak in the knees, haslong been doing his best, according to his ability, to learn a part in anew play. The first coach that came by had but two vacancies. Millardhailed it, and said promptly:

"Now, Miss Agatha, we shall not find four places in one coach to-day. You and Mrs. Callender get into this one, and take stop-over checks atthe Museum. Miss Callender and I will join you there in the next coachor on foot. "

There was no time for debate, and before Mrs. Callender could muster herwits to decide what was best to be done about this, Charley's glovedhands had gently helped her into the coach, put Agatha in beside her, and handed a half-dollar to the driver for the fare. Just as Mrs. Callender was beginning to protest against this last act the coachrolled away, and Agatha saw Millard and Phillida face about withoutwaiting for another coach and return toward Shakspere and the Mall. 

"I oughtn't to have let him pay for us, " murmured Mrs. Callender. 

"Oh, you needn't feel under any obligations, " whispered Agatha; "he justwanted to be alone with Phillida. "

But now that Millard had seized the advantage of an unchaperoned strollwith Phillida, he found himself without the courage to use it. The verysuddenness with which they had been left to themselves made Phillidafeel that a crisis was imminent, and this served to give her an air ofconfusion and restraint. In presence of this reserve Millard drew back. 

The two strolled along the Mall, admiring the wide, elm-shaded tripleavenue, and talking of uninteresting subjects. They were involved oncemore in the evergrowing holiday crowd, and Millard saw with vexationthat his opportunity was slipping away from him. When they had traversedthe length of the Mall and were approaching the bust of Beethoven, Phillida said suddenly:

"There is Mina Schulenberg in a wheel-chair. I wonder how she contrivedto get one. "

She pushed forward toward the invalid, but Millard hung back a little, and Phillida suspected that he was probably ashamed to be seen talkingwith Mina, who was wheeled by her brother, a stalwart young man oftwenty, in his Sunday clothes. 

"O Miss Callender, is it you? Do you see my chair already? It must havebeen you who managed to get it for me. "

"No, Wilhelmina; indeed I knew nothing about it till I saw you in itthis moment. "

"Then I don't know what to think, " said the invalid. "It was sent upfrom a place down in Grand street already, with my name on a ticket andthe word 'Paid' marked on the ticket. I wish I could thank the one thatgave it to me wunst already, for I don't feel like it belonged to metill I do. "

Phillida turned about and looked at Millard, who still lurked behindher. When he met her penetrating gaze he colored as though he had beencaught doing wrong. 

"Miss Schulenberg, this is Mr. Millard, " said Phillida. "I don't knowwho sent you this chair; but if you thank him the person who paid foryour chair will hear about it, I feel sure. "

Mina looked at Millard. The faultlessness of his dress and theperfection of style in his carriage abashed her. But she presentlyreached her emaciated hand to him, while tears stood in her eyes. Millard trembled as he took the semi-translucent fingers in his hand:they looked brittle, and he could feel the joints through his gloves asthough it were a skeleton that thus joined hands with him. 

"You gave me my chair!" she said. "Yesterday I was out in it for thefirst time already--in Tompkins Square. But to-day Rudolph here--he issuch a good fellow--he wanted to give me a big treat wunst, and so hebrought me all the way up here already to see this beautiful Park. It'sthe--the first time--" but shadowy people like Wilhelmina hover alwayson the verge of hysteria, and her feelings choked her utterance at thispoint. 

Millard could not bear the sight of her emotion. He said hastily, "Nevermind, Miss Schulenberg; never mind. Good-morning. I hope you will enjoyyour day. "

Then as he and Phillida went up the stairs that lead out of the Mall atthe north of the arbor by the Casino, Millard made use of hishandkerchief, explaining that he must have taken a slight cold. He halfhalted, intending to ask Phillida to sit down with him on a seat partlyscreened by a bush at each end; but there were many people passing, andthe two went on and mounted the steps to the circular asphalted space atthe top of the knoll. Phillida, shy of what she felt must come, began toask about the great buildings in view, and he named for her the loftyDakota Flats rising from a rather naked plain to the westward, the lowsouthern façade of the Art Museum to the northward, to the east thesomber front of the Lenox Library, --as forbidding as the countenance ofa rich collector is to him who would borrow, --and the columnar gablechimneys of the Tiffany house. 

Millard now guided Phillida to a descending path on the side of the hillopposite to that by which they had come up, and which perversely turnedsoutheastward for a while, it having been constructed on the theory thata park walk should describe the longest distance between any two points. Here he found a seat shaded by the horizontal limbs of an exotic treeand confronted by a thicket that shut out at this season almost all butlittle glimpses of the Tiffany house and the frowning Lenox. He askedPhillida to sit down, and he sat beside her. The momentary silence thatfollowed was unendurable to Phillida's excited nerves, so she said:

"Mr. Millard, it was a splendid thing to do. "

"What?"

"To give that chair to Mina Schulenberg, and all so quietly. "

"Miss Callender--Phillida--may I call you Phillida?"

A tone of entreaty in this inquiry went to her heart and set herthoughts in a whirl. It was not possible to say "No. " She did not lifther eyes from the asphalt, which she was pushing with the ferrule of herparasol, but she said "Yes, " filled with she knew not what pleasure athaving Millard use this familiarity. 

"Phillida, you have taught me a great deal. It is to you that the poorgirl owes her ride to-day, and to you that I owe the pleasure of seeingher enjoy it. I'm not so good as you are. I am a rather--a ratheruseless person, I'm afraid. But I am learning. And I want to ask youbefore I go away whether you _could_ love me?"

Phillida kept trying to bore into the pavement with her parasol, but shedid not reply. 

After a pause Millard went on. "I know you don't decide such things bymere passion. But you've had reason to think that I loved you for a goodwhile. Haven't you?"

"I--I think I have. " This was said with difficulty after a pause of someseconds. 

"And you must have thought about it, and turned it over in the light ofduty. Haven't you--Phillida?"

This address by her Christian name startled her. It was almost like acaress. But presently she said, "Yes; I have. " She remembered that herprayer this very morning had been that before she should be called uponto decide the question of marrying Millard she might have some sign toguide her, and now the happy face of Wilhelmina seemed the very omen shehad sought. 

"And you haven't made up your mind to reject me?" said Millard. 

The answer this time was longer than ever in coming. 

"No; no, Mr. Millard. "

Millard paused before putting the next question. "I'm going away, youknow, on Saturday. May I get out of that last answer all that I wish to, Phillida?"

The parasol trembled in her hand, and perceiving that it betrayed hershe ceased to push the ground and let go of the staff, grasping the edgeof the seat instead. Millard could see her frame tremble, and in hiseagerness he scarcely breathed. With visible effort she at lengthslowly raised her flushed face until her gaze encountered his. Bututterance died on her lips. Either from some inclination of the head orfrom some assent in her eyes Millard understood her unuttered answer tobe in the affirmative. He lifted her hand from the seat beside him andgently kissed it. And then as he held it he presently felt her fingersgrasp his hand ever so lightly. It was answer enough. A noisy party wascoming down the steps toward them. 

"Now, Phillida dear, we must go, " he said, rising. "Your mother will notknow what has detained us. "

Phillida looked up playfully as they walked away, and said, her voicestill husky with feeling:

"Agatha will be sure to guess. "

XII. 

PHILIP. 

Philip Gouverneur, passing the Graydon on his return from adinner-party, thought to make a farewell call on Millard. He encounteredCharley in the elevator, just coming home from an evening with Phillida, his face aglow with pleasure. 

"Fancied I should find you packing, " Philip said. "I thought as youwould cross the Alps for the first time I'd come and give you a fewpoints. If I were not so lazy and inefficient I believe I should go withyou and 'personally conduct' you. "

"That would be jolly. Come over in three or four weeks and I'll be quitswith London. We'll engage a traveled English valet together, and journeyin comfort. I will follow your lead and go anywhere. "

"No; I shall not get over this year. "

They entered Millard's rooms, where things were in a state of upheaval, but orderly even in their upheaval. Seating themselves for half an hourby the open windows they talked of things to be seen in Europe. ThenPhilip, remembering that his friend had much to do, rose to go, andMillard said with an effort:

"Well, Phil, I'm going to be kin to you. Congratulate me. "

The color fled from Philip's face as he said:

"How's that?"

"Phillida Callender and I are engaged. "

"You and Phillida?" said Philip, struggling to collect his wits. "Iexpected it. " He spoke low and as though some calamity had befallen him. A moment he stood trying to muster his forces to utter some phraseproper to the occasion, and then he abruptly said:

"Good-night; don't come out"; and walked away toward the elevator like asomnambulist doing what he is compelled to by preconception withoutmaking note of his environment. And Millard wondered as he looked afterhim. 

The next morning Philip came to breakfast so late that even hisindulgent mother had forsaken the table after leaving directions to"have things kept hot for Mr. Philip, and some fresh coffee made forhim. "

When he had eaten a rather slender meal he sought his mother'ssitting-room. 

"Aunt Callender called last night, I hear. She must have had somethingto say, or she would hardly have persuaded herself to leave her sewingso long. "

"She came to tell me of Phillida's engagement, " said Mrs. Gouverneur, looking at Philip furtively as she spoke. 

"I supposed that was it. "

"Did you know it, then?"

"Oh, Charley Millard told me last night. These lucky fellows always takeit for granted that you'll rejoice in all their good fortune; they airtheir luck before you as though it were your own. " He was looking out ofthe window at the limited landscape of Washington Square. 

"I'm sorry you feel bad about it, " said his mother. 

Philip was silent. 

"I never dreamed that you had any special attachment for Phillida, " saidMrs. Gouverneur. 

"What did you think I was made of?" said Philip, turning toward hismother. "Since she came from Siam I have seen her about every week. Nowconsider what a woman she is, and do you wonder that I like her?"

"Why didn't you tell her so?"

"I might if I'd had Charley's brass. But what is there about a critical, inefficient young man like me, chiefly celebrated for piquant talk andsarcasm--what is there to recommend me to such a woman as Phillida? IfI'd had Charley's physique--I suppose even Phillida isn't insensible tohis appearance--but look at me. It might have recommended me to her, though, that in one respect I do resemble St. Paul--my bodily presenceis weak. " And he smiled at his joke. "No, mother, I am jealous ofCharley, but I am not disappointed. I never had any hopes. I'd about assoon have thought of making love to any beatified saint in glory as toPhillida. But Charley's refined audacity is equal to anything. "

The mother said nothing. She felt her son's bitterness too deeply to tryto comfort him. 

"I hate it most of all for Phillida's sake, " Philip went on. "It can notbe a happy marriage. Here they've gone and engaged themselves withoutreflection, and a catastrophe is sure to follow. "

"Oh, maybe not, " said Mrs. Gouverneur, who could not help feeling thatPhilip partly blamed her for the engagement. 

"Why, just look at it. They haven't really kept company. He has beengoing to dinner and dancing parties this spring, and she toMackerelville Mission and Mrs. Frankland's Bible Readings. If theyshould discover their incompatibility before marriage it wouldn't be sobad; but he's off to Europe for the summer, and then they'll be marriedin the autumn, probably, and then what? Phillida will never spend hertime dancing germans with Charley; and he would make a pretty fistrunning a class of urchins in Mackerelville. I tell you it only meansmisery for both of them. " And with this prediction Philip mounted to hisown room. 

Millard was too busy with the packing of trunks, the arrangement ofbusiness, and farewell visits to Phillida, to give much thought toPhilip's curious behavior; but it troubled him nevertheless. And when, on the deck of the steamer _Arcadia_, he bade good-by to a large circleof friends, including Mr. Hilbrough, who brought a bouquet from hiswife, and Mrs. Callender and her daughters, he looked about in vain forPhilip. He could no longer doubt that for some reason Philip dislikedhis engagement. But when the last adieus had been waved to diminishingand no longer distinguishable friends on the pier-end, and the greatcity had shrunk into the background and passed from view as the vesselglided steadily forward into the Narrows, Millard entered his cabin andfound a package of guide-books and a note from Philip excusing hisabsence on the ground of a headache, but hoping that his friend wouldhave a pleasant voyage and expressing hearty good wishes for his futurewith Phillida. It was all very curious and unlike Philip. But the truthbelow dawned upon Charley, and it gave him sorrow that his great joymight be Philip's disappointment. 

When September had come Philip sat one day in a wide wicker chair on thepiazza of the old-fashioned cottage of the Gouverneurs at Newport. Thisplain but ample cottage had once held up its head stoutly as one of thebest. But now that the age of the Newport cliff-dwellers had come, inwhich great architects are employed to expend unsparingly all the ideasthey have ever borrowed, on cottages costlier than kings' palaces, theGouverneur house had been overshadowed, and, after the manner of ageoutstripped by youth, had taken refuge in the inexpugnable advantage ofpriority. Like the family that dwelt within, it maintained a certaindignity of repose that could well afford to despise decoration andgarniture, and look with contempt on newness. The very althæas, andlilacs, and clambering jasmines in the dooryard and the large trees thatlent shade to a lawn alongside, bespoke the chronological superiority ofthe place. There was no spruceness of biweekly mowing about the lawn, noambitious spick-and-spanness about the old, white, wooden, green-blindedcottage itself, but rather a restful mossiness of ancientrespectability. 

Here Philip watched out the lazy September days, as he had watched themsince he was a lad. This was a Newport afternoon, not cloudy, buttouched by a certain marine mistiness which took the edge off the hardoutlines of things and put the world into tone with sweetdo-nothingness. Half-sitting, half-lying, in the wide piazza chair, clearly not made to measure for him, Philip had remained for two hours, reading a little at intervals, sometimes smoking, but mostly with headdrawn down between his shoulders while he gazed off at the familiartrees and houses, and noted the passing of white-capped maids with theirinfant convoys, and the infrequent carriages that rolled by. His mother, with her fingers busy at something of no consequence, sat near him. Eachwas fond of the other's presence, neither cared much for conversation. Gouverneur, the father, was enjoying a fine day in his fashion, asleepon a lounge in the library. 

"It's just as I expected, mother, " said Philip, coming out of aprolonged reverie. "Charley and Phillida will marry without ever gettingacquainted, and then will come the blow-out. "

"What do you mean by the blow-out?" said Mrs. Gouverneur. "They areneither of them quarrelsome. "

"No; but they are both sensitive. Aunt Callender's sickness tookPhillida to the Catskills before he got home, and she's been there eversince. I suppose he has gone up once or twice on a Saturday. But whatchance has either of them to know the other's tastes? What do yousuppose they talk about? Does Phillida explain her high ideals, or tellhim the shabby epics of lame beggars and blind old German women inMackerelville? Or does he explain to her how to adjust a cravat, ortell her the amusing incidents of a private ball? They can't go onalways billing and cooing, and what will they talk about on rainySundays after they are married? I'd like to see him persuade Phillida towear an ultra-fashionable evening dress and spend six evenings a week atentertainments and the opera. Maybe it'll be the other way; she may coaxhim to teach a workingmen's class in the Mission. By George! It would bea comedy to see Charley try it once. " And Philip indulged in a gentlelaugh. 

"You don't know how much they have seen of each other, Philip. Phillidais a friend of the Hilbroughs, and Mr. Millard once brought her to ourhouse on Sunday afternoon from the Mission or somewhere over there. "

"That's so?" said Philip. "They may be better acquainted than I think. But they'll never get on. "

Perceiving that this line of talk was making his mother uncomfortable, he said:

"Nature has got the soft pedal down to-day. Come, mother, it's a goodday for a drive. Will you go?"

And he went himself to call the coachman. 

XIII. 

MRS. FRANKLAND. 

Mrs. Frankland, the Bible reader, was a natural orator--a person withplenty of blood for her brain, ample breathing space in her chest, arich-toned voice responsive to her feelings, and a mind not exactlyintellectual, but felicitous in vocabulation and ingenious in theconstruction of sentences. Her emotions were mettlesome horseswell-bitted--quick and powerful, but firmly held. Though her exegesiswas second-hand and commonplace, yet upon the familiar chords oftraditional and superficial interpretation of the Bible she knew how toplay many emotional variations, and her hearers, who were all women, were caught up into a state of religious exaltation under herinstruction. A buoyant and joyous spirit and a genial good-fellowship ofmanner added greatly to her personal charms. 

She was the wife of a lawyer of moderate abilities and greattrustworthiness, whose modesty, rather than his mediocrity, had confinedhim to a small practice in the quieter walks of the profession. Mrs. Frankland had been bred a Friend, but there was a taste for magnificencein her that argued an un-Quaker strain in her pedigree. On her marriageshe had with alacrity transferred her allegiance from no-ceremonyQuakerism to liturgical Episcopalianism, the religion of her husband. She gave herself credit for having in this made some sacrifice to wifelyduty, though her husband would have been willing to join the orthodoxFriends with her, for the simplicity and stillness of the Quakersconsorted well with his constitution. Mrs. Frankland did not relinquishcertain notions derived from the Friends concerning the liberty of womento speak when moved thereto. No doubt her tenacity in this particularwas due to her own consciousness of possessing a gift for swaying humansympathies. Such a gift the Anglican communion, from time immemorial, has delighted to bury in a napkin--in a tablecloth, if a napkin shouldprove insufficient. But Mrs. Frankland was not a person to allow hertalent to be buried even in the most richly dight altar-cloth. In her, as in most of the world's shining lights, zeal for a cause wasindistinguishably blended with personal aspirations--honest desire to beserviceable with an unconscious desire to be known. It is only healthyand normal that any human being possessed of native power should wish toshow his credentials by turning possibility into fact accomplished. 

Mrs. Frankland's temperament inclined her to live like a city set on ahill, but the earlier years of her married life had been too constantlyengrossed by domestic cares for her to undertake public duties. It hadoften been out of the question for the Franklands to keep a servant, andthey had never kept more than one in a family of four children. At firstthis ambitious wife sought to spur her timid and precise husband toachievements that were quite impossible to him. But when the childrengrew larger, so that the elder ones could be of assistance in the careof the house, Mrs. Frankland's opportunity came. The fame of such womenas Mrs. Livermore, Miss Willard, and Mrs. Bottome had long been a spurto her aspiration. She did not set up as a reformer. Denunciation andcontention were not proper to her temperament. She was, above all, pathetic and sympathetic. She took charge of a Bible class of youngladies in the Sunday-school, and these were soon deeply moved by hertalks to them as a class, and profoundly attracted to her by a way shehad of gathering each one of them under the hen-mother wings of hersympathies. That she and they exaggerated the degree of her personalfeeling for her individual listeners is probable; the oratoricaltemperament enlarges the image of a sentiment as naturally as a magiclantern magnifies a picture. In later days beloved Maggies and Matildasof the class, who had believed themselves special favorites of Mrs. Frankland--their images graven on her heart of hearts--were amazed tofind that they had been quite forgotten when they had been out of sighta year or two. 

The Bible-class room in the Church of St. James the Less soon becameuncomfortably crowded. This was what Mrs. Frankland had long desired. She thereupon availed herself of the hospitality of a disciple of herswho had a rather large parlor, and in this she opened a Bible reading onFriday afternoons. Eloquent talk, and especially pathetic talk and vividillustrations by means of incidents and similes, were as natural to heras melodious whistling is to a brown thrush, and the parlors were easilyfilled, though out of deference to church authorities men were excluded. 

The success of this first course of so-called Bible readings was marked, and it determined Mrs. Frankland's career. She was enough of a woman tobe particularly pleased that some of the wealthiest parishioners of St. James the Less were among her hearers, and that, having neglected her inall the years of baby-tending and dishwashing obscurity, these peoplenow invited her to their houses and made her the confidante of theirsorrows. This sort of success was as agreeable to her as merely socialclimbing was to Mrs. Hilbrough. For even in people of a higher type thanMrs. Frankland the unmixed heroic is not to be looked for: if one findszeal or heroism in the crude ore it ought to be enough; the refinedarticles have hardly been offered in the market since the lives of thesaints were written and the old romances went out of fashion. 

Two results of Mrs. Frankland's first winter's readings, or preachings, had not entered into her calculations, but they were potent in decidingher to continue her career. One was that her husband's law practice wassomewhat increased by her conspicuousness and popularity. He was notintrusted with great cases, but there was a very decided increase in hiscollection business. At the close of the season Mrs. Frankland, inmaking her farewell to her class, had, like a true orator, coined evenher private life into effect. She touched feelingly on the sacrificeshe and her family had had to make in order that she might maintain thereadings, and alluded to her confidence that if Providence intended herto go forward, provision would be made for her and her children, whomshe solemnly committed by an act of faith, like that of the mother ofMoses, to the care of the Almighty. She said this with deep solemnity, holding up her hands toward heaven as though to lay an infant in thearms of the Good Shepherd. The vision of a house-mother trusting theLord even for the darning of stockings was an example of faith thattouched the hearers. Under the lead of a few active women in the companya purse of two hundred dollars was collected and presented to her. Itwas done delicately; the givers stated that their purpose was simply toenable her to relieve herself of care that the good work might notsuffer. The money was thus handed not to her but to the Lord, and Mrs. Frankland could not refuse it. Do you blame her? She had earned it asfairly as the rector of St. James the Less earned his. Perhaps even morefairly, for her service was spontaneous and enthusiastic; he had grownold and weary, and his service had long since come to be mainlyperfunctory. 

There are cynics who imagine a woman with a mission saying, "Well, I'veincreased my husband's business, and I have made two hundred verynecessary dollars this winter; and I will try it again. " If the matterhad presented itself to her mind in that way Mrs. Frankland probablywould have felt a repulsion from the work she was doing. It is a verybungling mind, or a more than usually clear and candid mind, that wouldview a delicate personal concern in so blunt a fashion. Mrs. Frankland'smind was too clever to be bungling, and too emotional and imaginative tobe critical. What she saw, with a rush of grateful emotion, was that theDivine approval of her sacrifices was manifested by this sustainingincrease of temporal prosperity. The ravens of Elijah had replenishedher purse because she trusted. Thus commended from above and lifted intothe circle of those who like the prophets and apostles have a specialvocation, she felt herself ready, as she put it, "to go forward throughfire and flood if need be. " It would not have been like her to rememberthat the fire and flood to be encountered in her career could be onlyrhetorical at best--painted fire and a stage flood. 

Among those who chanced to be drawn to Mrs. Frankland's first course ofBible readings, and who had listened with zest, was Phillida Callender. Phillida's was a temperament different from Mrs Frankland's. The commonpoint at which they touched was religious enthusiasm. Mrs. Frankland'senthusiasms translated themselves instantly into eloquent expression;she was an instrument richly toned that gave forth melody of joy orsorrow when smitten by emotion. Phillida was very susceptible to hercongenial eloquence, but hers was essentially the higher nature, andMrs. Frankland's religious passion, when once it reached Phillida, wastransformed into practical endeavor. Mrs. Frankland was quite content toembody her ideals in felicitous speech, and cease; Phillida Callenderlabored day and night to make her ideals actual. Mrs. Frankland had noinclination or qualification for grappling with such thorny problems asthe Mackerelville Mission afforded. It was enough for her to play themartial music which nerved others for the strife. 

It often happens that the superior nature is dominated by one not itsequal. Phillida did not question the superlative excellence of Mrs. Frankland, from whom she drew so many inspirations. That eloquent ladyin turn admired and loved Phillida as a model disciple. Phillida drewMrs. Hilbrough to the readings, and Mrs. Frankland bestowed on that ladyall the affectionate attention her immortal soul and worldly positionentitled her to, and under Mrs. Frankland's influence Mrs. Hilbroughbecame more religious without becoming less worldly. For nothing couldhave seemed more proper and laudable to Mrs. Hilbrough than the steadypursuit of great connections appropriate to her husband's wealth. 

Mrs. Frankland's imagination had been moved by her success. It was notonly a religious but a social triumph. Some of the rich had come, and itwas in the nature of an orator of Mrs. Frankland's type to love anyassociation with magnificence. Her figures of speech were richly draped;her imagination delighted in the grandiose. The same impulse whichcarried her easily from drab Quakerism to stained-glass Episcopalianismnow moved her to desire that her ministry might lead her to the great, for such an association seemed to glorify the cause she had at heart. She did not think of her purpose nakedly; she was an artist in drapery, and her ideas never presented themselves in the nude; she was indeedquite incapable of seeing the bare truth; truth itself became visible toher only when it had on a wedding garment. As she stated her aspirationto herself, she longed to carry the everlasting gospel to the wearyrich. "The weary rich" was the phrase she outfitted them with whenconsidered as objects of pity and missionary zeal. To her mind theyseemed, in advance, shining trophies which she hoped to win, and in herreveries she saw herself presenting them before the Almighty, somewhatas a Roman general might lead captive barbarian princes to the throne ofhis imperial master. 

Mrs. Frankland could not be oblivious to the fact that a Bible readingamong the rich would be likely to bring her better pecuniary returnsthan one among the poor. But she did not let this consideration appearon the surface of her thoughts, nor was it at all a primary or essentialone. 

She knew but little of the intricacies of social complications, and hermind now turned to Mrs. Hilbrough as the wealthiest of all heroccasional hearers, and one having an ample parlor in a fashionablequarter of the town. 

Her first thought had been to get Phillida to accompany her when sheshould go to suggest the matter to Mrs. Hilbrough. But on second thoughtshe gave up this intermediation, for reasons which it would have beenimpossible for her to define. If she exerted a powerful influence overPhillida in the direction of emotion, she could not escape in turn theinfluence of Phillida's view of life when in her presence. Althoughpersonal ambitions mixed themselves to a certain extent with Mrs. Frankland's religious zeal, disguising themselves in rhetorical costumesof a semi-ecclesiastical sort, they did not venture to masquerade toofreely before Phillida. Mrs. Frankland, though less skillful in affairsthan in speech, felt that it would be better in the present instance togo to Mrs. Hilbrough alone. 

It was with a glow of pleasure not wholly unworldly that she foundherself one afternoon in Mrs. Hilbrough's reception-room, and noted allabout her marks of taste and unstinted expenditure. To a criticalspectator the encounter between the two ladies would have affordedmaterial for a curious comparison. The ample figure of Mrs. Frankland, her mellifluous voice, her large, sweeping, cheerily affectionate, influential mode of address, brought her into striking contrast with therather slender, quietly self-reliant Mrs. Hilbrough, whose genialcordiality covered, while it hardly concealed, the thoroughlybusiness-like carriage of her mind. 

Mrs. Frankland opened her plan with the greatest fullness of explanationas to what her motives were, but she did not feel obliged wholly toconceal the element of personal aspiration, as she would have done intalking to Phillida. Her intuitions made her feel that Mrs. Hilbroughwould accept religious zeal all the more readily for its being a littlediluted. Mrs. Hilbrough responded with genial cordiality and even withsome show of enthusiasm. But if she had less address in speech than theother she had more in affairs. While theoretically supporting this planshe did not commit herself to it. She knew how slender as yet was herhold upon the society she courted, and she would not risk an eccentricmove. Her boat was still in shallow water, with hardly buoyancy enoughto float a solitary occupant; if she should undertake to carry Mrs. Frankland, it would probably go fast aground. What she said to Mrs. Frankland with superficial fervor was:

"You ought to have a person that has been longer in New York, and isbetter acquainted than I am, to carry out your plan, Mrs. Frankland. Itwould be a pity to have so excellent a scheme fail; that would probablyprevent your ever succeeding--would shut you out as long as you lived. It would be a great honor to me to have your readings, but you mustbegin under better auspices. I regret to say this. Your readings, rightly started, will be a great success, and I should like to have themhere. "

This last was in a sense sincere. Mrs. Hilbrough was sure of Mrs. Frankland's success if once the thing were patronized by the rightpeople. Here Mrs. Frankland looked disappointed, but in a moment brokeforth again in adroit and fervid statement of the good that might bedone, mingled with a flattering protest against Mrs. Hilbrough's toohumble estimate of her influence in society. While she proceeded, Mrs. Hilbrough was revolving a plan for giving Mrs. Frankland more than sheasked, while avoiding personal responsibility. 

"I think I can do something, " she said, with a manner less cordial butmore sincere than that she had previously assumed. "Leave the matterwith me, and I may be able to open to you a grand house, not a plain, middling place like mine"--and she waved her hand deprecatingly towardthe furnishings which seemed to Mrs. Frankland inconceivably rich--"agrand house with all the prestige of a great family. I don't know that Ishall succeed with my friend, but for the sake of the cause I am willingto try. I won't tell you anything about it till I try. If I fail, Ifail, but for the present leave all to me. "

Mrs. Frankland was not the sort of person to relish being guided byanother, but in Mrs. Hilbrough she had met her superior in leadership. Reluctantly she felt herself obliged to hand over the helm of her owncraft, holding herself ready to disembark at length wherever Mrs. Hilbrough might reach dry ground. 

Of all that Mrs. Hilbrough had won in her first winter's socialcampaign, the achievement that gave her most pleasure was the makingacquaintance and entering into fast ripening friendship with Mrs. VanHorne. Little Mrs. Van Horne was not in herself very desirable as afriend, but she was one of those whose fortune it is to have the toil ofthousands at their disposal. Her magnificence was fed by an army:innumerable laborers with spades and shovels, picks and blasting-drills, working in smoke and dripping darkness to bore railway paths throughmountain chains; grimy stokers and clear-sighted engineers; brakemendripping in the chilly rain; switchmen watching out the weary night bydim lanterns or flickering torches; desk-worn clerks and methodicalticket-sellers; civil engineers using brains and long training overtheir profiles and cross-sectionings; and scores of able "captains ofindustry, " such as superintendents, passenger agents, and trafficmanagers--all these, and others, by their steady toil kept an unfailingcataract of wealth pouring into the Van Horne coffers. In herself Mrs. Van Horne had not half the force of Mrs. Hilbrough, but as the queen beeof this widespread toil and traffic, fed and clad and decked as she wasby the fruits of the labor of a hundred thousand men, Mrs. Van Horne hadan enormous factitious value in the world. How to bear her dignity asthe wife of a man who used the million as a unit she did not know, forthough she affected a reserved stateliness of manner, it did not setwell on such a round-faced, impressionable little woman quite incapableof charting a course for herself. No show of leadership had been hers, but she had taken her cue from this and that stronger nature, until bychance she came in hailing distance of Mrs. Hilbrough. The two wereperfect counterparts. Mrs. Hilbrough was clairvoyant and of promptdecision, but she lacked the commanding position for personalleadership. She was superficially deferential to Mrs. Van Horne's olderstanding and vastly greater wealth, but she swiftly gained the realascendancy. Her apparent submission of everything to Mrs. Van Horne'swisdom, while adroitly making up a judgment for the undecided littlelady, was just what Mrs. Van Horne liked, and in three months'acquaintance that lady had come to lean more and more on Mrs. Hilbrough. The intimacy with so close a friend rendered life much more comfortablefor Mrs. Van Horne, in that it relieved her from taking advice of hersisters-in-law, who always gave counsel with a consciousness ofsuperiority. Now she could appear in her family with opinions andpurposes apparently home-made. To a woman of Mrs. Hilbrough's clevernessthe friendship with one whose brooks ran gold rendered social successcertain. 

Mrs. Hilbrough was a natural promoter. Her energy inclined her to takehold of a new enterprise for the mere pleasure of pushing it. She felt areal delight in the religious passions awakened by Mrs. Frankland'saddresses; she foresaw an interesting career opening up before thatgifted woman, and to help her would give Mrs. Hilbrough a complexpleasure. That Mrs. Frankland's addresses if given in Mrs. Van Horne'sparlors would excite attention and make a great stir she foresaw, andfor many reasons she would like to bring this about. Mrs. Hilbrough didnot analyze her motives; that would have been tiresome. She entered themall up in a sort of lump sum to the credit of her religious zeal, andwas just a little pleased to find so much of her early devotion toreligion left over. Let the entry stand as she made it. Let us not be ofthe class unbearable who are ever trying to dissipate those lovelyillusions that keep alive human complacency and make life endurable. 

Mrs. Hilbrough contrived to bring Mrs. Frankland with her aboundingenthusiasm and her wide-sweeping curves of inflection and gesture intoacquaintance with the great but rather pulpy Mrs. Van Horne. The naturalinequality of forces in the two did the rest. Mrs. Van Horne, weary ofthe inevitable limitations of abnormal wealth, and fatigued in the vainendeavor to procure any satisfaction which bore the slightest proportionto the vast family accretion, found a repose she had longed for when shewas caught up in the fiery chariot of Mrs. Frankland's eloquent talk. All the vast mass of things that had confronted and bullied her so longwas swept into a rhetorical dustpan, and she could feel herself atlength as a human soul without having to remember her possessions. Mrs. Frankland's phrase of "the weary rich" exactly fitted her, and to herMrs. Frankland's eloquent pulverizing of the glory of this world broughta sort of emancipation. 

Mrs. Frankland unfolded to her a desire to reach those who would notattend her readings at any but a very fashionable house. Mrs. Van Horne, encouraged thereto by Mrs. Hilbrough, was delighted at finding a noveland congenial use for some of the luxurious and pompous upholstery ofher life of which she was so tired. Her parlors were opened, and"persons of the highest fashion" were pleased to find a private andsuitably decorated wicker-gate leading into a strait and narrowvestibule train, limited, fitted up with all the consolations andrelieved of most of the discomforts of an old-fashioned religiouspilgrimage. 

XIV. 

MRS. FRANKLAND AND PHILLIDA. 

Mrs. Callender would have told you that mountain air had quite restoredher, but enforced rest from scissors and sewing-machine, the two demonsthat beset the dear industrious, had more to do with it than mountainair. The first of October brought her and Phillida again to their house, where Agatha had preceded them by two days, to help Sarah in puttingthings to rights for their advent. Millard met the mother and daughterat the station with a carriage and left them at their own door. 

"Did Mr. Millard say that he would come again this evening?" Agathaasked of Phillida when she rose from the dinner-table. 

"No. "

"Well, I should think he would. I wouldn't have a young man that wouldtake things so coolly. He's hardly seen you at all since his return, and--that's the expressman with the trunks. I'll go and see about them";and she bounded away, not "like an antelope, " but like a young girlbubbling to the brim with youth and animal spirits. 

An hour later, when Phillida and Agatha had just got to a stage inunpacking in which all that one owns is lying in twenty heaps about theroom, each several heap seeming larger than the trunk in which it came, there was a ring at the door, and Mr. Millard was announced. 

"Oh, dear! I think he might have waited until to-morrow, " grumbledAgatha to her mother, after Phillida had gone to the parlor. "He'll stayfor hours, I suppose, and I never can get these things put away alone, and we won't get you to bed before midnight. He ought to remember thatyou're not strong. But it's just like a man in love to come when you'rein a mess, and never to go away. "

Millard was more thoughtful than another might have been, and in half anhour Phillida returned to the back room, with a softly radiantexpression of countenance, bearing a bouquet of flowers which Millardhad brought for Mrs. Callender. Phillida at once helped Agatha attackchaos. The floor, the chairs, the table, the bed, and the top of thedressing-case were at length cleared, and preparations were making forgetting the tired mother to her rest before ten o'clock. 

"Seems to me, " said Agatha, "that if I were in Philly's place I'd wantsomething more than a brief call on the first evening, after so long aseparation. "

"Seems to me, " said the mother, mimicking Agatha's tone and turning uponthe girl with an amused smile, "if you ever have a lover and are as hardto please with him as you are with Mr. Millard, he might as well give itup before he begins. "

In the morning early came Mrs. Frankland. She kissed Phillida on thischeek and on that, embraced her and called her "Dear, dear child, " heldher off with both hands and looked with admiration at her well-modeledface, freshened with wind and sun. She declared that the mountain airhad done Phillida a great deal of good, and inquired how her dear, goodmother was. 

"Mother is wonderfully better, " said Phillida; "I may say, well again. "

"What a mercy that is! Now you'll be able to go on with the blessed workyou are doing. You have a gift for mission work; that's your vocation. Ishould make a poor one in your place. It's a talent. As for me, I have anew call. "

"A new call--what is that?" said Phillida, rolling up an easy chair forMrs. Frankland to sit on. 

"It's all through you, I suppose. You brought Mrs. Hilbrough to hear me, and Mrs. Hilbrough made me acquainted with Mrs. Van Horne, and she hasinvited me to give readings in her parlor. I gave the first lastThursday, with great success. The great parlor was full, and many weptlike little children. "

The words here written are poor beside what Mrs. Frankland said. Herinflection, the outward sweep of her hand when she said "great parlor, "brought the rich scene vaguely to Phillida's imagination, and the mellowfalling cadence with which she spoke of those who had wept like littlechildren, letting her hands drop limp the while upon her lap, made itall very picturesque and touching. But Phillida twisted the fingers ofher left hand with her right, feeling a little wrench in trying to putherself into sympathy with this movement. It was the philanthropic sideof religion rather than the propagandist that appealed to her, and shecould hardly feel pity for people whose most imaginary wants weresupplied. 

The quick instinct for detecting and following the sympathy of anaudience is half the outfit for an orator; and Mrs. Frankland felt theneed of additional statement to carry the matter rightly to Phillida. She was ever feeling about for the electrical button that would reach ahearer's sympathies, and never content until she had touched it. 

"I find the burdens of these wealthy women are as great--even greaterthan those of others. Many of them are tired of the worldliness, andweary of the utter frivolity, of their pursuits. " She put a long, rich, vibrant emphasis on the words "utter frivolity. " "Don't you think it agood plan to bring them to the rest of the gospel?"

"Certainly, " said Phillida, who could not logically gainsay such astatement; but she was convinced rather than touched by any livingsympathy with Mrs. Frankland's impulse, and she still twisted the tipsof the fingers of her left hand with her right. 

"I hope, dear child, " Mrs. Frankland went on, in a meditative tone, looking out of the window and steering now upon a home tack--"I hopethat I can serve in some way the cause of the poor you have so much atheart. Missions like yours languish for funds. If I could be the meansof bringing people of great fortune to consecrate their wealth, it mightfill many a thirsty channel of benevolence with refreshing streams. " Ah, that one could produce here the tone of her voice as of a brookbrimming over barriers, and running melodious to the meadows below!

"That is true, " said Phillida, remembering how many betterments might bemade in the coffee-room and the reading-room if only one had the money, and remembering how her own beloved Charley had helped the Mission andmade the lot of the unhappy Wilhelmina Schulenberg less grievous. "I dothink it may prove to be a great work, " she added thoughtfully, foldingher hands upon her lap in unconscious sign that she had reached aconclusion--a logical equilibrium. 

"And I want you to go with me to the readings on Thursday. Mrs. VanHorne knows your aunt, Mrs. Gouverneur, and she will be glad to seeyou. "

Phillida looked down and began to pinch the tips of her fingers again. She shrunk a little from Mrs. Van Horne's set; she thought her dressprobably beneath their standard, but with an effort she put away suchfears as frivolous, and promised to go. 

Thursday afternoon found Phillida sitting by Mrs. Hilbrough in the VanHorne parlor, which was draped with the costly products of distantlooms, wrought by the dusky fingers of Orientals inheriting the slowlyperfected special skill of generations, and with the fabrics produced bymediæval workmen whose artistic products had gathered value as all theirfellows had perished; for other races and other ages have contributedtheir toil to the magnificence of a New York palace. The great room wasspanned by a ceiling on which the creative imaginations of greatartists had lavished rare fancies in gold and ivory, while thecostliest, if not the noblest, paintings and sculptures of our moderntime were all about a parlor whose very chairs and ottomans had beendesigned by men of genius. 

Once the words of Mrs. Frankland were heard with these surroundings, onefelt that it would be wrong to attribute to ambitious motives her desirefor such an environment. She might rather be said to have been drawnhere by an inspiration for artistic harmony. The resonant periods ofBossuet would hardly have echoed through the modern centuries if he hadnot had the magnificent court of Louis the Great for a sounding-board. When Mrs. Frankland spoke in the Van Horne parlor her auditors felt thatthe mellifluous voice and stately sentences could not have had a moreappropriate setting, and that the splendid apartment could not have beenput to a more fitting use. Even the simple religious songs used at thebeginning and close of the meetings were accompanied upon a grand pianoof finest tone, whose richly inlaid case represented the expenditure ofa moderate fortune. Mrs. Van Horne could command the best amateurmusical talent, so that the little emotional Moody-and-Sankeys that Mrs. Frankland selected were so overlaid and glorified in the performance asto be almost transformed into works of art. 

Phillida looked upon these evidences of lavish expenditure with lessbedazzlement than one might have expected in a person of her age. Forshe had grown up under shelter from the world. While she remained in theantipodes her contact with life outside her own family had been small. In Brooklyn her mother's ill health had kept her much at home, and thedominant influence of her father had therefore every chance to makeitself felt upon her character, and that influence was all in favor of aself-denying philanthropy. To the last her father was altruistic, finding nothing worth living for but the doing for others. Abidingsecluded as Phillida had, the father's stamp remained uneffaced. She sawin all this magnificence a wanton waste of resources. She put it side byside with her sense of a thousand needs of others, and she felt for itmore condemnation than admiration. Mrs. Frankland's vocation to the richwas justified in her mind; it was, after all, a sort of mission to theheathen. 

And who shall say that Mrs. Frankland's missionary impulse was not atrue one? Phillida's people were exteriorly more miserable; but whoknows whether the woes of a Mulberry street tenement are greater thanthose of a Fifth Avenue palace? Certainly Mrs. Frankland found woundedhearts enough. The woman with an unfaithful husband, the mother of areckless son who has been obliged to flee the country, the wife of arunaway cashier, disgraced and dependent upon rich relatives--these anda score besides poured into her ear their sorrows, and were comforted byher sympathy cordially expressed, and by her confidence in a consolingdivine love and her visions of a future of everlasting rest. Mrs. Frankland had found her proper field--a true mission field indeed, forin this world-out-of-joint there is little danger of going astray inlooking for misery of one sort or another. If the sorrows of the poorare greater, they have, if not consolation, at least a fortunatenumbness produced by the never-ending battle for bread; but the cankerhas time to gnaw the very heart out of the rich woman. 

Even on the mind of Phillida, as she now listened to Mrs. Frankland, theaccessories made a difference. How many dogmas have lived for centuries, not by their reasonableness but by the impressiveness of trappings!Liturgies chanted under lofty arches, creeds recited by generationfollowing generation, traditions of law, however absurd, uttered by onebig-wigged judge following a reverend line of ghostly big-wigs gonebefore that have said the same foolish things for ages--these all takeconsiderable advantage from the power of accessories to impose upon thehuman imagination. The divinity that hedges kings is the result of a setof stage-fixings which make the little great, and half the horrorinspired by the priest's curse is derived from bell and book and candle. The mystery of print gives weight to small men by the same witchcraft;you would not take the personal advice of so stupid a man as Criticusabout the crossing of a _t_, but when he prints a tirade anonymously inthe Philadelphia "Tempus" the condemnation becomes serious. 

Just in this way the imagination of Phillida was affected by the newsurroundings in the midst of which Mrs. Frankland spoke. The oldaddresses in a Bible-class room with four plastered walls, or a modestparlor, did not seem to have half so much force as these. The weight ofa brilliant success was now thrown into the scale, and Mrs. Franklandcould speak with an apostolic authority hitherto unknown. The speaker'sown imagination felt the influence of her new-found altitude, and sheexpressed herself with assurance and deliberation, and with more dignityand pathos than ever before. 

With all this background, Mrs. Frankland spoke to-day from the twelfthchapter of Romans on personal consecration. But she did not treat thetheme as a person of reformatory temperament might have done, bydenouncing the frivolity of rich and fashionable lives. It was not inher nature to antagonize an audience. She drew a charming picture of thebeauty of a consecrated life, and she embellished it with wonderfulinstances of devotion, interspersed with touching anecdotes of heroismand self-sacrifice. The impression upon her audience was as remarkableas it was certain to be transient. Women wept at the ravishing vision ofa life wholly given to noble ends, and then went their ways to live asbefore, after the predispositions of their natures, the habits of theirlives, and the conventional standards of their class. 

But in the heart of Phillida the words of the speaker fell upon fertilesoil, and germinated, where there was never a stone or a thorn. Theinsularity of her life had left her very susceptible to Mrs. Frankland'sdiscourses. Old stagers who have been impressed now by this, now bythat, speech, writing, or personal persuasion, have suffered a certainwholesome induration. Phillida was a virginal enthusiast. 

XV. 

TWO WAYS. 

It seemed to Millard that Phillida would be the better for seeing moreof life. He would not have admitted to himself that he could wish herany whit different from what she was. But he was nevertheless disposedto mold her tastes into some likeness to his own--it is the impulse ofall advanced lovers and new husbands. It was unlucky that he should havechosen for the time of beginning his experiment the very evening of theday on which she had heard Mrs. Frankland. Phillida's mind was all aglowwith the feelings excited by the address when Millard called with theintention of inviting her to attend the theater with him. 

He found a far-awayness in her mood which made him keep back hisproposal for a while. He did not admire her the less in her periods ofexaltation, but he felt less secure of her when she soared into a regionwhither he could not follow. He hesitated, and discussed the weather ofthe whole week past, smiting his knee gently with his gloves in theendeavor to obtain cheerfulness by affecting it. She, on her part, wasequally eager to draw Millard into the paths of feeling and action sheloved so well, and while he was yet trifling with his gloves and theweather topic, she began:

"Charley, I do wish you could have heard Mrs. Frankland's talk to-day. "Phillida's hands were turned palms downward on her lap as she spoke;Millard fancied that their lines expressed the refinement of herorganization. 

"Why doesn't she admit men?" he said, smiling. "Here you, who don't needany betterment, will become so good by and by that you'll leave meentirely behind. We men need evangelizing more than women do. Why doesMrs. Frankland shut us out from her good influences?"

"Oh! you know she's an Episcopalian, and Episcopalians don't think itright for women to set up to teach men. "

"I'm Episcopalian enough, but if a woman sets up as a preacher at all, Idon't see why she shouldn't preach to those that need it most. It's onlycalled a 'Bible reading'"--here Charley carefully spread his glovesacross his right knee--"there's no law against reading the Bible tomen?" he added, looking up with a quick winning smile. "Now you see sheturns the scripture topsy-turvy. Instead of women having to inquire oftheir husbands at home, men are obliged to inquire of their wives andsweethearts. I don't mind that, though. I'd rather hear it from you thanfrom Mrs. Frankland any day. " And he gathered up his gloves, and leanedback in his chair. 

Phillida smiled, and took this for an invitation to repeat to him partof what Mrs. Frankland had said. She related the story of ElizabethFry's work in Newgate, as Mrs. Frankland had told it, she retold Mrs. Frankland's version of Florence Nightingale in the hospital, and thenshe paused. 

"There, Charley, " she said deprecatingly, "I can't tell these thingswith half the splendid effect that Mrs. Frankland did. But it made agreat impression on me. I mean to try to be more useful. "

"You? I don't see how you can be any better than you are, my dear. Thatkind of talk is good for other people, but it isn't meant for you. "

"Don't say that; please don't. But Mrs. Frankland made a deep impressionon all the people at Mrs. Van Horne's. "

"At Mrs. Van Horne's?" he asked, with curiosity mingled with surprise. 

"Yes; I went with Mrs. Hilbrough. "

"Whew! Has Mrs. Frankland got in there?" he said, twirling his canereflectively. "I hadn't heard it. "

"It isn't quite fair for you to say 'got in there, ' is it, Charley? Mrs. Frankland was invited by Mrs. Van Horne to give her readings at herhouse, and she thought it might do good, " said Phillida, unwilling tobelieve that anybody she liked could be more worldly than she washerself. 

"I did not mean to speak slightingly of Mrs. Frankland, " he said; "Isuppose she is a very good woman. But I know she asked Mrs. Hilbrough tolet her read in her house. I only guessed that she must have managedMrs. Van Horne in some way. It is no disgrace for her to seek to giveher readings where she thinks they will do good. "

"Did she ask Mrs. Hilbrough?" said Phillida. 

"Mrs. Hilbrough told me so, and the Van Horne opening may have been oneof Mrs. Hilbrough's clever contrivances. _That_ woman is a perfectgeneral. This reading at Mrs. Van Horne's must be a piece of her finework. "

Just why this view of the case should have pained Phillida she couldhardly have told. She liked to dwell in a region of high ideals, and shehated the practical necessities that oblige high ideals to humblethemselves before they can be incarnated into facts. There could be noharm in Mrs. Frankland's seeking to reach the people she wished toaddress, but the notion of contrivance and management for the promotionof a mission so lofty made that mission seem a little shop-worn andoffended Phillida's love of congruity. Then, too, she felt that toMillard Mrs. Frankland was not so worshipful a figure as to herself, anda painful lack of concord in thought and purpose between her lover andherself was disclosed. The topic was changed, but the two did not getinto the same groove of thought during the evening. 

Even though a lover, Millard did not lose his characteristicthoughtfulness. Knowing that early rest was important for the mother, and conjecturing that she slept just behind the sliding-doors, Charleydid not allow himself to outstay his time. It was only when he had takenhis hat to leave that he got courage to ask Phillida if she wereengaged for the next afternoon. When she said no, he proposed thetheater. Phillida would have refused the invitation an hour before, butin the tenderness of parting she had a remorseful sense of painregarding the whole interview. With a scrupulousness quitecharacteristic she had begun to blame herself. To refuse the invitationto the Irving matinée would be to add to an undefined estrangement whichboth felt but refused to admit, and so, with her mind all in a jumble, she said: "Yes; certainly. I'll go if you would like me to, Charley. "

But she lay awake long that night in dissatisfaction with herself. Shehad gained nothing with Charley, her ideals had been bruised and broken, her visions of future personal excellence were now confused, and she wascommitted to give valuable time to what seemed to her a sort ofdissipation. Would she never be able to emulate Mrs. Fry? Would thelofty aspiration she had cherished prove beyond her reach? And then, once, just once, there intruded the unwelcome thought that herengagement with Millard was possibly a mistake, and that it might defeatthe great ends she had in view. The thought was too painful for her; shebanished it instantly, upbraiding herself for her disloyalty, andreplacing the image of her lover on its pedestal again. Was not Charleythe best of men? Had he not been liberal to the Mission and generous toMina Schulenberg? Then she planned again the work they would be able toaccomplish together, she diligent, and he liberal, until thoughts ofthis sort mingled with her dreams. 

She went to see Irving's _Shylock_. The spectacular street scenesinterested her; the boat that sailed so gracefully on the dry land ofthe stage excited her curiosity; and she felt the beauty and artisticdelicacy of the _Portia_. But she was ill at ease through it all. Shewas too much in the mood of a moralist to see the play merely as a workof art; she could not keep her mind from reverting to matters havingnothing to do with the play, such as the versatility of an actress'sdomestic relations. And she could not but feel that in so far as theplay diverted her, it did so at the expense of that strenuousness ofendeavor for extraordinary usefulness which her mind had taken under thespell of Mrs. Frankland's speech. 

"Didn't you like it?" said Millard, when they had reached the fresh airof the street and disentangled themselves from the debouching crowd--anoble pair to look upon as they walked thus in the late afternoon. 

"Yes, " said Phillida, spreading her parasol against the slant beams ofthe declining sun, which illuminated the red brick walls and touched thelofty cornices and the worn stones of the driveway with high lights, while now this and now that distant window seemed to burn with ruddyfire--"yes; I couldn't help enjoying Miss Terry's _Portia_. I am nojudge, but as a play I think it must have been good. "

"Why do you say 'as a play'?" he asked. "What could it be but a play?"He punctuated his question by tapping the pavement with his cane. 

Phillida laughed a little at herself, but added with great seriousness:"Would you think worse of me, Charley, if I should tell you that I don'tquite like plays?" And she looked up at him in a manner at onceaffectionate and protesting. 

Millard could not help giving her credit for the delicacy she showed inher manner of differing from him. 

"No, " he said; "I couldn't but think the best of you in any case, Phillida, but you might make me think worse of myself, you know, for Ido like plays. And more than that, " he said, turning full upon her, "youmight succeed in making me think that you thought the worse of me, andthat would be the very worst of all. "

This was said in a half-playful tone, but to Phillida it opened againthe painful vision of a possible drawing apart through a contrariety oftastes. She therefore said no more in that direction, but contentedherself with some general criticisms on Irving's _Shylock_, theincongruities in which she pointed out, and her criticisms, which weretolerably acute, excited Millard's admiration; and it is not to beexpected that a lover's admiration should maintain any just proportionto that which calls it forth. 

Again the Thursday sermon at Mrs. Van Horne's came around, and againPhillida was restored to a white heat of zeal mingled with a ruefuldistrust of her own power to hold herself to the continuous pursuit ofher ideal. Millard, perceiving that she dreaded to be invited again, refrained from offering to take her to the theater. He waited severalweeks, and then ventured, with some hesitation, to ask her to go withhim to see one of the Wagner operas. He was frightened at his ownboldness in asking, and he kept his eyes upon the ferule of his canewith which he was tapping the toe of his boot, afraid to look up whileshe answered. She saw how timidly he asked, and her heart was cruellywounded by the necessity she felt to refuse; but she had fortifiedherself to resist just such a temptation. 

"I'd rather not go, Charley, " she said slowly, in accents so pleadingand so full of pain that Millard felt remorse that he should havesuggested such a thing. 

But this traveling on divergent lines could not but have its effect uponthem. He was too well-mannered, she was too good, both were tooaffectionate, for them to quarrel easily. But there took place somethingthat could hardly be called estrangement; it was rather what a Frenchmanmight, with a refinement not possible in our idiom, call an_éloignement_. In spite of their exertions to come together, they drewapart. This process was interrupted by seasons of renewed tenderness. But Phillida's zeal, favored by Mrs. Frankland's meetings, held her backfrom those pursuits into which Millard would have drawn her, and only ageneral interest in her altruistic aims was possible to him. Again andagain he made some exertion to enter into her pursuits, but he couldnever get any farther than he could go by the aid of his check-book. Once or twice she went with him to some public entertainment, but thosesocial pursuits to which he was habituated she avoided as dissipations. Thus they loved each other, but it is pitiful to love as they did, whileunable to conceal from themselves that a gulf lay between the maintastes and pursuits of the one and the other. 

XVI. 

A SÉANCE AT MRS. VAN HORNE'S. 

The Bible reader was no polemic. People of every sect were gatheredunder the wings of her sympathies. In vain dogmatic advisers warned heragainst Unitarians who believe too little, and Swedenborgians whobelieve too much. Mrs. Frankland's organ of judgment lay in heraffections and emotions, and those who felt as she felt were acceptedwithout contradiction, or, as she put it, mostly in Scripture phrase, which she delivered in a rich orotund voice: "Let us receive him that isweak in the faith, but not to doubtful disputation. "

A certain sort of combativeness she had, but it was combativeness withthe edge taken off. It served to direct her choice of topics, but not togive asperity or polemical form to her discourses. Suddenly introducedto the very heart of Vanity Fair, she had caught her first inspirationby opposition, and this led her to hold forth on such themes asconsecration. But as her acquaintance with people of wealth extended shefound that even they, conservative by very force of abundance, wereaffected by the unbelieving spirit of a critical age. The veryprosperous are partly under shelter from the prevailing intellectualcurrents of their time. Those whose attention is engrossed by thingsare in so far shut out from the appeal of ideas. But thought is verypenetrating; it will reach by conduction what it can not attain byradiation. An intellectual movement touches the highest and the lowestwith difficulty, but it does at length affect in a measure even thosewhose minds are narcotized by abundance as well as those whose brainsare fagged by too much toil and care. When Mrs. Frankland became awarethat there was unbelief, latent and developed, among her hearers, theprow of her oratory veered around, and faith became now, as consecrationhad been before, the pole-star toward which this earnest and cleverwoman aimed. With such a mind as hers the topic under considerationbecomes for the time supreme. Solemnly insisting on a renunciation ofall possibility of merit as a condition precedent to faith, sheproceeded to exalt belief itself into the most meritorious of acts. Thissort of paradox is common to all popular religious teachers. 

Mrs. Frankland's new line of talk about the glories of faith had adisadvantage for Phillida in that it also fell in with a tendency of hernature and with the habits nourished in her by her father. Millardthought he had reached the depths of her life in coming to know abouther work among the poor, but a woman's motives are apt to be moreinvolved than a man imagines or than she can herself quite understand. Below the philanthropic Phillida lay the devout Phillida, who believedprofoundly that in her devotions she was able to touch hands with theever-living God himself. Under the stimulus of Mrs. Frankland's wordsthis belief became so absorbing that the common interests of life becameto her remote and almost unreal. Her work in the Mission was more andmore her life, and perhaps the necessity for accommodating herself alittle to the habits and tastes of a lover was her main preservativefrom a tendency to degenerate into a devotee. 

While Mrs. Frankland aroused others, her eloquence also influenced theorator herself. Advocacy increased the force of conviction, and thegrowing intensity of conviction in turn reinforced the earnestness ofadvocacy. Irreverent people applied an old joke and called her "theapostle to the genteels, " and in the region to which she seemedcommissioned the warmth of her zeal was not likely to work harm. Whateffect it had was in the main good. But the material in her hands wasonly combustible in a slow way; the plutocratic conscience is rarelyinflammable--for the most part it smolders like punk. Nor was Mrs. Frankland herself in any danger of being carried by her enthusiasms intofanaticism of action. However her utterances might savor of ultraism, she was conservative enough in practical matters to keep a sort of"Truce of God" with the world as she found it. 

But to Phillida, susceptible as a saint on the road to beatification, the gradually augmented fervor of Mrs. Frankland's declamation workedevil. It was especially painful to Agatha that her sister was propelledby this influence farther and farther out of the safe lines ofcommonplace feeling and action, and that every wind from Mrs. Frankland's quarter of the heavens tended to drift her farther andfarther away from her lover. Agatha's indignation broke out into allsorts of talk against Mrs. Frankland, whom she did not scruple todenounce for a Pharisee, binding heavy burdens on the back of poorPhillida, but never touching them with her own little finger. 

Mrs. Frankland's discourses on faith reached their zenith on a Januaryday, when the carriage wheels that rolled in front of Mrs. Van Horne'smade a ringing almost like the breaking of glass in the hard frozen snowof the streets, and when the luxurious comfort within the house was themore deliciously appreciable from the deadly frostiness of thebone-piercing wind without. Only Phillida of all the throng found hercomfort disturbed by remembering the coachmen who returned for theirmistresses before the end of the discourse. It cost those poor fellows apang to do despite to their wonted dignity of demeanor by smiting theirarms against their bodies to keep from perishing. But even a coachmanaccustomed to regard himself as the main representative of the unbendingperpendicularity of a ten-million family must give way a little before aJanuary north wind in the middle of a cold wave, when his little furcape becomes a mockery and his hard high hat a misery. However admirableMrs. Frankland's prolonged sessions may have seemed to the ladies withtear-stained cheeks within the house, it appeared far from laudable asseen from the angle of a coachman's box. 

The address on this day followed a reading of the eleventh chapter ofHebrews, which is itself the rhapsody of an eloquent man upon faith. Ifthis were written, as some suppose, by Apollos, the orator of the earlyChurch, one may almost fancy that he reads here a bit of one of thoseaddresses wherein speaker and hearer are lifted up together above themeanness and exigencies of mere realism. Mrs. Frankland accompanied thereading of this summary of faith's victory by a comment consistinglargely of modern instances carefully selected and told with the tact ofa _raconteur_, so as to leave the maximum impression of each incidentunimpaired by needless details. Some of these stories were little shortof miraculous; but they were dignified by the manner of telling, whichnever for an instant degenerated into the babble of a merewonder-monger. 

As usual, Mrs. Frankland, or the oratorical part of her, which was quitethe majority of her mind, was carried away by the force of her ownspeech, and in lauding the success of faith it seemed to her mostpraiseworthy to push her eulogies unfalteringly to the extreme. You arenot to understand that by doing this she vociferated or indulged invehement gesture. He is only a bastard orator who fancies that loudnessand shrillness of tone can enforce conviction. When Mrs. Frankland feltherself about to say extravagant things she intuitively set off hertranscendent utterances by assuming a calm demeanor and the air of onewho expresses with judicial deliberation the most assured andlong-meditated conclusions. So to-day she closed her little Oxford Bibleand laid it on the richly inlaid table before her, deliberatelydepositing her handkerchief upon it and looking about before she madeher peroration, which was in something like the following words, delivered with impressive solemnity in a deep, rich voice:

"Why should we always praise faith for what it _has_ done? Has Godchanged? Faith is as powerful to-day as ever it was since this old worldbegan. If the sick are not healed, if the dead are not raised to-day, besure it is not God's fault. I am asked if I believe in faith-cure. Thereis the Bible. It abounds in the divine healing. Nowhere are we told thatfaith shall some day cease to work wonders. The arm of the Lord is notshortened. O ye of little faith! the victory is within your reach, ifyou will but rise and seize upon it. I see a vision of a new Church yetto come that shall believe, and, believing as those of old believed, shall see wonders such as the faithful of old saw. The sick shall behealed; women shall receive their dead raised to life again. Why notnow? Rise up, O believing heart, and take the Lord at his word!"

Perhaps Mrs. Frankland did not intend that declamation should beaccepted at its face value; certainly she did not expect it. 

After a hymn, beautifully and touchingly sung, and a brief prayer, ladies put on their sealskin sacques, thrust their jeweled hands intotheir muffs, and went out to beckon their impatient coachmen, and tocarry home with them the solemn impressions made by the discourse, whichwere in most cases too vague to produce other than a sentimental result. Yet one may not scatter fire with safety unless he can be sure there areno dangerous combustibles within reach. The harm of credulity is thatit is liable to set a great flame a-going whenever it reaches that whichwill burn. A belief in witches is comparatively innocuous until it findsfavorable conditions, as at Salem a couple of centuries ago, but, infavorable conditions, the idle speculations of a pedant, or thechimney-corner chatter of old women, may suddenly become as destructiveas a pestilence. 

It was in the sincere and susceptible soul of Phillida that Mrs. Frankland's words had their full effect. The lust after perfection--therealest peril of great souls--was hers, and she was stung and humiliatedby Mrs. Frankland's rebuke to her lack of faith, for the words soimpressively spoken seemed to her like a divine message. The wholecatalogue of worthies in the eleventh of Hebrews rose up to reprove her. 

"I suppose Mrs. Frankland's been talking some more of her stuff, " saidAgatha at the dinner that evening. "I declare, Phillida, you're a victimof that woman. She isn't so bad. She doesn't mean what she says to betaken as she says it. People always make allowances for mere preaching, you know. But you just swallow it all, and then you get to be so poky abody has no comfort in life. There, now, I didn't mean to hurt yourfeelings, " she added, as she saw the effort her sister was making atself-control. 

Phillida lay awake that night long after the normal Agatha, with neveran aspiration of the lofty sort, slept the blessed sleep of theheedless. And while the feeble glow of the banked-down fire in the gratedraped the objects in the room with grotesque shadows, she went overagain the bead-roll of faith in the eleventh of Hebrews and heard againthe response of her conscience to the solemn appeal of Mrs. Frankland, and prayed for an increase of faith, and went to sleep at lastreflecting on the faith like a germinant mustard grain that shouldupheave the very mountains and cast them into the midst of the sea. 

XVII. 

A FAITH CURE. 

The next day the cold wave had begun to let go a little, and there wereomens of a coming storm. The forenoon Phillida gave to domestic industryof one sort and another, but in the afternoon she put on her overshoesagainst icy pavements, and set out for a visit to WilhelminaSchulenberg, remembering how lonesome the invalid must be in wintryweather. There were few loiterers on the sidewalks on such a day, butPhillida was pretty sure of a recognition from somebody by the time shereached Avenue A, for her sympathetic kindness had made friends for herbeyond those with whom she came into immediate contact as aSunday-school teacher. 

"O Miss Callender, " said a thinly clad girl of thirteen, with chatteringteeth, and arms folded against her body for warmth, rocking from onefoot to the other, as she stood in the door of a tenement house, "thisis hard weather for poor folks, ain't it?" And then, unable longer toface the penetrating rawness of the east wind, she turned and ran up thestairs. 

Phillida's meditations as she walked were occupied with what Mrs. Frankland had said the day before. She reflected that if she herselfonly possessed the necessary faith she might bring healing to manysuffering people. Why not to Wilhelmina? With this thought there came adrawing back--that instinctive resistance of human nature to anythingout of the conventional and mediocre; a resistance that in a time ofexcitement often saves us from absurdity at the expense of reducing usto commonplace. But in Phillida this conservatism was counteracted by aquick imagination in alliance with a passion for moral excellence, bothwarmed by the fire of youth; and in all ventures youth counts for much. 

"Dat is coot; you gomes to see Mina wunst more already, " said Mrs. Schulenberg, whom Phillida encountered on the second flight of stairs, descending with a market-basket on her arm. She was not thestrong-framed peasant, but of lighter build and somewhat finer fiberthan the average immigrant, and her dark hair and eyes seemed to pointto South Germany as her place of origin. 

"Wilhelmina she so badly veels to-day, " added Mrs. Schulenberg. "I don'know"--and she shook her head ominously--"I vas mos' afraid to leef herall py herself already. She is with bein' zick zo tired. She dalkdreadful dis mornin' already; I don' know. " And the mother went on downthe stairs shaking her head dolefully, while Phillida climbed up to theSchulenberg apartment and entered without knocking, going straight overto the couch where the emaciated girl lay, and kissing her. 

Wilhelmina embraced her while Phillida pushed back the hair from thepale, hard forehead with something like a shudder, for it was only skinand skull. In the presence of sympathy Wilhelmina's mood of melancholydesperation relaxed, and she began to shed tears. 

"O Miss Callender, you have from black thoughts saved me to-day, " shesaid in a sobbing voice, speaking with a slight German accent. "If Icould only die. Here I drag down the whole family already. I make themsorry. Poor Rudolph, he might be somebody if away off he would go wunst;but no, he will not leave me. It is such a nice girl he love; I can seethat he love her. But he will say nothing at all. He feels so he mustnot anyway leave his poor sister; and I hate myself and my life that forall my family is unfortunate. Black thoughts will come. If, now, I wasonly dead; if I could only find some way myself to put out of the waywunst, for Rudolph it would be better, and after a while the house wouldnot any more so sorry be. Last night I thought much about it; but whenfalling asleep I saw you plain come in the door and shake your head, andI say, Miss Callender think it wicked. She will not let me. But I am sowicked and unfortunate. "

Here the frail form was shaken by hysterical weeping that cut offspeech. Phillida shed tears also, and one of them dropped on theemaciated hand of Wilhelmina. Phillida quickly wiped it away with herhandkerchief, but another took its place. 

"Let it be, Miss Callender, " sobbed Wilhelmina; "it will surely make menot so wicked. "

She looked up wistfully at Phillida and essayed to speak; then sheturned her eyes away, while she said:

"If now, Miss Callender, you would--but may be you will think that it iswicked also. "

"Speak freely, dear, " said Phillida, softly; "it will do you good totell me all--all that is in your heart. "

"If you would only pray that I might die, then it would be grantedalready, maybe. I am such a curse, a dreadful curse, to this house. "

"No, no; you mustn't say that. Your sickness is a great misfortune toyour family, but it is not your fault. It is a greater misfortune toyou. Why should you pray to die? Why not pray to get well?"

"That is too hard, Miss Callender. If now I had but a little while beensick. But I am so long. I can not ever get well. Oh, the medicines Ihave took, the pills and the sarsaparillas and the medicine of theGerman doctor! And then the American doctor he burnt my back. No; Ican't get well any more. It is better as I die. Pray that I die. Willyou not?"

"But if God can make you die he can make you well. One is no harder thanthe other for him. "

"No, no; not if I was but a little while sick. But you see it is yearssince I was sick. "

This illogical ground of skepticism Phillida set herself to combat. Sheread from Wilhelmina's sheepskin-bound Testament, printed in parallelcolumns in English and German, the story of the miracle at the Pool ofBethesda, the story of the woman that touched the hem of the garment ofJesus, and of other cures told in the New Testament with a pathos anddignity not to be found in similar modern recitals. 

Then Phillida, her soul full of hope, talked to Mina of the power offaith, going over the ground traversed by Mrs. Frankland. She read theeleventh of Hebrews, and her face was transformed by the earnestness ofher own belief as she advanced. Call it mesmerism, or what you will, sheachieved this by degrees, that Wilhelmina thought as she thought, andfelt as she felt. The poor girl with shaken nerves and enfeebledvitality saw a vision of health. She watched Phillida closely, andlistened eagerly to her words, for to her they were words of life. 

"Now, Mina, if you believe, if you have faith as a grain of mustardseed, all things are possible. "

The girl closed her eyes a moment, then she opened them with her faceradiant. 

"Miss Callender, I do believe. "

Already her face was changing under the powerful influence of the newlyawakened hope. She folded her hands peacefully, and closed her eyes, whispering:

"Pray, Miss Callender; pray!"

Phillida laid down the Bible and solemnly knelt by the invalid, takinghold of one of her hands. It would have been impossible to listen to theprayer of one so passionately sincere and so believingly devout withoutfalling into sympathy with it. To the bed-ridden and long-despairingWilhelmina it made God seem something other than she had ever thoughthim. An hour before she could have believed that God might be persuadedto take her life in answer to prayer, but not that he could be broughtto restore her. The moment that Phillida began to pray, a new Godappeared to her mind--Phillida's God. Wilhelmina followed the action ofPhillida's mind as a hypnotized subject does that of the dominant agent:as Phillida believed, so she believed; Phillida's confidence becamehers, and the weak nerves tingled all the way from the nerve-centerswith new life. 

"Now, Wilhelmina, " said Phillida at length, slowly rising from her kneesand looking steadily into the invalid's eyes, "the good Lord will makeyou whole. Rise up and sit upon the bed, believing with all your heart. "

In a sort of ecstasy the invalid set to work to obey. There was ahideous trick of legerdemain in the last generation, by which anencoffined skeleton was made to struggle to its feet. Something likethis took place as Mina's feeble arms were brought into the most violenteffort to assist her to rise. But a powerful emotion, a tremendous hope, stimulated the languid nerves; the almost disused muscles weregalvanized into power; and Wilhelmina succeeded at length in sittingupright without support for the first time in years. When she perceivedthis actually accomplished she cried out: "O God! I am getting well!"

Wilhelmina's mother had come to the top of the stairs just as Phillidahad begun to pray. She paused without the door and listened to theprayer and to what followed. She now burst into the room to see herdaughter sitting up on the side of her couch; and then there wereembraces and tears, and ejaculations of praise to God in German and inbroken English. 

"Sit there, Mina, and believe with all your heart, " said Phillida, whowas exteriorly the calmest of the three; "I will come back soon. "

Wilhelmina did as she was bidden. The shock of excitement thus prolongedwas overcoming the sluggishness of her nerves. The mother could notrefrain from calling in a neighbor who was passing by the open door, andthe news of Mina's partial restoration spread through the building. WhenPhillida got back from the Diet Kitchen with some savory food, thedoorway was blocked; but the people stood out of her way with as muchawe as they would had she worn an aureole, and she passed in and put thefood before Wilhelmina, who ate with a relish she hardly remembered tohave known before. The spectators dropped back into the passageway, andPhillida gently closed the door. 

"Now, Wilhelmina, lie down and rest. To-morrow you will walk a little. Keep on believing with all your heart. "

Having seen the patient, who was fatigued with unwonted exertion, sleeping quietly, Phillida returned home. She said nothing of herexperiences of the day, but Millard, who called in the evening, foundher more abstracted and less satisfactory than ever. For her mindcontinually reverted to her patient. 

XVIII. 

FAITH-DOCTOR AND LOVER. 

The next day, though a great snow-storm had burst upon the city beforenoon, Phillida made haste after luncheon to work her way first to theDiet Kitchen and then to the Schulenberg tenement. When she got withinthe shelter of the doorway of the tenement house she was well-nighexhausted, and it was half a minute before she could begin the arduousclimbing of the stairs. 

"I thought you would not come, " said Wilhelmina with something like acry of joy. "I have found it hard to keep on believing, but still I havebelieved and prayed. I was afeard if till to-morrow you waited the blackthoughts would come back again. Do you think I can sit up wunst morealready?"

"If you have faith; if you believe. "

Under less excitement than that of the day before, Mina found it hard toget up; but at length she succeeded. Then she ate the appetizing foodthat Phillida set before her. Meantime the mother, deeply affected, tookher market-basket and went out, lest somehow her presence should be adrawback to her daughter's recovery. 

While the feeble Wilhelmina was eating, Phillida drew the only fairlycomfortable chair in the room near to the stove, and, taking from a bedsome covering, she spread it over the back and seat of the chair. Then, when the meal was completed, she read from the Acts of the Apostles ofthe man healed at the gate of the temple by Simon Peter. With the bookopen in her hand, as she sat, she offered a brief fervent prayer. 

"Now, Wilhelmina, doubt nothing, " she said. "In the name of Jesus ofNazareth, rise up and walk!"

The invalid had again caught the infection of Phillida's faith, and witha strong effort, helping herself by putting her hand on Phillida'sshoulder, she brought herself at length to her feet, where she stood amoment, tottering as though about to fall. 

"Walk to the chair, dear, nothing wavering, " commanded Phillida, andMina, with much trembling, let go of Phillida's shoulder, and with sadlyunsteady steps tottered forward far enough to lay hold of the back ofthe chair, and at length succeeded, with much ado, in sitting downwithout assistance. For years she had believed herself forever beyondhope of taking a step. She leaned back against the pillow placed behindher by Phillida, and wept for very joy. 

"But, Miss Callender, " she said after a while, "the man you read aboutin the Bible was made all well at once, and he walked and leaped; butI--"

"Perhaps our faith isn't strong enough, " said Phillida. "Maybe it isbetter for us that you should get well slowly, like the man that Jesuscured of blindness, who, when he first saw men, thought they looked likewalking trees. Let us be thankful for what we have, and not complain. "

In a few weeks Wilhelmina's mental stimulation and graduated physicalexercise had made her able to sit up nearly all day, to walk feeblyabout the house, and even to render some assistance in such affairs ascould be attended to while sitting. The recovery, though it went nofarther, was remarkable enough to attract much attention, and the fameof it spread far and wide among the people in the eastern avenues andthose connected with the Mission. 

This new development of Phillida's life increased her isolation. Shecould not speak to her family about her faith-cures, nor to Mrs. Hilbrough, and she did not like to confide even in Mrs. Frankland, whowould, she felt sure, make too much of the matter. Most of all, it wasnot in her power to bring herself to say anything to Millard about it. The latter felt, during the three or four weeks that followed thetreatment of Wilhelmina, that the veil between him and the inner life ofPhillida was growing more opaque. He found no ground to quarrel withPhillida; she was cordial, affectionate, and dutiful toward him, but hefelt, with a quickness of intuition characteristic of him, that therewas some new cause of constraint between them. 

"Phillida, " he said one evening, a month after Phillida's work as afaith-doctor had begun, "I wish you would tell me more about yourmission work. "

"I don't like to speak of that, " she replied. "It is too much likeboasting of what I am doing. " She had no sooner said this than sheregretted it; her fierce conscience rose up and charged her withuncandid speech. But how could she be candid?

"I don't like to think, " said Millard, "that so large a part of yourlife--a part that lies so near to your heart--should be shut out fromme. I can't do your kind of work. But I can admire it. Won't you tell meabout it?"

Phillida felt a keen pang. Had it been a question of her ordinary workin the months that were past she might easily have spoken of it. Butthis faith-healing would be dangerous ground with Millard. She knew inher heart that it would be better to tell him frankly about it, and facethe result. But with him there she could not get courage to bring on animmediate conflict between the affection that was so dear and the workthat was so sacred to her. 

"Charley, " she said slowly, holding on to her left hand as though forsafety, "I'm afraid I was not very--very candid in the answer I gave youjust now. "

"Oh, don't say anything, or tell me anything, dear, that gives youpain, " he said with quick delicacy; "and something about this does painyou. "

Phillida spoke now in a lower tone, looking down at her hands as shesaid, with evident effort: "Because you are so good, I must try to behonest with you. There are reasons why I hesitate to tell--to tell--youall about what I am doing. At least this evening, though I know I oughtto, and I will--I will--if you insist on it. "

"No, dear; no. I will not hear it now. "

"But I will tell you all some time. It's nothing _very_ bad, Charley. Atleast I don't think it is. "

"It couldn't be, I'm sure. Nothing bad could exist about you"; and hetook her hand in his. "Don't say any more to-night. You are nervous andtired. But some other time, when you feel like it, speak freely. Itwon't do for us not to open our hearts and lives to each other. If wefail to live openly and truthfully, our little boat will go ashore, Phillida dear--will be wrecked or stranded before we know it. "

His voice was full of pleading. How could she refuse to tell him all?But by all the love she felt for him, sitting there in front of her, with his left hand on his knee, looking in her face, and speaking insuch an honest, manly way, she was restrained from exposing to him aphase of her life that would seem folly to him while it was a very holyof holies to her. The alternative was cruel. 

"Another time, Charley, I mean to tell you all, " she said; and she knewwhen she said it that procrastination would not better the matter, andin the silence that ensued she was just about to change her resolve andunfold the whole matter at once. 

But Millard said: "Don't trouble yourself. I'm sorry I have hurt you. Remember that I trust you implicitly. If you feel a delicacy in speakingto me about anything, let it go. "

The conversation after this turned on indifferent matters; but itremained constrained, and Millard took his leave early. 

XIX. 

PROOF POSITIVE. 

The more Millard thought of the mysterious reserve of Phillida, the morehe was disturbed by it, and the next Sunday but one he set out at anearlier hour than usual to go to Avenue C, not this time with acomfortable feeling that his visit would be a source of cheer to hisaunt, but rather hoping that her quiet spirit might somehow relieve thesoreness of his heart. It chanced that on this fine winter Sunday hefound her alone, except for the one-year-old little girl. 

"I let the children all go to Sunday-school, " she said, "except baby, and father has gone to his meeting, you know. "

"His meeting? I did not know that he had any, " said Millard. 

"W'y yes, Charley; I thought you knew. Henry always had peculiar views, "she said, laughing gently, as was her wont, at her husband's oddities. "He has especially disliked preachers and doctors. Lately he has got thenotion that the churches do not believe the Bible literally enough. There were two Swedes and one Swiss in his shop who agreed with him. From reading the Bible in their way and reading other books and papersthey have adopted what is called Christian Science. They have found someother men and women who believe as they do, and a kind of a ChristianScience woman doctor who talks to them a little--a good enough woman inher way, I suppose--and they think that by faith, or rather by declaringthat there is no such thing as a real disease, and believing themselveswell, they can cure all diseases. "

"All except old age and hunger?" queried Millard. 

The aunt smiled, and went on. "But father and his woman doctor orpreacher don't agree with your Miss Callender. They say her cures areall right as far as they go, but that she is only a babe, unable to takestrong meat. The Christian Science woman in Fourteenth street, now, theysay, knows all about it, and works her cures scientifically, and notblindly as Miss Callender does. "

This allusion to cures by Phillida set Millard into a whirl of feeling. That she had been doing something calculated to make her the subject oftalk brought a rush of indignant feeling, but all his training as a manof society and as a man of business inclined him to a prudent silenceunder excitement. He turned his derby hat around and around, examiningthe crown by touch, and then, reversing it, he scrutinized the addressof the hatter who did not make it. Though he had come all the way toAvenue C to make a confidante of his aunt, he now found it impossible todo so. She had rejoiced so much in his betrothal to her friend, howcould he let her see how far apart he and Phillida had drifted? Forsome minutes he managed to talk with her about her own family matters, and then turned back to Phillida again. 

"Tell me, Aunt Hannah, all you know about Miss Callender's cures. Idon't like to ask her because she and I disagree so widely on somethings that we do not like to talk about them. "

His aunt saw that Charley was profoundly disturbed. She therefore beganwith some caution, as treading on unknown ground, in talking with himabout Phillida. 

"I don't know what to think about these things, Charley. But in anythingI say you must understand that I love Miss Callender almost as much asyou do, and if anybody can cure by faith she can. In fact, she has hadwonderful success in some cures. Besides, she's no money-maker, like thewoman doctor in Fourteenth street, who takes pay for praying over you, and rubbing your head, maybe. You know about the cure of WilhelminaSchulenberg, of course?"

"No; not fully. We haven't liked to talk about it. Wilhelmina is thepoor creature that has been in bed so long. "

This mere fencing was to cover the fact that Millard had not heardanything of the miracle in Wilhelmina's case. But seeing his aunt lookat him inquiringly, he added:

"Is she quite cured, do you think--this Miss Schulenberg?"

"No; but she can sit up and walk about. She got better day after dayunder Miss Callender's praying, but lately, I think, she is at astandstill. Well, that was the first, and it made a great talk. And Idon't see but that it is very remarkable. Everybody in the tenementhouse was wild about it, and Miss Callender soon came to be pointed atby the children on the street as 'the woman doctor that can make youwell by praying over you. ' Then there was the wife of the crockery-storeman in Avenue A. She had hysterical fits, or something of the sort, andshe got well after Miss Callender visited her three or four times. Andanother woman thought her arm was paralyzed, but Miss Callender made herbelieve, and she got so she could use it. But old Mr. Greenlander, thepicture-frame maker in Twentieth street, didn't get any better. In fact, he never pretended to believe that he would. "

"What was the matter with him?" asked Millard, his lips compressed andhis brows contracted. 

"Oh, he had a cataract over his eye. He's gone up to the Eye and EarHospital to have it taken off. I don't suppose faith could be expectedto remove that. "

"It doesn't seem to work in surgical cases, " said Millard. 

"But several people with nervous troubles and kind of breakdowns havegot better or got well, and naturally they are sounding the praises ofMiss Callender's faith, " added his aunt. 

"Do you think Phillida likes all this talk about her?"

"No. This talk about her is like hot coals to her feet. She suffersdreadfully. She said last Sunday that she wondered if Christ did notshrink from the talk of the crowds that followed him more than he didfrom crucifixion itself. She is wonderful, and I don't wonder the peoplebelieve that she can work miracles. If anybody can in these days, she isthe one. "

Millard said nothing for a time; he picked at the lining of his hat, andthen put it down on the table and looked out of the window. Hisirritation against Phillida had by this time turned into affectionatepity for her self-imposed suffering--a pity rendered bitter by hisinability to relieve her. 

"Do you think that Phillida begins to suspect that perhaps she has madea mistake?" he asked after a while. 

"No. I'm not so sure she has. No doctor cures in all cases, and evenChrist couldn't heal the people in Nazareth who hadn't much faith. "

"She will make herself a byword in the streets, " said Millard in a tonethat revealed to his aunt his shame and anguish. 

"Charley, " said Mrs. Martin, "don't let yourself worry too much aboutMiss Callender. She is young yet. She may be wrong or she may be right. I don't say but she goes too far. She's a house plant, you know. She hasseen very little of the world. If she was like other girls she wouldjust take up with the ways of other people and not make a stir. But shehas set out to do what she thinks is right at all hazards. Presently shewill get her lesson, and some of her oddities will disappear, but she'llnever be just like common folks. Mind my words, Charley, she's got themaking of a splendid woman if you'll only give her time to get ripe. "

"I believe that with all my heart, " said Millard, with a sigh. 

"I tell you, Charley, I do believe that her prayers have a great effect, for the Bible teaches that. Besides, she don't talk any of the nonsenseof father's Christian Science woman. I can understand what Phillida'sabout. But Miss what's-her-name, in Fourteenth street, can't explain tosave her life, so's you can understand, how she cures people, or whatshe's about, except to earn money in some way easier than hard work. There comes your uncle, loaded to the muzzle for a dispute, " said AuntHannah, laughing mischievously as she heard her husband's step on thestairs. 

Uncle Martin greeted Charley with zest. It was no fun to talk to hiswife, who never could be drawn into a discussion, but held her husband'svagaries in check as far as possible by little touches of gentleridicule. But Mr. Martin was sure that he could overwhelm CharleyMillard, even though he might not convince him. So when he had said, "How-are-yeh, and glad to see yeh, Charley, and hope yer well, and how'sthings with you?" he sat down, and presently opened his battery. 

"You see, Charley, our Miss Bowyer, the Christian Science healer, iswell-posted about medicine and the Bible. She says that the world isjust about to change. Sin and misery are at the bottom of sickness, andall are going to be done away with by spirit power. God and the angelworld are rolling away the rock from the sepulchre, and the sleepingspirit of man is coming forth. People are getting more susceptible tomagnetic and psy--psy-co-what-you-may-call-it influences. This isbringing out new diseases that the old doctors are only able to look atwith dumb amazement. "

Here Uncle Martin turned his thumbs outward with a flourish, and the airof a lad who had solved a problem on a blackboard. At the same time hedropped his head forward and gazed at Charley, who was not even amused. 

"What are her proofs?" demanded Millard, wearily. 

"Proofs?" said Uncle Martin, with a sniff, as he reared his head again. "Proofs a plenty. You just come around and hear her explain once aboutthe vermic--I can't say the word--the twistifying motion of the stomachand what happens when the nerve-force gets a set-back and this motionkind of winds itself upward instead of downward, and the nerve-force allflies to the head. Proofs?" Here Uncle Martin paused, ill at ease. "Justnotice the cases. The proof is in the trying of it. The cures arewonderful. You first get the patient into a state where you can make himthink as you do. Then you will that he shall forget all about hisdiseases. You make him feel well, and you've done it. "

"I suppose you could cure him by forgetfulness easily enough. I saw anold soldier with one leg yesterday; he was drunk in the street. And hehad forgotten entirely that one leg was gone. But he didn't seem to walkany better. "

"That don't count, Charley, and you're only making fun. You see there isa philosophy in this, and you ought to hear it from somebody that canexplain it. "

"I'd like to find somebody who could, " said Charley. 

"Well, now, how's this? Miss Bowyer--she's a kind of a preacher as well asa doctor--she says that God is good, and therefore he couldn't create evil. You see? Well, now, God created everything that is, so there can not be anyevil. At least it can't have any real, independent--what-you-may-call-itexistence. You see, Charley?"

"Yes; what of it?"

"Well, then, sickness and sin are evil. But this argument proves thatthey don't really exist at all. They're only magic-lantern shadows so tospeak. You see? Convince the patient that he is well, and he _is_ well. "Here Uncle Martin, having pointed out the easy road to universal health, looked in solemn triumph from under his brows. 

"Yes, " said Millard, "that's just an awfully good scheme. But if youwork your argument backward it will prove that as evil exists thereisn't any good God. But if it's true that sin and disease have no realexistence, we'll do away with hanging and electrocution, as they callit, and just send for Miss Bowyer to convince a murderer that murder isan evil, and so it can't have any real independent existence in auniverse made by a good God. "

"Well, Charley, you make fun of serious things. You might as well makefun of the miracles in the Bible. "

"Now, " said Millard, "are the cures wrought by Christian Sciencemiracles, or are they founded on philosophy?"

"They're both, Charley. It's what they call thepsy-co-what-you-may-call-it mode of cure. But it's all the same as themiracles of the Bible, " said Uncle Martin. 

"Oh, it is, " said Millard, gayly, for this tilt had raised his spirits. "Now the miracles in the Bible are straight-out miracles. Nobody wentaround in that day to explain the vermicular motion of the stomach orthe upward action of nerve-force, or the psychopathic value of animalmagnetism. Some of the Bible miracles would stump a body to believe, ifthey were anywhere else but in the Bible; but you just believe in themas miracles by walking right straight up to them, looking the difficultyin the eye, and taking them as they are because you ought to. " HereCharley saw his aunt laughing gently at his frank way of stating theprocesses of his own mind. Smiling in response, he added: "You believethem, or at least I do, because I can't have my religion without them. But your Christian psychopathists bring a lot of talk about a science, and they don't seem to know just whether God is working the miracle orthey are doing it by magnetism, or mind-cure, or psychopathy, or whetherthe disease isn't a sort of plaguey humbug anyhow, and the patient afool who has to be undeceived. "

"W'y, you see, Charley, we know more nowadays, and we understand allabout somnambulism and hyp-what-you-may-call-it, and we understand justhow the miracles in the Bible were worked. God works by law--don't yousee?"

"The apostles did not seem to understand it?" asked Charley. 

"No; they were mere faith-doctors, like Miss Callender, for instance, doing their works in a blind sort of way. "

"The apostles will be mere rushlights when you get your ChristianScience well a-going, " said Charley, seriously. Then he rose to leave, having no heart to await the return of the children. 

"Of course, " said Uncle Martin, "the world is undergoing a change, Charley. A great change. Selfishness and disease shall vanish away, andthe truth of science and Christianity prevail. " Uncle Martin was nowstanding, and swinging his hands horizontally in outward gestures, withhis elbows against his sides. 

"Well, I wish to goodness there was some chance of realizing yourhopes, " said Charley, conciliatorily. "I must go. Good-by, Uncle Martin;good-by, Aunt Hannah. "

Uncle Martin said good-by, and come again, Charley, and always glad tosee you, you know, and good luck to you. And Millard went down thestairs and bent his steps homeward. As the exhilaration produced by hisbaiting of Uncle Martin's philosophy died away, his heart sank withsorrowful thoughts of Phillida and her sufferings, and with indignantand mortifying thoughts of how she would inevitably be associated inpeople's minds with mercenary quacks and disciples of a sham science. 

He would go to see her at once. The defeat of Uncle Martin had given himcourage. He would turn the same battery on Phillida. No; not the same. He could not ridicule her. She was never quite ridiculous. Her plane ofmotive was so high that his banter would be a desecration. It was notin his heart to add to the asperity of her martyrdom by any light words. But perhaps he could find some way to bring her to a more reasonablecourse. 

It was distinctly out of his way to cross Tompkins Square again, but inhis present mood there was a satisfaction to him in taking a turnthrough the square, which was associated in his mind with a time whenhis dawning affection for Phillida was dimmed by no clouds ofseparation. Excitement pushed him forward, and a fine figure he was ashe strode along with eager and elastic steps, his head erect and hislittle cane balanced in his fingers. In the middle of the square hismeditation was cut short in a way most unwelcome in his present frame ofmind. 

"It is Mr. Millard, isn't it?" he heard some one say, and, turning, hesaw before him Wilhelmina Schulenberg, not now seated helpless in thechair he had given her, but hanging on the arm of her faithful Rudolph. 

"How do you do, Miss Schulenberg?" said Millard, examining her withcuriosity. 

"You see I am able to walk wunst again, " she said. "It is to MissCallender and her prayers that I owe it already. "

"But you are not quite strong, " said Millard. "Do you get better?"

"Not so much now. It is my faith is weak. If I only could believealready, it would all to me be possible, Mr. Millard. But it issomething to walk on my feet, isn't it, Mr. Millard?"

"Indeed it is, Miss Schulenberg. It must make your good brother glad. "

Rudolph received this polite indirect compliment a little foolishly, butappreciation from a fine gentleman did him good, and after Charley hadgone he was profuse in his praises of "Miss Callender's man, " as hecalled him. 

XX. 

DIVISIONS. 

Millard went no farther through the square, but turned toward Tenthstreet, and through that to Second Avenue, and so uptownward. But howshould he argue with Phillida? He had seen an indisputable example ofthe virtue of her prayers. Though he could not believe in the miraculouscharacter of the cure, how should he explain it? That Wilhelmina hadbeen shamming was incredible, that her ailments were not imaginary wasproven by the fact of her recovery being but partial. To deny theabstract possibility of such a cure seemed illogical from his ownstandpoint. Even the tepid rector of St. Matthias had occasionallyhomilized in a vague way about the efficacy of faith and the power ofprayer, but the rector seemed to think that this potency was for themost part a matter of ancient history, for his illustrations were rarelydrawn from anything more modern than the lives of the Church fathers, and of the female relatives of the Church fathers, such as Saint Monica. Millard could not see any ground on which he could deny the reality ofthe miracle in the Schulenberg case, but his common sense was that of aman of worldly experience, a common sense which stubbornly refuses tobelieve the phenomenal or extraordinary, even when unable to formulatea single reason for incredulity. 

After an internal debate he decided not to call on Phillida thisafternoon. It might lead to a scene, a scene might bring on acatastrophe. But, as fortune would have it, Phillida was on her returnfrom the Mission, and her path coincided with his, so that heencountered her in Tenth street. He walked home with her, asking afterher health and talking commonplaces to escape conversation. He wentin--there was no easy way to avoid it, had he desired. She set him achair, and drew up the shades, and then took a seat near him. 

"I've been at Aunt Martin's to-day, " he said. 

"Have you?" she asked with a sort of trepidation in her voice. 

"Yes. " Then after a pause he edged up to what he wished to say byadding: "I had a curious talk with Uncle Martin, who has got his headfull of the greatest jumble of scientific terms which he can notremember, and nonsense about what he calls Christian Science. He says helearned it from Miss Bowyer, a Christian Science talker. Do you knowher?"

"No; I have only heard of her from Mr. Martin, and I don't think I oughtto judge her by what is reported of her teaching. Maybe it is not sobad. One doesn't like to be judged at second-hand, " she said, looking athim with a quick glance. 

"Especially when Uncle Martin is the reporter, " he replied. 

Meantime Phillida's eyes were inquiring whether he had heard anythingabout her present course of action. 

"I saw Wilhelmina Schulenberg in Tompkins Square to-day, " he said, stillapproaching the inevitable, sidewise. 

"Did you?" she asked almost in a whisper. "Was she walking?"

"Yes. Why did you not tell me she was better?"

Phillida looked down. At this moment her reserve with her lover in amatter so personal to herself seemed to her extremely reprehensible. 

"I--I was a coward, Charley, " she said with a kind of ferocity ofremorse. This self-accusation on her part made him unhappy. 

"You?" he said. "You are no coward. You are a brave woman. " He leanedover and lightly kissed her cheek as he finished speaking. 

"I knew that my course would seem foolish to you, and I couldn't bearthat you should know. I was afraid it would mortify you. "

"You have suffered much yourself, my dear. "

She nodded her head, the tears brimming in her eyes at this unexpectedsign of sympathy. 

"And borne it bravely all alone. And all for a mistake--a cruelmistake. "

Millard had not meant to say so much, but his feelings had slipped awayfrom him. However, he softened his words by his action, for he drew outhis handkerchief and gently wiped away a tear that had paused a momentin its descent down her cheek. 

"How can you say it is a mistake?" she asked. "You saw Wilhelminayourself. "

"Yes; but it is all a misunderstanding, dear. It's all wrong, I tellyou. You haven't seen much of life, and you'll be better able to judgewhen you are older. " Here he paused, for of arguments he had none tooffer. 

"I don't want to see anything of life if a knowledge of the world is torob me of what is more precious than life itself. " Her voice was nowfirm and resolute, and her tears had ceased. 

Millard was angry at he knew not what--at whatever thing human orsupernal had bound this burden of misbelief upon so noble a soul asPhillida's. He got up and paced the floor a moment, and then looked outof the window, saying from time to time in response to deprecatory ordefensive words of hers, "I tell you, dear, it's a cruel mistake. " Nowand then he felt an impulse to scold Phillida herself; but hisaffectionate pity held him back. His irritation had the satisfaction offinding an object on which to vent itself at length when Phillida said:

"If Mrs. Frankland would admit men to her readings, Charley, I'm surethat if you could only hear her explain the Bible--"

"No, thank you, " said Millard, tartly. "Mrs. Frankland is eloquent, butshe has imposed on you and done you a great deal of harm. Why, Phillida, you are as much superior to that woman as the sky is--" He was about tosay, "as the sky is to a mud-puddle, " but nothing is so fatal to offhandvigor of denunciation as the confirmed habit of properness. Millard'spreference for measured and refined speech got the better of his wrathbarely in time, and, after arresting himself a moment, he finished thesentence with more justness as he made a little wave with his righthand--"as the sky is to a scene-painter's illusion. "

Then he went on: "But Mrs. Frankland is persuasive and eloquent, and youare too sincere to make allowance for the dash of exaggeration in herwords. You won't find her at a mission in Mackerelville. She is dressedin purple by presents from the people who hear her, and Mrs. Hilbroughtells me that Mrs. Benthuysen has just given her a check of a thousanddollars to go to Europe with. "

"Why shouldn't they do such things for her? They hardly know what to dowith their money, and they ought to be grateful to her, " said Phillidawith heat. "Charley, I don't like to have you talk so about so good awoman. I know her and love her. You don't know her, and your words seemto me harsh and unjust. "

"Well, then forgive me, dear. I forgot that she is your friend. That'sthe best thing I ever knew about her. "

Saying this, he put on his hat and went out lest he should give wayagain to his now rising indignation against Mrs. Frankland, who, as thereal author of Phillida's trouble, in his judgment deserved severerwords than he had yet applied to her. But when he had opened the frontdoor he turned back suddenly, distressed that his call had only added tothe troubles of Phillida. She sat there, immovable, where he had lefther; he crossed the room, bent over her, and kissed her cheek. 

"Forgive me, darling; I spoke hastily. "

This tenderness overcame Phillida, and she fell to weeping. When sheraised her head a moment later Charley had gone, and the full confessionshe had intended must be deferred. 

To a man who has accepted as a divine authority all the conventions ofsociety, hardly anything that could befall a young woman would be moredreadful than to become a subject of notoriety. His present interviewwith Phillida had thoroughly aroused Millard, and he was resolved tosave her from herself by any means within his reach. Again thealternative of an early marriage presented itself. He might hasten thewedding, and then take Phillida to Europe, where the sight of areligious life quite different from her own would tend to widen herviews and weaken the ardor of her enthusiasm. He wondered what would bethe effect upon her, for instance, of the stack of crutches built up inmonumental fashion in one of the chapels of the Church of St. Germaindes Près at Paris--the offerings of cripples restored by a RomanCatholic faith-cure. But he reflected that the wedding could be hardlygot ready before Lent, and a marriage in Lent was repugnant to him notonly as a Churchman but even more as a man known for sworn fealty to thecanons of fashionable society, which are more inexorable thanecclesiastical usages, since there is no one high and mighty enough togrant a dispensation from them. It had long been understood that thewedding should take place some time after Easter, and it seemed best notto disturb that arrangement. What he wanted now was some means ofchecking the mortifying career of Phillida as a faith-doctor. 

XXI. 

MRS. HILBROUGH'S INFORMATION. 

Casting about in his thoughts for an ally, he hit upon Mrs. Hilbrough. In her he would find an old friend of Phillida's who was pretty sure tobe free from brain-fogs. He quickly took a resolution to see her. It wastoo late in the afternoon to walk uptown. On a fine Sunday like this thestreet cars would not have strap-room left, and the elevated trainswould be in a state of extreme compression long before they reachedFourteenth street. He took the best-looking cab he could find in UnionSquare as the least of inconveniences; and just as the slant sun, descending upon the Jersey lowlands, had set all the windows on theuptown side of the cross streets in a ruddy glow, he alighted at theHilbrough door, paid his cabman a full day's wages, after the manner ofNew York, and sent up his card to Mrs. Hilbrough with a message that hehoped it would not incommode her to see him, since he had some inquiriesto make. Mrs. Hilbrough descended promptly, and there took place theusual preliminary parley on the subject of the fine day, a parleycarried on by Millard with as little knowledge of what he was saying asa phonographic doll has. Then begging her pardon for disturbing her onSunday afternoon, he asked:

"Have you heard anything about Miss Callender's course as afaith-healer?"

Mrs. Hilbrough took a moment to think before replying. Here was adirect, even abrupt, approach to a matter of delicacy. There was acomplete lack of the diplomatic obliquity to be expected in such a case. This was not like Millard, and though his exterior was calm and suaveenough from mere force of habit, she quickly formed an opinion of hiscondition of internal ebullition from his precipitancy. 

"I did not hear anything about it until Thursday, two weeks ago, and Ilearned certainly about it only yesterday, " she replied, resting asnon-committal as possible until the drift of Millard's inquiry should bedisclosed. 

"May I ask from whom?" He was now sitting bolt upright, and his wordswere uttered without any of that pleasing deference of manner thatusually characterized his speech. 

"From Mrs. Maginnis--Mrs. California Maginnis, " she added for the sakeof explicitness and with an impulse to relax the tension of Millard'smind by playfulness. 

"Mrs. Maginnis?" he said with something like a start. "How does Mrs. Maginnis know anything about what takes place in Mackerelville?"

"It wasn't the Mackerelville case, but one a good deal nearer home, thatshe was interested in, " said Mrs. Hilbrough. "It's too warm here, " sheadded, seeing him wipe his brow with his handkerchief. She put her handto the bell, but withdrew it without ringing, and then crossed the roomand closed the register. 

Millard proceeded in a straightforward, businesslike voice, "Tell me, please, what Mrs. Maginnis had to do with Miss Callender's faith-cures?"

"Her relation to them came about through Mrs. Frankland. "

"No doubt, " said Millard; "I expected to find her clever hand in it. "

The mordant tone in which this was said disconcerted Mrs. Hilbrough. Shefelt that she was in danger of becoming an accomplice in a lovers'quarrel that might prove disastrous to the pretty romance that had begunin her own house. She paused and said:

"I beg pardon, Mr. Millard, but I ought hardly to discuss this with you, if you make it a matter of feeling between you and Phillida. She is myfriend--"

"Mrs. Hilbrough, " he interrupted, taking a softer tone than before, andleaning forward and resting his left hand on his knee, and again wipinghis forehead with his handkerchief, "my whole destiny is involved in thewelfare of Phillida Callender. I haven't quarreled with her, but Ishould like to show her that this faith-curing is a mistake and likelyto make her ridiculous. You said that Mrs. Frankland--"

"Mrs. Frankland, " said Mrs. Hilbrough, "through somebody connected withthe Mackerelville Mission got hold of the story of the cure of a poorGerman girl somewhere down about what they call Tompkins Square. Isthat the name of a square? Well, on Thursday, two weeks ago, whenPhillida was not present, Mrs. Frankland told this story--"

"Trotted it out as a fine illustration of faith, " broke in Millard, withsomething between a smile and a sneer, adding, "with Phillida's nameattached. "

"No, she didn't give the name; she spoke of her as a noble Christianyoung woman, the daughter of a devoted missionary to the heathen, whichmade me suspect Phillida. She also alluded to her as a person accustomedto attend these meetings, and again as 'my very dear friend, ' and 'mybeloved young friend. ' Mrs. Maginnis listened eagerly, and longed toknow who this was, for she had a little girl troubled with Saint Vitus'sdance. She had just been to see Dr. Legammon, the specialist. "

"Who always begins his treatment by scaring a patient half to death, Ibelieve, especially if the patient has money, " said Millard, who, in hispresent biting mood, found a grim satisfaction even in snapping at Dr. Legammon's heels. 

"He told Mrs. Maginnis that it was an aggravated case of chorea, andthat severe treatment would be necessary, " continued Mrs. Hilbrough. "There must be eyeglasses, and an operation by an oculist, and perhapselectricity, and it would require nearly a year to cure the child evenunder Dr. Legammon; and he didn't even give her much assurance that herchild would get well at all. He especially excited Mrs. Maginnis'sapprehension by saying, 'We must be hopeful, my dear madam. ' Mrs. Maginnis, you know, is strung away up above concert-pitch, and thismelancholy encouragement threw her into despair, and came near to makingher a fit patient for the doctor's specialistic attentions in a privateretreat. She couldn't bring herself to have the eyes operated on, oreven to have electricity applied. It was just after this first visit tothe doctor, while Mrs. Maginnis was in despondency and her usualindecision, that she heard Mrs. Frankland's address in which the cure ofthe poor girl in the tenement-house was told as an illustration of thepower of prayer. "

"Mrs. Frankland worked up all the details with striking effect, nodoubt, " said Millard, with an expression of disgust. 

"Well, you know Mrs. Frankland can't help being eloquent. Everybodypresent was deeply affected as she pictured the scene. As soon as themeeting closed, Mrs. Maginnis, all in a sputter of excitement, I fancy, sailed up to Mrs. Frankland, and laid her troubles before her, andwondered if Mrs. Frankland couldn't get her young friend to pray for herdaughter Hilda. Phillida, by solicitation of Mrs. Frankland, visited theMaginnises every day for a week. They sent their carriage for her everyafternoon, I believe. At the end of a week 'the motions disappeared, ' asMrs. Maginnis expressed it. "

"I believe it isn't uncommon for children to get well of Saint Vitus'sdance, " said Millard. 

"You couldn't make Mrs. Maginnis believe that. She regards it as one ofthe most remarkable cures of a wholly incurable ailment ever heard of. The day after Phillida's last visit she sent her a check for threehundred dollars for her services. "

"Sent her money?" said Millard, reddening, and contracting his brows. "Did Phillida take it?" This last was spoken in a low-keyed monotone. 

"Hasn't she told you a word about it?"

"Not a word, " said Millard, with eyes cast down. 

"She sent back the check by the next postman, saying merely that it was'respectfully declined. '"

"And Mrs. Maginnis?" asked Millard, his face lighting up. 

"Didn't understand, " said Mrs. Hilbrough. "These brutally rich peoplethink that cash will pay for everything, you know. Mrs. Maginnisconcluded that she had offered too little. "

"It was little enough, " said Millard, "considering her wealth and thenature of the service she believed to have been rendered to her child. "

"She thought so herself, on reflection, " said Mrs. Hilbrough. "She alsohad grace enough to remember that she might have been a little moredelicate in her way of tendering the money. She likes to do thingsroyally, so she dispatched her footman to Mrs. Callender with a noteinclosing a check for a thousand dollars, asking the mother to use itfor the benefit of her daughter. Mrs. Callender took the check to Mrs. Gouverneur, and asked her, as having some acquaintance with Mrs. Maginnis, to explain that Phillida could not accept any pay forreligious services or neighborly kindness. Mrs. Gouverneur"--here Mrs. Hilbrough smiled--"saw the ghosts of her grandfathers looking on, Isuppose. She couched her note to Mrs. Maginnis in rather chilling terms, and Mrs. Maginnis understood at last that she had probably givenoffense. She went to Mrs. Frankland, who referred her to me, asPhillida's friend, and she called here yesterday in a flutter ofhysterical importance to get me to apologize, and to ask me what she_could_ do. "

Millard was almost amused at this turn in the affair, but his smile hada tang of bitterness. 

"She explained that she had not understood that Miss Callender was thatkind of person, " said Mrs. Hilbrough. "She had always supposed thatministers and missionaries and their families expected presents. Whenshe was a little girl her father used to send a whole hog to eachminister in the village every fall when he killed his pigs. But itseemed Miss Callender and her mother held themselves above presents. Were they 'people of wealth'? That is her favorite phrase. I told herthat they were one of the best old families in the city, without muchproperty but with a great deal of pride, and that they were veryadmirable people. 'You know, these very old and famous families holdthemselves rather above the rest of us, no matter how rich we may get tobe, ' I said, maliciously. 

"This seemed almost to subdue her. She said that she supposed peoplewould expect her to do something at such a time. It was always expectedthat 'people of wealth' should show themselves grateful. What could shedo that would not offend such touchy people?

"I suggested that Hilda should buy some article, not too expensive, fora love token for Miss Callender. 'Treat her as you would if she wereMrs. Van Horne's daughter, ' I said, 'and she will be content. ' 'I don'twant to seem mean, ' she replied, 'and I didn't think so pious a girlwould carry her head so high. Now, Mrs. Hilbrough, do you think aChristian girl like Miss Callender ought to be so proud?' 'Would youlike to take money for a friendly service?' I asked. 'Oh, no! But thenI--you see, my circumstances are different; however, I will do just whatyou say. ' I warned her when she left that the present must not be toocostly, and that Hilda ought to take it in person. She was still alittle puzzled. 'I didn't suppose people in their circumstances wouldfeel that way, ' she said in a half-subdued voice, 'but I'll do just asyou say, Mrs. Hilbrough. '"

This action of Phillida's was a solace to Millard's pride. But one grainof sugar will not perceptibly sweeten the bitterness of a decoction ofgentian, and this overflow into uptown circles of Phillida's reputationas a faith-doctor made the matter extremely humiliating. 

When Mrs. Hilbrough had finished her recital Millard sat a minuteabsorbed in thought. It occurred to him that if he had not spoken soimpetuously to Phillida and then left her so abruptly he might have hadthis story in her own version, and thus have spared himself theimprudence and indecorum of discussing Phillida with Mrs. Hilbrough. Buthe could not refrain from making the request he had had in mind when hecame, and which alone could explain and justify to Mrs. Hilbrough hisconfidence. 

"I came here to-day on an impulse, " he said. "Knowing your friendlinessfor Phillida, and counting on your kindness, I thought perhaps you mightbring your influence to bear--to--to--what shall I say?--to modifyPhillida's zeal and render her a little less sure of her vocation topursue a course that must make her talked about in a way that is certainto vulgarize her name. "

Mrs. Hilbrough shook her head. She was flattered by Millard'sconfidence, but she saw the difficulty of the task he had set for her. 

"Count on me for anything I can do, but that is something that I supposeno one can accomplish. What Phillida thinks right she will do if shewere to be thrown to the wild beasts for it. "

"Yes, yes; that is her great superiority, " he added, with mingledadmiration and despondency. 

"You, who have more influence than any one else, " said Mrs. Hilbrough, "have talked with her. I suppose her mother has said what could be said, and Agatha must have been a perfect thorn in the flesh to her since thematter became known at home. "

"Yes, " said Millard, ruefully; "she must have suffered a great deal, poor child!"

"I don't suppose Mrs. Gouverneur let her off cheaply, " continued Mrs. Hilbrough. "She must have made Phillida feel that she was overthrowingthe statues of her great-grandfathers, and she no doubt urged theunhappiness she would cause you. "

Millard saw at this moment the origin of Phillida's sensitiveness intalking with him. 

"I don't care for myself, but I wish to heaven that I could shelter hera little from the ridicule she will suffer. " He was leaning forward withhis hand on his knee and his eyes cast down. 

Mrs. Hilbrough felt herself moved at sight of so much feeling in one notwont to show his emotions to others. 

"I will see if anything can be done, Mr. Millard; but I am afraid not. I'll ask Phillida here to lunch some day this week. "

The winter sunshine had all gone, the lights in the streets were winningon the fast-fading twilight, and Mrs. Hilbrough's reception-room wasgrowing dusk when Millard slowly, as one whose purposes are benumbed, rose to leave. Once in the street, he walked first toward one avenue andthen toward the other. He thought to go to his apartment, but he shrankfrom loneliness; he would go to dinner at a neighboring restaurant; thenhe turned toward his club; and then he formed the bold resolution tomake himself welcome, as he had before, at Mrs. Callender'sSunday-evening tea-table. But reflecting on the unlucky outcome of hisinterview with Phillida, he gave this up, and after some furtherirresolution dined at a table by himself in the club. He had smallappetite for food, for human fellowship he had none at all, and he soonsought solitude in his apartment. 

XXII. 

WINTER STRAWBERRIES. 

Knowing that Phillida was a precipice inaccessible on the side of whatshe esteemed her duty, Mrs. Hilbrough was almost sorry that she hadpromised to attempt any persuasions. But she dispatched a note earlyTuesday morning, begging Phillida's company at luncheon, assigning thetrivial reason, for want of a better, that she had got some winter-grownstrawberries and wished a friend to enjoy them with her. Phillida, fatigued with the heart-breaking struggle between love and duty, andalmost ready sometimes to give over and take the easier path, thought tofind an hour's intermission from her inward turmoil over Mrs. Hilbrough's hothouse berries. The Hilbrough children were fond ofPhillida, and luncheon was a meal at which they made a point ofdisregarding the bondage of the new family position. They seasoned theirmeal with the animal spirits of youth, and, despite the fact that thecostly winter berries were rather sour, the lunch proved exceedinglyagreeable to Phillida. The spontaneous violence which healthy childrendo to etiquette often proves a relish. But when the Hilbrough childrenhad bolted their strawberries, scraped the last remainder of the sugarand cream from the saucers, and left the table in a hurry, there camean audible pause, and Mrs. Hilbrough approached the subject ofPhillida's faith-healing in a characteristically tactful way by givingan account of Mrs. Maginnis's call, and by approving Phillida'sdetermination not to take money. It was a laudable pride, Mrs. Hilbroughsaid. 

"I can not call it pride altogether, " said Phillida, with the innateveracity of her nature asserting itself in a struggle to be exactlysincere. "If I were to take pay for praying for a person, I'd be nobetter than Simon, who tried to buy the gift of the Holy Ghost fromSaint Paul. I couldn't bring myself to take money. "

"And if you did, my dear, it would mortify your family, who have a rightto be proud, and then there is Mr. Millard, who, I suppose, would feelthat it would be a lasting disgrace. " These words were spoken in arelaxed and indifferent tone, as though it was an accidental commonplaceof the subject that Mrs. Hilbrough was settling. 

Phillida said nothing. Here she was face to face with the old agony. Ifher faith-healing were only a matter of her own suffering she need nothesitate; she would take the cross with all her heart. But Mrs. Hilbrough's words reminded her again that her sense of duty forced herto bind Charley Millard for the torture. A duty so rude to her feelingsas the half-publicity of it made faith-healing, ought to be a dutybeyond question, but here was the obligation she owed her lover runningadverse to her higher aspirations. The questions for decision becamecomplex, and she wavered. 

"Your first duty is to him, of course, " continued Mrs. Hilbrough, as sherose from the table, but still in an indifferent tone, as though whatshe said were a principle admitted beforehand. This arrow, she knew, went straight to the weakest point in Phillida's defense. But diviningthat her words gave pain, she changed the subject, and they talked againon indifferent matters as they passed out of the room together. But whenPhillida began her preparations for leaving, Mrs. Hilbrough ventured apractical suggestion. 

"I suppose you'll forgive an old friend for advising you, Phillida dear, but you and Mr. Millard ought to get married pretty soon. I don'tbelieve in long courtships. Mr. Millard is an admirable person, andyou'll make a noble wife. "

"We have long intended to have the wedding next spring. But as to mymaking a noble wife, I am not sure about that, " returned Phillida. "I amengaged with my work, and I shall be more and more talked about in a waythat will give Charley a great deal of suffering. It's a pity--"

She was going to say that it was a pity that Charley had not chosen someone who would not be a source of humiliation to him, but she could notcomplete the sentence. The vision of Millard married to another was toomuch even for her self-sacrifice. After a moment's pause she reverted toMrs. Hilbrough's remark, made at the table, which had penetrated to herconscience. 

"You said a while ago that my first duty is to Charley. But if I amwrong in trying to heal the sick by the exercise of faith, why have Ibeen given success in some cases? If I refused requests of that kindwould I not be like the man who put his hand to the plow and lookedback? You don't know how hard it is to decide these things. I do lookback, and it almost breaks my heart. Sometimes I say, 'Why can't I be awoman? Why am I not free to enjoy life as other women do? But then thepoor and the sick and the wicked, are they to be left without any one tocare for them? There are but few that know how to be patient with themand help them by close sympathy and forbearance. How can I give up mypoor?'"

Her face was flushed, and she was in a tremor when she ceased speaking. Her old friend saw that Phillida had laid bare her whole heart. Mrs. Hilbrough was deeply touched at this exhibition of courage and atPhillida's evident suffering, and besides, she knew that it was not bestto debate where she wished to influence. She only said:

"It will grow clearer to you, dear, as time goes on. Mr. Millard wouldsuffer anything--I believe he would die for you. "

Phillida was a little startled at Mrs. Hilbrough's assumption that sheknew the exact state of Millard's feelings. 

"Have you seen him lately?" she asked. 

"Yes; he called here after four o'clock on Sunday afternoon, and hespoke most affectionately of you. I'm sorry you must go so soon. Comeand spend a day with me some time, and I'll have Mr. Millard take dinnerwith us. "

As Phillida rode downtown in the street car she reasoned that Charleymust have gone straight to Mrs. Hilbrough's after his conversation withher. When she remembered the agitation in which he had left her, shecould not doubt that he went uptown on purpose to speak with Mrs. Hilbrough of his relations with herself, and she felt a resentment thatMillard should discuss the matter with a third person. He had no doubtgot Mrs. Maginnis's story from Mrs. Hilbrough, and for this she partlyreproached her own lack of frankness. She presently asked herself whatCharley's call on Mrs. Hilbrough had to do with the luncheon to whichshe had just been invited? The more she thought of it, the more she feltthat there had been a plan to influence her. She did not like to be thesubject of one of Mrs. Hilbrough's clever manoeuvers at the suggestionof her lover. The old question rose again whether she and Charley couldgo on in this way; whether it might not be her duty to release him froman engagement that could only make him miserable. 

He called that evening while the Callenders were at six o'clock dinner. He was in evening dress, on the way to dine at the house of a friend, and he went straight to the Callender basement dining-room, where hechatted as much with Mrs. Callender and Agatha as with Phillida, who onher part could not show her displeasure before the others, for lovers'quarrels are too precious to be shared with the nearest friend. He leftbefore the dinner was over, so that Phillida did not have a moment alonewith him. The next evening she expected him to call, but he only senther a bunch of callas. 

That night Phillida sat by the fire sewing after her mother and Agathawere asleep. During the past two days she had wrought herself up to aconsiderable pitch of indignation against Millard for trying toinfluence her through Mrs. Hilbrough, but resentment was not congenialto her. Millard's effort to change her purposes at least indicated anundiminished affection. The bunch of flowers on the table was a silentpleader. If he did wrong in going to Mrs. Hilbrough for advice, might itnot be her own fault? Why had she not been more patient with him onSunday afternoon? The callas were so white, they reminded her ofCharley, she thought, for they were clean, innocent, and of gracefulmien. After all, here was one vastly dearer to her than those for whomshe labored and prayed--one whose heart and happiness lay in her verypalm. Might she not soften her line of action somewhat for his sake?

But conscience turned the glass, and she remembered Wilhelmina, andthought of the happiness of little Hilda Maginnis and her mother. Was itnothing that God had endowed her with this beneficent power? How couldshe shrink from the blessedness of dispensing the divine mercy? Herimagination took flame at the vision of a life of usefulness anddevotion to those who were suffering. 

Then she raised her head and there were the white flowers. She felt animpulse to kiss her hand in good-night to them as she rose from herchair, but such an act would have seemed foolish to one of hertemperament. 

She went to bed in doubt and got up in perplexity. She could not helplooking forward to Mrs. Frankland's Bible-reading that afternoon withexpectation that some message would be providentially sent for herguidance. The spirit perplexed is ever superstitious. Since so manyimportant decisions in life must be made blindly, one does not wonderthat primitive men settled dark questions by studying the stars, byinterpreting the flight of birds, the whimsical zigzags of the lightningbolt, or the turning of the beak of a fowl this way or that in pickingcorn. The human mind bewildered is ever looking for crevices in thegreat mystery that inwraps the visible universe, and ever hoping thatsome struggling beam from beyond may point to the best path. 

XXIII. 

A SHINING EXAMPLE. 

Mrs. Hilbrough and Phillida Callender sat together that day at Mrs. Frankland's readings and heard her with very different feelingsdiscourse of discipleship, culling texts from various parts of the fourgospels to set forth the courage and self-denial requisite and theconsolation and splendid rewards that awaited such as were reallydisciples. Now that she had undertaken to look after Phillida in theinterest of Millard, Mrs. Hilbrough trembled at the extreme statementsthat Mrs. Frankland allowed herself to make in speaking of self-denialas the crowning glory of the highest type of discipleship. The speakerwas incapable of making allowance for oriental excess in Bible language;it suited her position as an advocate to take the hyperbolic words ofJesus in an occidental literalness. But Mrs. Hilbrough thought her mostdangerous when she came to cite instances of almost inconceivableself-sacrifice from Christian biography. The story of Francis of Assisidefending himself against the complaint of his father by disrobing inthe presence of the judge and returning into his father's hands the lastthread of raiment bought with the father's money that he might freehimself from the parental claim, was likely to excite a Platonicadmiration in the minds of Mrs. Van Horne's friends, but such sublimeself-sacrifice is too far removed from prevailing standards to bedangerous in New York. Mrs. Frankland no more expected her hearers toemulate St. Francis than she dreamed of refusing anything beautifulherself. But Mrs. Hilbrough knew Phillida, and, having known the spiritthat was in her father, she was able to measure pretty accurately thetremendous effect of this mode of speech upon her in her present stateof mind. While the address went on Mrs. Hilbrough planned. She reflectedthat Mrs. Frankland's influence could only be counteracted by the oratorherself. Could she not talk confidentially with Mrs. Frankland and makeher see the necessity for moderating Phillida's tendency to extremecourses of action? But when she tried to fancy Mrs. Frankland counselingmoderation in an address, she saw the impossibility of it. Prudencemakes poor woof for oratory. It would "throw a coldness over themeeting, " as the negroes express it, for her to attempt to moderate thezeal of her disciples; the more that exhortations to moderation werewhat they seemed least to require. Another alternative presented itself. She would appeal from Mrs. Frankland public to Mrs. Frankland private, from the orator aflame to the woman cool. If Mrs. Frankland could berightly coached and guided, she might by private conversation withPhillida counteract the evil wrought by her public speech. 

Mrs. Hilbrough's state of antagonism continued to the very close of theaddress, and then while many were thanking and congratulating thespeaker, and receiving the greetings she gave with ever-fresheffusiveness, Mrs. Hilbrough came in her turn, and Mrs. Franklandextended both hands to her, saying, "My dear Mrs. Hilbrough, how areyou?" But Mrs. Hilbrough did not offer her any congratulations. She onlybegged Mrs. Frankland to make an appointment that she might consult heron a matter of importance. 

"Certainly, certainly, dear friend, " said Mrs. Frankland, beaming;"_when_ever you wish and _wher_ever you say. "

"Perhaps you could drive with me in the Park to-morrow, if the weatheris fine, " said Mrs. Hilbrough. "Shall I call for you about half-pastthree?"

"With pleasure, Mrs. Hilbrough"; and Mrs. Frankland made an affectionatefarewell nod backward at Mrs. Hilbrough as she stretched out her hand toone of her hearers who was waiting on the other side for a share of hersunshine. 

Mrs. Hilbrough turned about at this moment to find Phillida, meaning totake her home in the carriage, but Phillida, engrossed with thoughts andfeelings excited by the address, had slipped away and taken the MadisonAvenue car. 

She had counted that this address would give her personal guidance; shehad prayed that it might throw light on her path. Its whole tenorbrought to her conscience the sharpest demand that she should hold tothe rigor of her vocation at every cost. All the way home the text aboutleaving "father, or mother, or wife, or children, or lands, for mysake, " was ringing in her memory. Even Mrs. Frankland, in the rush oforatorical extravagance, had not dared to give this its literal sense. But she had left in it strenuousness enough to make it a powerfulstimulant to Phillida's native impulse toward self-sacrifice. 

Once at home, Phillida could not remain there. She felt that a crisis inher affairs had arrived, and in her present state of religiousexaltation she was equal to the task of giving up her lover ifnecessary. But the questions before her were not simple, and beforedeciding she thought to go and privately consult Mrs. Frankland, wholived less than half a mile away in one of those habitable, smallhigh-stoop houses in East Fifteenth street which one is surprised tofind lingering so far down as this into the epoch of complicated flatsand elevated apartments. 

Phillida was begged to come without ceremony up to the front room on thesecond floor. Here she found Mrs. Frankland in a wrapper, lying on alounge, her face still flushed by the excitement of her speech. 

"Dear child, how are you?" said Mrs. Frankland in a tone ofsemi-exhaustion, reaching out her hand, without rising. "Sit here by me. It is a benediction to see you. To you is given the gift of faith. Thegift of healing and such like ministration is not mine. I can not do thework you do. But if I can comfort and strengthen those chosen ones whohave these gifts, it is enough. I will not complain. " Saying this lastplaintively, she pressed Phillida's hand in both of hers. 

If her profession of humility was not quite sincere, Mrs. Frankland atleast believed that it was. 

"Mrs. Frankland, I am in trouble, in a great deal of trouble, " saidPhillida in a voice evidently steadied by effort. 

"In trouble? I am _so_ sorry. " Saying this she laid her right hand onPhillida's lap caressingly. "Tell me, beloved, what it is all about?"Mrs. Frankland was still in a state of stimulation from public speaking, and her words were pitched in the key of a peroration. At this momentshe would probably have spoken with pathos if she had been merely givingdirections for cooking the dinner spinach. 

The barriers of Phillida's natural reserve were melted away by herfriend's effusive sympathy, and the weary heart lightened its burdens, as many another had done before, by confessing them to the all-motherlyMrs. Frankland. Phillida told the story of her lover, of his dislike tothe notoriety of her faith-cures. She told of her own struggles and ofthe grave questions she might soon have to settle. Should she yield, ifever so little, to the demands of one who was to be her husband? Orshould she maintain her course as she had begun? And what if it shouldever come to be a question of breaking her engagement? This last wasspoken with faltering, for at the very suggestion Phillida saw the abyssopen before her. 

A person of Mrs. Frankland's temperament is rarely a good counselor inpractical affairs, but if she had been entirely at herself she wouldperhaps have advised with caution, if not with wisdom, in a matter sovital and delicate. But the exhilaration of oratorical inebriety stilllingered with her, and she heard Phillida professionally rather thanpersonally. She was hardly conscious, indeed, of the personality of thesuffering soul before her. What she perceived was that here was a newand beautiful instance of the victory of faith and a consecrated spirit. In her present state of mind she listened to Phillida's experience withmuch the feeling she would have had if some one had brought her a storyof martyrdom in the days of Nero. St. Francis himself was hardly finerthan this, and the glory of this instance was that it was so modern andwithal so romantic in its elements. She exulted in the struggle, withoutrealizing, as she might have done in a calmer mood, the vast perspectiveof present and future sorrow which it presented to Phillida. Thedisclosure of Phillida's position opened up not the modicum of practicalwisdom which she possessed but the floodgates of her eloquence. 

"You will stand fast, my dear, " she said, rising to a sitting postureand flushing with fresh interest. "You will be firm. You will not shrinkfrom your duty. "

"But what is my duty?" asked Phillida. 

"To give the Lord and his work no second place in your affections. Hehas honored your faith and works above those of other people. Thereforestand unfalteringly faithful, my dear Phillida. It is a hard saying, that of Christ: 'If any man come to me, and hate not his father, andmother, and wife, and children, and brethren, and sisters, yea, and hisown life also, he can not be my disciple. ' But you are one of those ableto receive the hard words of Christ. "

All this was said as it might have been in an address, with littlerealization of its application to the individual case before her. Mrs. Frankland would have been the last person to advise an extreme course ofaction. She admired the extravagance of religious devotion for itsartistic effect when used in oratory. It was the artistic effect she wasdreaming of now. Phillida got little from her but such generalities, pitched in the key of her recent address; but what she got tended topush her to yet greater extremes. 

In the hour that followed, Phillida's habitually strenuous spiritresolved and held itself ready for any surrender that might be demandedof it. Is the mistaken soul that makes sacrifice needlessly throughfalse perceptions of duty intrinsically less heroic than the wisermartyr for a worthy cause?

XXIV. 

THE PARTING. 

On that Thursday evening Millard dined at his club. Instead of signing ajoint order with a friend for a partnership dinner, he ordered and atealone. He chose a table in a deep window from which he could look out onthe passers-by. A rain had set in, and he watched the dripping umbrellasthat glistened in the lamplight as they moved under the windows, andtook note of the swift emergence of approaching vehicles and then oftheir disappearance. His interest in the familiar street-world wasinsipid enough, but even an insipid interest in external affairs hefound better than giving his mind up wholly to the internal drizzle ofmelancholy thoughts. 

Presently Millard became dimly conscious of a familiar voice inconversation at the table in the next window. Though familiar, the voicewas not associated with the club-restaurant; it must be that of somenon-member brought in as the dinner-guest of a member. He could not makeout at first whose it was without changing his position, which hedisliked to do, the more that the voice excited disagreeable feelings, and by some association not sufficiently distinct to enable him to makeout the person. But when the visitor, instead of leaving the directionof the meal to his host, called out an exasperatingly imperative, "Hist! waitah!" Millard was able to recognize his invisible neighbor. Why should any member of a club so proper as the Terrapin ask Meadows?But there he was with his inborn relish for bulldozing whateverbulldozable creature came in his way. Once he had made him out, Millardengaged in a tolerably successful effort to ignore his conversation, returning again to his poor diversion of studying the people plashingdisconsolately along the wet street. It was only when he heard Meadowssay, "You know I am a director of that bank, " that his attention wassharply arrested. 

"Farnsworth is cashier, " continued Meadows. "He ought to have resignedlong ago, but he isn't that sort of a man. So he's at last taken to bed, has he? Some complication of the heart, I believe. Won't live long, and--well, I'll have on hand a hard fight about the filling of hisplace. But I didn't hear of that faith-doctor plan before. "

"I don't believe they've carried it out, " said the club man who hadinvited Meadows and who was a stranger to Millard. "Farnsworth wouldn'tagree. I used to dine with Farnsworth often, and my sister knows Mrs. Farnsworth; they go to the same church. Mrs. Farnsworth has heard of aMiss Callender that can pray a person up out of the grave almost, andshe's nearly persuaded Farnsworth to send for her. His mind is weakeninga little, and I shouldn't wonder if he did consent to have her pray overhim. The doctors have given him up, and--"

"Who is this Miss Callender?" interrupted Meadows; and though Millardcould not see him he knew that in the very nature of things Meadows'spugnacious chin must be shoved forward as he asked this. 

"She's a young woman that won't take any money for her services. That'sthe greatest miracle of all, " said the other. "If anything could make mebelieve her mission supernatural, it would be that. "

"Don't you believe it, " said Meadows; "don't you believe a word of it. The dead may be raised, but not for nothing. There's money below it all. Money makes the mare go"; and Meadows laughed complacently at theproverb, giving himself credit for it with a notion that adopted wit wasas good as the native born. 

"No; she won't have it. I heard that Mrs. Maginnis sent her a check forcuring her little girl, and that she sent it back. "

"Wasn't enough, " sneered Meadows. 

"Well, I believe they tried a larger check with the same result. Shedoesn't seem to be an impostor; only a crank. "

"These people that refuse money when it's pushed under their noses arethe worst knaves of all, " said Meadows. "She knows that Maginnis is veryrich. She's laying for something bigger. She'll get into Mrs. Maginnisfor something handsome. More fool if she doesn't, I say"; and Meadowslaughed in an unscrupulous, under-breath fashion, as of a man whothought a well-played trick essentially meritorious. 

Millard was debating. Should he protest against these words? Or shouldhe knock Meadows down? That is not just the form it took in his mind. Any rowdy or a policeman may knock a man down. Your man of fashion, whenhe wishes to punish an enemy or have an affray with a friend, only"punches his head. " It is a more precise phrase, and has no boast in it. No one knows which may go down, but the aggressor feels sure that he canbegin by punching his enemy's head. Millard was on the point of risingand punching Meadows's head in the most gentlemanly fashion. But hereflected that a head-punching affray with Meadows in the club-roomwould make Phillida and her cures the talk of the town, and inimagination he saw a horrible vision of a group of newspaper reportershovering about Mrs. Callender's house, and trying to gain someinformation about the family from the servant girl and the butcher boy. To protest, to argue, to say anything at all, would be but an awfulaggravation. Having concluded not to punch the head of a bank director, he rose from the table himself, and, avoiding Meadows's notice, beckonedthe waiter to serve his coffee in the reading-room. When he hadswallowed the coffee he rose and went out. As he stood in the door ofthe club-house and buttoned up his coat, a cabman from the streetcalled, "Kerrige, sir?" but not knowing where he should go, Millardraised his umbrella and walked. Mechanically he went toward Mrs. Callender's. He had formed no deliberate resolution, but he became awarethat a certain purpose had taken possession of him all uninvited andwithout any approval of its wisdom on his part. Right or wrong, wise orunwise, there was that which impelled him to lay the condition ofthings before Phillida in all its repulsiveness and have it out withher. He could not think but that she would recoil if she knew how hercourse was regarded. He fancied that his own influence with her would bedominant if the matter were brought to an issue. But theseconsiderations aside, there was that which impelled him to the step hewas about to take. In crises of long suppressed excitement the sanestman sometimes finds himself bereft of the power of choosing his line ofaction; the directing will seems to lie outside of him. It is notstrange that a Greek, not being a psychologist, should say that a Fatewas driving him to his destiny, or that his Dæmon had taken the helm andwas directing affairs as a sort of _alter ego_. 

When at length Millard found himself in front of Mrs. Callender's, andsaw by the light that the family were sitting together in the frontbasement, his heart failed him, and he walked past the house and as faras the next corner, where his Fate, his Dæmon, his blind impulsion, turned him back, and he did not falter again until he had rung thedoor-bell; and then it was too late to withdraw. 

"You are wet, Charley; sit nearer the register, " said Phillida, when shesaw how the rain had beaten upon his trousers and how recklessly he hadplunged his patent-leather shoes into the street puddles. This littleattention to his comfort softened Millard's mood, but it was impossiblelong to keep back the torrent of feeling. Phillida was alarmed at hisominous abstraction. 

"I don't care for the rain, " he said. 

"But you know there is a good deal of pneumonia about. "

"I--I am not afraid of pneumonia, " he said. "I might as well die as tosuffer what I do. "

"What is the matter, Charley?" demanded Phillida, alarmed. 

"Matter? Why, I have to sit in the club and hear you called a crank andan impostor. "

Phillida turned pale. 

"Vulgar cads like Meadows, " he gasped, "not fit for association withgentlemen, call you a quack seeking after money, and will not be setright. I came awfully near to punching his head. "

"Why, Charley!"

"I should have done it, only I reflected that such an affray might dragyou into the newspapers. I tell you, Phillida, it is unendurable thatyou should go on in this way. "

Phillida's face was pale as death. She had been praying all theafternoon that the bitterness of this cup might not be pressed to herlips. She now saw that the issue was joined. She had vowed that not evenher love for the man dearest to her should swerve her from her course. The abyss was under her feet, and she longed to draw back. She heard thevoice of duty in the tones of Mrs. Frankland saying: "If any man come tome, and hate not his father, and mother, and wife, and children, andbrethren, and sisters, yea, and his own life also, he can not be mydisciple. " It was a cruel alternative that was set before her, and shetrembled visibly. 

"I--I can't neglect what I believe to be duty, " she said. She wishedthat, by some circumlocution or some tenderness in the tone, she couldhave softened the words that she spoke, but all her forces had to berallied to utter the decision, and there was no power left to qualifythe bare words which sounded to Millard hard and cruel. A suspicioncrossed his mind that Phillida wished to be released from theengagement. 

"You do not consider that you owe any duty to me at all, " he said in avoice smothered by feeling. 

Phillida tried to reply, but she could not speak. 

Millard was now pacing the floor. "It is all that Mrs. Frankland's work. She isn't worthy to tie your shoes. She never fed the hungry, or clothedthe naked, or visited the sick. It's all talk, talk, talk, with her. Shetalks beautifully, and she knows it. She loves to talk and to havepeople crowd around her and tell her how much good she is doing. Shedenies herself nothing; she feeds her vanity on the flattery she gets, and then thinks herself a saint besides. She exhorts people to aself-sacrifice she wouldn't practise for the world. She's making moremoney out of her piety than her husband can out of law. And now shecomes with her foolish talk and breaks up the happiness you and I havehad. " This was spoken with bitterness. "We can not go on in this way, "he said, sitting down exhausted, and looking at her. 

Phillida had listened in silence and anguish to his words, spokenhurriedly but not loudly. What he said had an effect the opposite ofwhat he had expected. The first impression produced by his words wasthat the engagement had become a source of misery to Millard; the secondthought was that, considering only her duty to him, she ought to releasehim from bonds that had proved so painful. His last words seemed toindicate that he wished the engagement broken, and after what he hadsaid it was evident that she must break with him or swerve from the dutyshe had vowed never to desert. Taking up the word where he had left off, she said in a low, faltering voice:

"We certainly can not go on in this way. "

Then, rising, she turned to the antique desk in the corner of theparlor. With a key from her pocket she unlocked a drawer, and from ittook hurriedly every keepsake she had had from her lover, not allowingherself to contemplate them, but laying them all at last on the ancientcenter-table in the middle of the room. With a twinge of regret, visibleto Millard, she drew her engagement ring from her finger, and with anunsteady hand laid it softly down with the rest. 

Millard was too much startled at first to know what to say. Had shemisunderstood the intent of his last remark? Or did she wish to bereleased?

"It is all over, Mr. Millard. Take them, please. "

"I--I have not--asked you to release me, Phillida. "

"You have said that we can not go on in this way. I say the same. It--"she could not speak for a quarter of a minute; then she slowly finishedher sentence with an effort of desperation and without raising her eyesto his--"it is better that it is over. "

"Is it over?" he asked, stunned. "Think what you say. "

"We have agreed that we can not go on, " she answered. "You must takethese. I can not keep them. "

"Don't make me take them. Why not keep them?"

"I will send them to-morrow. I can not retain them. "

Millard could not take them. He would have felt much as he might inrifling a grave of its treasures had he lifted those tokens from thetable. But he saw, or thought he saw, that remonstrances might makePhillida more unhappy, but that it would be perfectly useless. It wasbetter to accept his fate, and forbear. He tried to say something tosoften the harshness of parting, but his powers of thought and speechdeserted him, and he knew that whatever he would say must be put intoone or two words. He looked up, hesitatingly stretched out his hand, andasked huskily:

"Part friends?"

Phillida, pale and speechless, took his hand a moment, and then he wentout. She leaned her head against the window-jamb, lifted the shade, andwatched his form retreating through the drizzly night until hedisappeared from view, and then she turned out the lights. But insteadof returning to her mother and Agatha in the basement, she threw herselfon the floor, resting her arms on the sofa while she sobbed in utterwretchedness. All her courage was spent; all her faith had fled;helpless, wounded, wretched as a soul in bottomless perdition, she couldsee neither life nor hope in any future before her. She had believedherself able to go on alone and to bear any sacrifice. But in losing himshe had lost even the power to pray. 

About an hour after Millard's departure, Mrs. Callender came up thestairs and called gently:

"Phillida!"

Then she entered the parlor. The shutters were not closed, and the roomwas faintly lighted by rays that came through the shades from the lampon the other side of the street. 

"I'm here, mother, " said Phillida, rising and coming toward her. Then, embracing her mother, she said, "And I'm so unhappy, mother, so utterlywretched. "

Such an appeal for sympathy on the part of the daughter was anoccurrence almost unknown. She had been the self-reliant head of thefamily, but now she leaned helplessly upon her mother and whispered, "It's all over between Charley and me. "

XXV. 

MRS. FRANKLAND'S REPENTANCE. 

For some time after Phillida had left Mrs. Frankland resting on thelounge that lady had felt an additional exaltation in contemplating thisnew and admirable instance of faith and devotion--an instance thatseemed to owe much to the influence of her own teachings. Her mind hadtoyed with it as a brilliant having many facets. She had unconsciouslyreduced it to words; she could only get the virtue out of anything whenshe had phrased it. Phillida she had abstracted into a "young woman of adistinguished family, " "beautiful as the day, " "who had all theadvantages of high associations, " and "who might have filled to the brimthe cup of social enjoyment. " The lover, whose name and circumstancesshe did not know, she yet set up in her mind as "an accomplished youngman of splendid gifts and large worldly expectations. " It would havebeen a serious delinquency in him had he failed to answer to thispersonal description, for how else could this glorious instance berounded into completeness? Incapable of intentional misrepresentation, Mrs. Frankland could never help believing that the undisclosed portionof any narrative conformed to the exigencies of artistic symmetry andpicturesque effect. She set the story of Phillida's sacrifice before hernow in one and now in another light, and found in contemplating it muchexhilaration--spiritual joy and gratitude in her phraseology. Howcharmingly it would fit into an address!

But as the hours wore on the excitement of her oratorical effortsubsided and a natural physical reaction began. Her pulses, which hadbeen beating so strenuously as to keep her brain in a state ofcombustion, were now correspondingly below their normal fullness andrapidity, and the exhausted nerves demanded repose. It was at such timesas these that Mrs. Frankland's constitutional buoyancy of spirit sankdown on an ebb tide; it was at such times that her usually sunny temperchafed under the irritations of domestic affairs. On this evening, whenthe period of depression set in, Mrs. Frankland's view of Phillida'scase suffered a change. She no longer saw it through the iridescent hazeof excited fancy. She began to doubt whether it was best that Phillidashould break with her lover for the mere sake of being a shiningexample. In this mood Mrs. Frankland appreciated for the first time thefact that Phillida could hardly feel the same exultation in slaughteringher affections and hopes that Mrs. Frankland had felt in advising such acourse of spiritual discipline. Just a little ripple of remorse fleckedthe surface of her mind, but she found consolation in a purpose to makethe matter right by seeing Phillida the next day and inquiring morefully into the matter. Her natural hopefulness came to her rescue, andMrs. Frankland slept without disturbance from regrets. 

When she awaked in the morning it was with a dull sense that there wassomething which needed to be righted. She had to rummage her memoryawhile to discover just what it was. Having placed it at length inPhillida's affair, she suddenly reflected that perhaps Mrs. Hilbroughcould throw light on it, and she would postpone seeing Phillida untilafter her drive with Mrs. Hilbrough in the afternoon. "It is better togive counsel advisedly, " was the phrase with which she ticketed thisdecision and sustained it. 

The day was fine, and the drive in Mrs. Hilbrough's easy-rolling opencarriage was exhilarating, and in that sort of bird-chatter aboutnothing in particular in which two people enjoying motion are prone toengage Mrs. Frankland was in danger of forgetting her purpose to inquireabout Phillida Callender, until at length, when the carriage was fairlywithin the Park, Mrs. Hilbrough, whose businesslike brain never let goits grasp on a main purpose, said:

"Mrs. Frankland, I wanted to speak to you about Miss Callender. "

"The very person I wished to ask your advice about, " said Mrs. Frankland. "She called on me yesterday late in the afternoon. "

"Did she?" Mrs. Hilbrough asked this with internal alarm. "Did she sayanything to you about her love affair?"

"Yes, " said Mrs. Frankland; "I suppose I ought not to repeat what shesaid, but you are her friend and you will be able to advise me in thematter. I'm afraid I didn't say just the right thing--I mean that Ididn't advise her as fully as I should have done. It's hard to know whatto say about other people's affairs. I felt worried about her, and Icame near going to see her this morning. But I remembered that you wereher friend, and I thought it best to see what you would say. It's alwaysbest to give counsel advisedly, I think. "

"May I ask what you said to her?" said Mrs. Hilbrough, characteristically refusing to be shunted from the main line of herpurpose. 

Mrs. Frankland winced at the question, and especially at thestraightforward thrust with which it was asked. But she said: "I onlyadvised her in a very general way. It was just after I had finishedspeaking, and I wasn't able to take up the matter as carefully as Ishould have liked to do, you know, until after I had rested. "

"Did you advise her to break her engagement?" The steadiness with whichMrs. Hilbrough pushed her inquiry was disagreeable to her companion, wholiked to find refuge from an unpleasant subject in vagueness ofstatement. But at least she was not driven to bay yet; she had notdefinitely advised Phillida to break with her lover. 

"No; not that. I only gave her general advice to be faithful to herconvictions. "

Mrs. Frankland's avoidance of the explicit confirmed Mrs. Hilbrough'ssuspicion as to the tenor of the advice given. The latter blamed herselffor having moved too slowly, and she was impatient, moreover, with Mrs. Frankland; for one is apt to be vexed when a person very clever in oneway is conspicuously stupid in other regards. When Mrs. Hilbrough spokeagain a trace of irritation showed itself. 

"Phillida is the only person I know to whom I think your Bible readingsmay do harm. "

"My Bible readings?" queried Mrs. Frankland. She had been used so longto hear her readings spoken of in terms not of praise but rather ofrapture, as though they were the result of a demi-divine inspiration, that this implied censure or qualification of the universality of theirvirtue and application came to her, not exactly as a personal offense, but with the shock of something like profanation; and she reddened withsuppressed annoyance. 

"I don't mean that it is your fault, " said Mrs. Hilbrough, seeking toget on a more diplomatic footing with her companion. "Phillida is verypeculiar and enthusiastic in her nature, and she knows nothing of theworld. She is prone to take all exhortations rather too literally. "

"But my words have often encouraged Phillida, " said Mrs. Frankland, whohad been touched to the quick. "You would rob me of one of the solidcomforts of my life if you took from me the belief that I have been ableto strengthen her for her great work. "

"I am sure you have encouraged her to go on, " said Mrs. Hilbrough, desirous not to antagonize Mrs. Frankland. "But she also needsmoderating. She is engaged to an admirable man, a man getting to be verywell off, and who will be made cashier of our bank very soon. He iskind-hearted, liberal with his money, and universally beloved andadmired in society. "

Mrs. Frankland was not the person to undervalue such a catalogue ofqualities when presented to her in the concrete. True, on her theory, aChristian young woman ought to be ready in certain circumstances tothrow such a lover over the gunwale as ruthlessly as the sailors pitchedJonah headlong. That is to say, a Christian young woman in the abstractought to be abstractly willing to discard a rich lover in the abstract. But presented in this concrete and individual way the case wasdifferent. She was a little dazzled at the brightness of Phillida'sworldly prospects, now that they were no longer merely rhetorical, butreal, tangible, and, in commercial phrase, convertible. 

"True, true, " she answered reflectively. "She would be so eminentlyuseful if she had money. " This was the way Mrs. Frankland phrased hersense of the attractiveness of such a man. "She might exert an excellentinfluence in society. We do need more such people as the leaven of thekingdom of heaven in wealthy circles. "

"Indeed we do, " said Mrs. Hilbrough, "and for Phillida to throw awaysuch prospects, and such opportunities for usefulness"--she added thislast as an afterthought, taking her cue from Mrs. Frankland--"seems tome positively wrong. "

"It would certainly be a mistake, " said Mrs. Frankland. Mrs. Hilbroughthought she detected just a quiver of regret in her companion's voice. "Does he object strongly to her mission work?"

"No; he doesn't object to her work, I am sure, for she was alreadyabsorbed in it when he first met her at my house, and if he had objectedthere would have been no beginning of their attachment. But he isgreatly annoyed that she should be talked about and ridiculed as afaith-doctor. He is a man of society, and he feels such things. Now, considering how much danger of mistake and of enthusiasm there is insuch matters, Phillida might yield a little to so good a man. "

"Perhaps I had better see her, Mrs. Hilbrough, " was Mrs. Frankland'snon-committal reply. 

"It would be necessary to see her at once, I fear. She is very resolute, and he is greatly distressed by what people are saying about her, and alittle provoked, no doubt, at what he thinks her obstinacy. "

"Perhaps I had better see her this evening, " said Mrs. Frankland, with atwinge of regret that she had not spoken with more caution the daybefore. 

"I do wish you would, " said Mrs. Hilbrough. Just then the driver sentthe horses into a swift trot on a down grade, and the conversation wasbroken off. When talk began again it was on commonplace themes, andtherefore less strenuous. Mrs. Frankland was glad to get away from anaffair that put her into an attitude of apology. 

Phillida had passed the day miserably. She had tried to bolster herselfwith the consciousness of having acted from the sincerest motives, andfrom having done only what was right. But consciousness of rectitude, whatever the moralists may say, is an inadequate balm for a heart thatis breaking. Phillida had not dared to enter the parlor to gather upthe little presents that Millard had given her and dispatch them to himuntil after supper, when she made them all into a bundle and sent themaway. The messenger boy had hardly left the door when Mrs. Franklandrang. Her husband had accompanied her, and she dismissed him at thesteps with instructions to call for her in about an hour. 

Phillida was glad to see Mrs. Frankland. A cruel doubt had been knockingat her door the livelong day. It had demanded over and over whether hertremendous sacrifice was necessary after all. She had succeededindifferently well in barring out this painful skepticism by twoconsiderations. The one was, that Millard, who had almost asked to bereleased, would hereafter be saved from mortification on her account. The other was, that Mrs. Frankland's authority was all on the side ofthe surrender she had made. And now here was Mrs. Frankland, sent like amessenger to confirm her faith and to console her in her sorrow. 

"You are looking troubled, " said Mrs. Frankland, kissing her now on thischeek and now on the other. "Dear child, if I could only bring you somecomfort!"

"Thank you, Mrs. Frankland, " said Phillida; "I am so glad that you havecome. I have wished for you all day. "

"Maybe I am sent to console you. Who knows? Perhaps, after all, thingsmay turn out better than you think. " This was said in a full round voiceand an under manifestation of buoyant hopefulness and self-reliancecharacteristic of Mrs. Frankland; but Phillida shook her headdespondently. 

"Since I saw you I have heard a good deal about your Mr. Millard; I getthe most favorable accounts of him; they say he is good, and every way aworthy, liberal, and charming man. "

Phillida sat up straight in her chair with eyes averted, and made noreply. 

"I have been thinking that, after all, perhaps you ought to make someconcessions to such a man. "

Phillida trembled visibly. This was not what she had expected. 

"You wouldn't wish me to be unfaithful to my duty, would you?" she askedin a low voice. 

"No, dear; I don't say you ought to sacrifice anything that is _clearly_your duty. Some duties are so clear that they shine like the pole-starwhich guides the mariner. But there are many duties that are not quiteclear. We should be careful not to insist too strongly on things inwhich we may be mistaken. There would be no such thing as marriage ifthere was not some yielding on both sides; I mean in matters notcertainly essential to a Christian life. "

Phillida was now looking directly at her visitor with a fixed andhopeless melancholy which puzzled Mrs. Frankland, who had expected thatshe would seize gratefully upon any advice tending to relax the rigor ofher self-sacrifice. Phillida's attitude was incomprehensible to hervisitor. Could it be that she had resolved to break with her lover atall hazards?

"You know, dear, " said Mrs. Frankland, sailing on a new tack now, as washer wont when her audience proved unresponsive, "I think, that as thewife of a man with increasing wealth and of excellent social position, like Mr. Millard, you would be very useful. We need such devoted andfaithful people as you are in society. And, after all, your gift ofhealing might be exercised without publicity--you might, I think, defera good deal to one whom you have promised to love. Love is also a giftof God and a divine ordinance. In fact, considering how ample youropportunities would be as the wife of a man of wealth and position, suchas Mr. Millard, it seems to be your duty to examine carefully andprayerfully whether there is not some reasonable ground on which you canmeet him. At least, my dear, do not act too hastily in a matter of somuch moment. "

Advice pitched in this key did not weigh much at any time with Phillida. A thin veil of religious sentiment served a purpose of self-deceptionwith Mrs. Frankland, but such disguises could not conceal fromPhillida's utterly sincere spirit the thoroughly worldly standpoint ofMrs. Frankland's suggestions. The effect of this line of talk upon hermind was very marked, nevertheless. It produced a disenchantment, rapid, sudden, abrupt, terrible. Mrs. Frankland, the oracle upon whosetrustworthiness she had ventured her all, had proven herself one of themost fallible of guides. The advice given yesterday with an assurancethat only a settled and undoubting conviction could possibly excuse, wasto-day pettifogged away mainly on the ground of Charley's worldlyprosperity. Phillida had revered the woman before her as a sort ofdivine messenger, had defended her against Millard's aspersions, hadfollowed her counsel at the most critical moment of her life inopposition to the judgment of her family and of the man she loved. Andnow, too late, the strenuous exhortation was retracted, not so much inthe interest of a breaking heart as in that of a good settlement. 

When, after a pause, Phillida spoke, the abrupt and profound change inthe relations of the two became manifest. Her voice was broken andreproachful as she said, "You come this evening to take back what yousaid yesterday. "

"I spoke without time to think yesterday, " said Mrs. Frankland, making amovement of uneasiness. One accustomed to adulation does not receivereproach gracefully. 

"You spoke very strongly, " said Phillida. "I thought you must feel verysure that you were right, for you knew how critical my position was. "The words were uttered slowly and by starts. Mrs. Frankland did notreply. Phillida presently went on: "I don't care anything about theworldly prospects you think so much of to-day. But God knows what anawful sacrifice I have made. In following your advice, which was verysolemnly given, I have thrown away the love and devotion of one of thebest men in the world. " She lifted her hands from her lap as she spokeand let them fall when she had finished. 

"Have you broken your engagement already?" said Mrs. Frankland, with astart. 

"What else could I do? You told me to stand by my work of healing. Ihope you were right, for it has cost me everything--everything. Ithought you had come to comfort me to-night and to strengthen my faith. Instead of that you have taken back all that you said before. "

"I only spoke generally before. I didn't know the circumstances. I didnot know anything about Mr. Millard, or--" Here she paused. 

"You didn't know about Mr. Millard's property or social position, Isuppose. These are what you have talked to me about this evening. Theyare not bad things to have, perhaps, but, if they were all, I could givethem up--trample them under foot, and be glad. "

"Don't be provoked with me, Phillida dear. Indeed, I hardly realizedwhat I said yesterday. I had just got through with speaking, I was verymuch exhausted, and I did not quite understand. "

"You may have been right yesterday, " said Phillida; "I hope you were. Ifyou were wrong, it was a dreadful mistake. " She made a long pause, andthen went on. "I thought the course you advised yesterday a brave courseat least. But what you have said to-day, about social position and soon, I hate. And it makes me doubt it all. "

Phillida thrust out the toe of her boot, unconsciously giving expressionto her disposition to spurn Mrs. Frankland's worldly-wise counsel. 

"You're excited, my dear, " said Mrs. Frankland. "Your break with Mr. Millard may not be so irretrievable as you think it. Providence willdirect. If, on the whole, it is thought best, I have no doubt things maybe replaced on their old footing. I am sure Mrs. Hilbrough and I couldmanage that. You ought not to be unreasonable. "

"I sent him in agony out into the rainy night, forsaken and discarded. "Phillida could not quite suppress a little sob as she stretched her handa moment in the direction in which Millard had gone. "God knows Ithought I was doing right. Now because you have heard that he has moneyand moves in fashionable circles you wish me to intrigue with you andMrs. Hilbrough to bring him back. "

Phillida rose to her feet, excitement breaking through the habitualreserve with which her emotional nature was overlaid. "I tell you, Mrs. Frankland, " she went on with a directness verging on vehemence, "that Iwill have none of your interference, nor any of Mrs. Hilbrough's. What Ihave done, is done, and can never be recalled. "

"Indeed, Phillida, you are excited, " said Mrs. Frankland. "You rejectthe advice and assistance of your best friends. You have quitemisunderstood what I have said. I only wished to repair my error. "

Phillida remained silent, but she resumed her seat. 

"Think the matter over. Take time to make your decision. I have actedonly in your interest, and yet you blame me. " Mrs. Frankland said thiswith persuasive plaintiveness of tone. 

But Phillida said nothing. Not seeing anything else to do, Mrs. Frankland rose and said: "Good-by, Phillida. When you have had time tothink you will see things differently. " She did not extend her hand, andPhillida felt that her own was too chill and limp to offer. Shecontrived, however, to utter a "Good-by. "

When she had shut the door after Mrs. Frankland one swift thought andbitter came into her mind. "Charley was not wholly wrong as to Mrs. Frankland. Perhaps he was nearer right in other regards than I thoughthim. "

Half an hour later the door-bell rang, and Agatha answered the call. Then she put her head into the parlor where Phillida sat, back to thedoor, gazing into the street. 

"I say, Philly, what do you think? Mr. Frankland came to the door justnow for his wife, and seemed quite crestfallen that she had forgottenhim, and left him to go home alone. Didn't like to be out so latewithout an escort, I suppose. "

It was one of a hundred devices to which Agatha had resorted during thisday to cheer her sister. But seeing that this one served its purpose nobetter than the rest, Agatha went over and put her arms about hersister's neck and kissed her. 

"You dear, dear Philly! You are the best in the world, " she said, andthe speech roused Phillida from her despair and brought her the balm oftears. 

XXVI. 

ELEANOR ARABELLA BOWYER. 

It is a truth deep and wide, that a brother is born for adversity. Thespirit of kin and clan, rooted in remote heredity, outlives other andlivelier attachments. It not only survives rude blows, but its truevirtue is only extracted by the pestle of tribulation. Having brokenwith her lover, and turned utterly away from her spiritual guide andadviser, Phillida found herself drawn more closely to her mother and hersister. It mattered little that they differed from her in regard to manythings. She could at least count on their affection, and that sympathywhich grows out of a certain entanglement of the rootlets of memory andconsciousness, out of common interest and long and intimate association. 

Mrs. Callender had been habituated when she was a little girl at home toleave the leadership to her sister Harriet, now Mrs. Gouverneur, and tokeep her dissents to herself. Her relation with her husband was similar;she had rarely tried to influence a man whose convictions of duty wereso pronounced, though the reasons for these convictions were often quitebeyond the comprehension of his domestically minded wife. TowardPhillida she had early assumed the same diffident attitude; it wasenough for her to say that Phillida was her father over again. Thatsettled it once for all. Phillida was to be treated as her father hadbeen; to be trusted with her own destiny without impertinent inquiriesfrom one who never could understand, though she deeply respected, themysterious impulses which urged these superior beings to philanthropictoil. For her own part she would have preferred to take the universeless broadly. 

A second effect of this crisis in Phillida's life was to drive her backupon the example and teaching of her father. Having utterly abandonedthe leadership of Mrs. Frankland, she naturally sought support for herself-sacrificing course of action outside of her own authority. All herfather's old letters, written to her when she was a child, wereunbundled and read over again, and some of his manuscript sermons hadthe dust of years shaken from their leaves that she might con theirpages written in the dear, familiar hand. 

If she had had her decision to make over again without any bolsteringfrom Mrs. Frankland she would have sought, for a while at least, toestablish a _modus vivendi_ between her love for Millard and the ultraform of her religious work. But the more she thought of it the more sheconsidered it unlikely that her decision regarding her lover would evercome up for revision. She accepted it now as something providential, because inevitable, to which she must grow accustomed, an ugly fact withwhich she must learn to live in peace. She had a knack of judging ofherself and her own affairs in an objective way. She would not refuse tosee merely because it was painful to her that a woman of her tastes andpursuits was an unsuitable mate for a man of society. She admitted theincongruity; she even tried to console herself with it. For if the breakhad not come so soon, it might have come after marriage in forms moredreadful. There was not much comfort in this--might have been worse isbut the skim-milk of consolation. 

To a nature like Phillida's one door of comfort, or at least of blessedforgetfulness, is hardly ever shut. After the first bitter week shefound hours of relief from an aching memory in her labors among thesuffering poor. Work of any kind is a sedative; sympathy with thesorrows of others is a positive balm. Her visits to the Schulenbergtenement were always an alleviation to her unhappiness. There she wasgreeted as a beneficent angel. The happiness of Wilhelmina, of hermother, and of her brother, for a time put Phillida almost at peace withher destiny. 

Her visits to and her prayers for other sufferers were attended withvarying success as to their ailments. The confidence in the healingpower of her prayers among the tenement people was not based altogetheron the betterment of some of those for whom she prayed. Knowing herpatient long-suffering with the evil she contended against, theyreasoned, in advance of proof, that her prayers ought to have virtue inthem. The reverence for her was enhanced by a report, which began tocirculate about this time, that she had refused to marry a rich man inorder to keep up her labor among the poor. Rumor is always an artist, and tradition, which is but fossil rumor, is the great saint-maker. Thenature and extent of Phillida's sacrifice were amplified and adapteduntil people came to say that Miss Callender had refused a youngmillionaire because he wished her not to continue her work inMackerelville. This pretty story did not mitigate the notoriety whichwas an ingredient of her pain. 

In spite of the sedative of labor and the consolation of altruism, Poe'sraven would croak in her ears through hours spent in solitude. In theevenings she found herself from habit and longing listening for thedoor-bell, and its alarm would always give her a moment of flutteringexpectation, followed by a period of revulsion. Once the bell rang atabout the hour of Millard's habitual coming, and Phillida sat in thatstate in which one expects without having reason to expect anything inparticular until the servant brought her a card bearing the legend, "Eleanor Arabella Bowyer, Christian Scientist and MetaphysicalPractitioner. "

"Eleanor Arabella Bowyer, " she said, reading it to her mother as theysat in the front basement below the parlor. "Who is she? I've neverheard of her. "

"I don't know, Phillida. I don't seem to remember any Bowyers. "

"Where is the lady, Sarah?" asked Phillida of the servant. 

"She is in the parlor, Miss. "

Phillida rose and went up-stairs. She found awaiting her a woman ratherabove medium height. Phillida noted a certain obtrusiveness about thebony substructure of her figure, a length and breadth of frameworknever quite filled out as it was meant to be, so that the joints andangles of her body showed themselves with the effect of headlands androcky promontories. She had a sallow complexion and a nose that wasretroussé, with a prompt outward and upward thrust about the lower halfof it, accompanied by a tendency to thinness as it approached itstermination, quite out of agreement with the prominent cheek-bones. Thewhole face had a certain air of tough endurance, of determination, ofresolute go-forwardness untempered by the recoil of sensitiveness. MissBowyer was clad in good clothes without being well-dressed. 

"Miss Callender, I suppose, " said the visitor, rising, and extending herhand with confidence. Her voice was without softness or resonance, butit was not nasal--a voice admirably suited, one would think, for callingcows. Her grasp of the hand was positive, square, unreserved, but asdestitute of sympathetic expression as her vowels. "I've heard a gooddeal about you, one way and another, " she said. "You've been remarkablysuccessful in your faith-cures, I am told. It's a great gift, and youmust be proud of it--grateful for it, I should think. " She closed thisspeech with a smile which seemed not exactly spontaneous but, rather, habitual, as though it were a fixed principle with her to smile at aboutthis stage of every conversation. 

Phillida was puzzled to reply to this speech. She did not feel proud ofher gift of faith-healing; hardly was she grateful for it. It was rathera burden laid on her, which had been mainly a source of pain andsuffering. But she could not bring herself to enter on a subject sopersonal with a stranger. 

"I don't know that I am, " was all she said. 

"Well, there's a great deal in it, " said Miss Bowyer. "I have had a gooddeal of experience. There's a great deal more in it than you think. "

"I don't quite understand you, " said Phillida. 

"No; of course not. I am a faith-healer myself. "

"Are you?" said Phillida, mechanically, with a slight mental shudder atfinding herself thus classified with one for whom she did not feel anyaffinity. 

"Yes; that is, I _was_. I began as a faith-doctor, but I found there wasa great deal more in it, don't you know?"

"A great deal more in it?" queried Phillida. "A great deal more of what, may I ask?"

"Oh, everything, you know. "

This was not clarifying, and Phillida waited without responding untilthe metaphysical practitioner should deign to explain. 

"I mean there's a great deal more science in it, as well as a great dealmore success, usefulness, and--and--and remuneration to be had out of itthan you think. "

"Oh, " said Phillida, not knowing what else to say. 

"Yes, " said Eleanor Arabella Bowyer with a smile. She had a way ofwaiting for the sense of her words to soak into the minds of herhearers, and she now watched Phillida for a moment before proceeding. "You see when I began I didn't know anything about ChristianScience, --the new science of mental healing, faith-cure, psychopathy, --by which you act on the spirit and through the spirit uponthe body. Matter is subject to mind. Matter is unreal. All merelyphysical treatment of disease is on the mortal plane. " Miss Bowyerpaused here waiting for this great truth to produce its effect; then shesaid, "Don't you think so?" and looked straight at Phillida. 

"I haven't thought a great deal about it, " said Phillida. 

"No?" This was said with the rising inflection. "I thought not; merefaith-healing doesn't require much thought. I know, you see, having beena faith-healer at first. But we must go deeper. We must always godeeper. Don't you think so?"

"I don't understand just what you mean, " said Phillida. 

"You see, " said Miss Bowyer, "faith-healing is a primitive and apostolicmode of healing the sick. "

Miss Bowyer paused, and Phillida said, "Yes, " in a hesitant way; foreven the things she believed seemed false when uttered by EleanorBowyer. 

"Well, ours is a scientific age. Now we practise--we revive this mode ofhealing, but in a scientific spirit, in the spirit of our age, and witha great deal more of knowledge than people had in ancient times. Wereject the belief in evil; we call it unreal. Disease is a mistake. Weteach faith in the unity of God the All-good. "

Miss Bowyer evidently expected Phillida to say something at this point, but as she did not, Miss Bowyer was forced to proceed withoutencouragement. 

"When I found that there was a great deal in it, I took the subject upand studied it. I studied mind-cure, or metaphysical healing, whichstrikes at the root of disease; I went into hypnotism, mesmerism, andphreno-magnetism, and the od force--I don't suppose you know about the_od_ which Reichenbach discovered. "

"No. "

"Well, it's wonderful, but mysterious. Blue blazes seen by thesensitive, and all that. I studied that, and theosophy a little too, andI took up Swedenborg; but he was rather too much for me. You can't quiteunderstand him, and then life is too short to ever get through him. So Ionly read what somebody else had printed about Swedenborgianism, and Iunderstand him a good deal better that way. That's the best way totackle him, you know. Well, now, all of these go to explain the unity oftruth, and how the miracles of the Bible were worked. "

Phillida said nothing, though her interlocutor gave her an opportunity. 

"Well, " proceeded Miss Bowyer, "this is what we call Christian Science. It's the science of sciences. It's as much above the rude method ofprimitive faith-cure practised by the apostles as the heavens are abovethe earth. We understand from knowing the philosophy of miracles thereason why we do not always succeed. We can not always secure theimpressible condition by producing the quiescence of the large brain. But if we understand the theory of hypnotism we shall be able to put thecerebrum at rest and secure the passive impressible state of thecerebellum; that is, an introverted condition of the mind. Thissecuring of interior perception is the basis of all success. "

"Then you do not believe that God does it all, " said Phillida, with atwitch of the shoulder expressing the repulsion she felt from thisincomprehensible explication. 

"Oh, yes. Faith in God the All-good is at the root of it all. It is oneof the things that induces passive receptivity. We must convince thepatient that the unity of God excludes the real existence of evil. "

"But still you do not admit the direct action of God?" queried Phillida. 

"God works through the forces in nature, according to law, " said MissBowyer, glibly. 

"That is just as true of the action of medicine, " said Phillida. "Idon't like this affecting to put God in while you leave him out of yourmixture. Besides, I don't pretend that I understand your explanation. "

"It is somewhat fine; all philosophy of man's internal nature is so. It's not a thing to argue about. Intellect argues; spirit perceives. Butif you would give your mind to Truth in a receptive way, Truth would setyou free. I am sure you would be convinced after reading the books onthe question. "

Phillida made no offer to read the books, and this seemed to disappointMiss Bowyer. After a pause she began again:

"You might as well know, Miss Callender, that I had a business object inview in coming to see you. Some of our Christian Science people are allenthusiasm, but I am trained to business, and I carry on my practice onbusiness principles. There is no reason why a doctor who treats diseaseson the mortal plane by medication should be paid for his time, and youand I not be. Is there?"

"I don't know, " said Phillida, mechanically. 

"Well, now, I have given my time to the beautiful work of ChristianScience healing. I have an office in East Fourteenth street. It is ablessed religious work. But I can't work without pay; I follow it as abusiness, and it's got to support me. I have as much right to get on inthe world as anybody else. Now I've cleared over and above myoffice-rent, including what I get for teaching a class in ChristianScience, almost eighteen hundred dollars in the very first year since Iset up. That's pretty good for a lone woman; don't you think so?"

Phillida slightly inclined her head to avoid speaking. 

"Well, now, I haven't got many advantages. My brother kept a health-lifta few years ago when everything was cured by condensed exercise. Butpeople got tired of condensed exercise, and then he had a blue-glasssolarium until that somehow went out of fashion. I helped run the femaleside of his business, you know, for part of the profits. My education isall business. I didn't have any time to learn painting or fine manners, or any music, except to play Moody-and-Sankeys on the melodeon. Mypractice is mostly among the poor, or the people that are only so-so. Ihaven't got the ways that go down with rich people, nor anybody to giveme a start among them. Well, now, I say to myself, science is all verywell, and faith is all very well, but you want something more than thatto get on in a large way. I would rather get on in a large way. Wouldn'tyou?"

Here she paused, but Phillida sat motionless and stoically attentive. She only answered, "Well, I don't know. "

"Now, when I heard that you'd been sent for to the Maginnis child, andthat you have got relations that go among rich people, I says to myself, she's my partner. I'll furnish the science, and I'll do the talking, andthe drumming-up business, and the collecting bills, and all that; andyou, with your stylish ways, don't you know? and your good looks, andyour family connections, and all that, will help me to get in where Iwant to get in. Once in, we're sure to win. There's no reason, MissCallender, why we shouldn't get rich. I will give you half of mypractice already established, and I'll teach you the science and how tomanage, you know; the great thing is to know how to manage yourpatients, you see. I learned that in the health-lift and the blue-glasssolarium. We'll move farther up town, say to West Thirty-fourth street. Then you can, no doubt, write a beautiful letter--that'll qualify us togo into what is called 'absent treatment. ' We'll advertise, 'Absenttreatment a specialty, ' and altogether we can make ten thousand or eventwenty thousand, maybe, a year, in a little while. Keep our owncarriage, and so on. What do you say to that?" Miss Bowyer's upliftednose was now turned toward Phillida in triumphant expectation. She hadnot long to wait for a reply. Phillida's feelings had gathered headenough to break through. She answered promptly:

"I do not believe in your science, and wouldn't for the world take moneyfrom those that I am able to help with my prayers. " Phillida said thiswith a sudden fire that dismayed Miss Bowyer. 

"But you'll look into the matter maybe, Miss Callender?"

"No; I will not. I hate the whole business. " Phillida wanted to add, "and you besides"; however, she only said: "Don't say any more, please. I won't have anything at all to do with it. " Phillida rose, but MissBowyer did not take the hint. 

"You're pretty high-toned, it seems to me, " said the Scientist, smiling, and speaking without irritation. "You're going to throw away the greatchance of your life. Perhaps you'll read some books that set forth themighty truths of Christian Science if I send them. You ought to be opento conviction. If you could only know some of the cases I myself havelately cured--a case of belief in rheumatism of three years' standing, and a case of belief in mental prostration of six years' duration. Ifyou could only have seen the joyful results. I cured lately an obstinatecase of belief in neuralgia, and another of cancer--advanced stage. Acase of belief in consumption with goitre was lately cured in the West. Perhaps you'll look over some numbers of the 'International Magazine ofChristian Science' if I send them to you; under the head of 'Sheavesfrom the Harvest Field, ' it gives many remarkable cases. "

"I have no time to read anything of the sort, " said Phillida, stillstanding. 

"Oh, well, then, I'll just come in now and then and explain thedifferent parts of the science to you. It's a great subject, and we mayget mutual benefit by comparing notes. "

The prospect of repeated calls from Eleanor Arabella Bowyer putPhillida's already excited nerves into something like a panic. She hadreached the utmost point of endurance. 

"No, " she said; "I will have nothing at all to do with it. You mustexcuse me; positively, I must be excused. I am very busy, and I can notpursue the subject further. "

"Certainly, " said the Metaphysical Practitioner, rising reluctantly;"but I think I'll take the liberty of calling again when you're more atleisure. You won't object, I'm sure, to my coming in next week?"

"Yes, " said Phillida; "I will not have anything to do with the matteryou propose, and I can not see you again. You must excuse me. "

"Well, we never get offended, Miss Callender. Christian Science does notargue. We never resent an affront, but live in love and charity withall. That is Christian Science. Our success depends on purity and aChristian spirit. I think I'll send you a little book, " added MissBowyer, as reluctantly she felt herself propelled towards the door bythe sheer force of Phillida's manner. "Just a little book; it won't takelong to read. "

As Miss Bowyer said this she paused in the vestibule with her back toPhillida. She was looking into the street, trying to think of some newdevice for gaining her end. 

"I won't read a book if you send it. Save yourself the trouble, " saidPhillida, softly closing the inner door behind Miss Bowyer, leaving herstanding face outwards in the vestibule. 

"You had a hard time shaking her off, didn't you, Philly?" said Agatha, issuing from the back part of the dark hall, having come out of the backroom just in time to catch a glimpse of Eleanor Bowyer. "I declare, theway you closed the door on her at the last was too good. "

"Sh-h!" said Phillida, pointing to the shadow cast against the groundglass of the inner door by the tall form of the Christian Scientist andMetaphysical Practitioner in the light of the street lamp. 

"I don't care whether she hears or not, " said Agatha, dropping hervoice, nevertheless; "she ought to be snubbed. You're a little too easy. That woman is meditating whether she sha'n't break into the house topreach Christian Science. There, she's going at last; she won't commitChristian burglary this time. I suppose she thinks burglary doesn'treally exist, since it's contrary to the unity of God. Anyhow, shewouldn't commit burglary, because housebreaking is a physical thingthat's transacted on the mortal plane. "

Agatha said this in Miss Bowyer's tone, and Phillida's vexation gave wayto laughter. 

XXVII. 

A BAD CASE. 

Notwithstanding Phillida's efforts to the contrary, the most irrelevantthings were sufficient to send her thoughts flitting--like homingpigeons that can ply their swift wings in but one direction--towardMillard, or toward that past so thickly peopled by memories of him. Nowthat Eleanor Arabella Bowyer, Christian Scientist and metaphysicalhealer of ailments the substantial existence of which she denied, hadcast a shadow upon her, Phillida realized for the first time the sourceof that indignant protest of Millard's which had precipitated thebreaking of their engagement. Her name was on men's lips in the sameclass with this hard-cheeked professor of religious flummery, thismercenary practitioner of an un-medical imposture calculated to cheatthe unfortunate by means of delusive hopes. How such mention of her musthave stung a proud-spirited lover of propriety like Millard! For thefirst time she could make allowance and feel grateful for his chivalrousimpulse to defend her. 

No child is just like a parent. Phillida differed from her strenuousfather in nature by the addition of esthetic feeling. Her education hadnot tended to develop this, but it made itself felt. Her lofty notionsof self-sacrifice were stimulated by a love for the sublime. Otheryoung girls read romances; Phillida tried to weave her own life intoone. The desire for the beautiful, the graceful, the externallyappropriate, so long denied and suppressed, furnished the basis of heraffection for Millard. A strong passion never leaves the nature thesame, and under the influence of Millard her esthetic sense had grown. Nothing that Eleanor Arabella Bowyer had said assailed the logicalgroundwork of her faith. But during the hours following thatconversation it was impossible for her to reflect with pleasure, as hadbeen her wont, on the benefits derived from her prayers by those who hadbeen healed in whole or in part through her mediation. A remembrance ofthe jargon of the Christian Scientist mingled with and disturbed hermeditations; the case of a belief in rheumatism and the case of a beliefin consumption with goitre stood grinning at her like rude burlesques ofher own cures, making ridiculous the work that had hitherto seemed soholy. But when the morrow came she was better able to disentangle herthoughts of healing from such phrases as "the passive impressible state"and "interior perception. " And when at length the remembrance of MissBowyer had grown more dim, the habitual way of looking at her workreturned. 

One morning about ten days later, while she was at breakfast, thebasement door-bell was rung, and when the servant answered it Phillidaheard some one in the area, speaking with a German accent. 

"Please tell Miss Callender that Rudolph Schulenberg will like to speakwith her. "

Phillida rose and went to the door. 

"Miss Callender, " said Rudolph, "Mina is so sick for three days alreadyand she hopes you will come to her right away this morning, wunst, ifyou will be so kind. "

"Certainly I will. But what is the matter with her? Is it the oldtrouble with the back?"

"No; it is much worse as that. She has got such a cough, and she can notbreathe. Mother she believe that Mina is heart-sick and will die wunstalready. "

"I will come in half an hour or so. "

"If you would. My mother her heart is just breaking. But Mina is surethat if Miss Callender will come and pray with her the cough will all goaway wunst more already. "

Phillida finished her breakfast in almost total silence, and thenwithout haste left the house. She distinctly found it harder to maintainher attitude of faith than it had been. But all along the street shebraced herself by prayer and meditation, until her spirit was once morewrought into an ecstasy of religious exaltation. She mounted thefamiliar stairs, thronged now with noisy-footed and vociferous childrenissuing from the various family cells on each level to set out forschool. 

"How do you do, Mrs. Schulenberg?" said Phillida, as she encountered themother on the landing in front of her door. "How is Wilhelmina?"

"Bad, very bad, " whispered the mother, closing the door behind her andlooking at Phillida with a face laden with despair. Then alternatelywiping her eyes with her apron and shaking her head ominously, she said:"She will never get well this time. She is too bad already. She istruly heart-sick. "

"Have you had a doctor?"

"No; Mina will not have only but you. I tell her it is no use to praywhen she is so sick; she must have a doctor. But no. "

"How long has she been sick?"

"Well, three or four days; but she was not well"--the mother put herhand on her chest--"for a week. She has been thinking you would come. "Mrs. Schulenberg's speech gave way to tears and a despairing shaking ofthe head from side to side. 

Phillida entered, and found Mina bolstered in her chair, flushed withfever and gasping for breath. The sudden change in her appearance wasappalling. 

"I thought if you would come, nothing would seem too hard for yourprayers. O Miss Callender, "--her voice died to a hoarse whisper, --"prayfor me, I wanted to die wunst already; you remember it. But ever since Ihave been better it has made my mother and Rudolph so happy again. Ifnow I die what will mother do?"

The spectacle of the emaciated girl wrestling for breath and pantingwith fever, while her doom was written upon her face, oppressed the mindof Phillida. Was it possible that prayer could save one so visiblysmitten? She turned and looked at the mother standing just inside thedoor, her face wrung with the agony of despair while she yet watchedPhillida with eagerness to see if she had anything to propose thatpromised relief. Then a terrible sense of what was expected of her bymother and daughter came over her mind, and her spirits sank as underthe weight of a millstone. 

Phillida was not one of those philanthropists whom use has enabled tolook on suffering in a dry and professional way. She was mostsusceptible on the side of her sympathies. Her depression came frompity, and her religious exaltation often came from the same source. After a minute of talk and homely ministry to Wilhelmina's comfort, Phillida's soul rose bravely to its burden. The threat of bereavementthat hung over the widow and her son, the shadow of death that fell uponthe already stricken life of the unfortunate young woman, might bedissipated by the goodness of God. The sphere into which Phillida rosewas not one of thought but one of intense and exalted feeling. Thesordid and depressing surroundings--the dingy and broken-backed chairs, the cracked and battered cooking-stove, the ancient chest of drawerswithout a knob left upon it, the odor of German tenement cookery and offeather-beds--vanished now. Wilhelmina, for her part, held Phillida fastby the hand and saw no one but her savior, and Phillida felt a moving ofthe heart that one feels in pulling a drowning person from the water, and that uplifting of the spirit that comes to those of the trueprophetic temperament. She read in a gentle, fervent voice some of theancient miracles of healing from the English columns of theleather-covered German and English Testament, while the exhaustedWilhelmina still held her hand and wrestled for the breath of life. 

Then Phillida knelt by the well-worn wooden-bottom chair while Mrs. Schulenberg knelt by a stool on the other side of the stove, burying herface in her apron. Never was prayer more sincere, never was prayer morewomanly or more touching. As Phillida proceeded with her recital ofWilhelmina's sufferings, as she alluded to the value of Mina to hermother and the absent Rudolph, and then prayed for the mercifulinterposition of God, the mother sobbed aloud, Phillida's faith rosewith the growing excitement of her pity, and she closed the prayer atlength without a doubt that Mina would be cured. 

"I do feel a little better now, " said Wilhelmina, when the prayer wasended. 

"I will bring you something from the Diet Kitchen, " said Phillida as shewent out. The patient had scarcely tasted food for two days, but whenPhillida came back she ate a little and thought herself better. 

Phillida came again in the afternoon, and was disappointed not to findMina improving. But the sick girl clung to her, and while Phillidaremained she would have nothing even from the hand of her mother. Thescene of the morning was repeated; again Phillida prayed, againWilhelmina was a little better, and ate a little broth from the hands ofher good angel. 

The burden of the poor girl and her mother rested heavily on Phillidaduring the evening and whenever she awakened during the night. Mrs. Callender and Agatha only asked how she found Wilhelmina; they thoughtit best not to intrude on the anxiety in Phillida's mind, the nature ofwhich they divined. 

When breakfast was over the next morning Phillida hastened again to theSchulenbergs. 

"Ah! it is no good this time; I shall surely die, " gasped Wilhelmina, sitting bolstered on her couch and looking greatly worse than the daybefore. "The night has been bad. I have had to fight and fight all thelong night for my breath. Miss Callender, my time has come. "

The mother was looking out of the window to conceal her tears. ButPhillida's courage was of the military sort that rises with supremedifficulty. She exhorted Wilhelmina to faith, to unswerving belief, andthen again she mingled her petitions with the sobs of the mother and thedistressful breathing of the daughter. This morning Wilhelmina grew nobetter after the prayer, and she ate hardly two spoonfuls of the broththat was given her. She would not take it from Phillida this time. Seeing prayers could not save her and that she must die, the instinctsof infancy and the memories of long invalidism and dependence were nowdominant, and she clung only to her mother. 

"You haf always loved me, mother; I will haf nobody now any more butyou, my mother, the time I haf to stay with you is so short. You will besorry, mother, so sorry, when poor unfortunate Wilhelmina, that hasalways been such a trouble, is gone already. "

This talk from the smitten creature broke down Phillida's self-control, and she wept with the others. Then in despondency she started home. Butat the bottom of the stairs she turned back and climbed again to thetop, and, re-entering the tenement, she called Mrs. Schulenberg to her. "You'd better get a doctor. "

Wilhelmina with the preternaturally quick hearing of a feverish invalidcaught the words and said: "No. What is the use? The doctor will wantsome of poor Rudolph's money. What good can the doctor do? I am just sogood as dead already. "

"But, Wilhelmina dear, " said Phillida, coming over to her, "we have noright to leave the matter this way. If you die, then Rudolph and yourmother will say, 'Ah, if we'd only had a doctor!'"

"That is true, " gasped Mina. "Send for Dr. Beswick, mother. "

A neighbor was engaged to carry the message to Dr. Beswick inSeventeenth street, and Phillida went her way homeward, slowly and indejection. 

XXVIII. 

DR. BESWICK'S OPINION. 

Dr. Beswick of East Seventeenth street was a man from the country, stillunder thirty, who had managed to earn money enough to get through theCollege of Physicians and Surgeons by working as a school-teacherbetween times. Ambitious as such self-lifted country fellows are apt tobe, he had preferred to engage in the harsh competition of themetropolis in hope of one day achieving professional distinction. To apoor man the first necessity is an immediate livelihood. Such favoritecross-streets of the doctors as Thirty-fourth, and the yet morefashionable doctor-haunted up-and-down thoroughfares, were for longyears to come far beyond the reach of a man without money or socialbacking, though Beswick saw visions of a future. He had planted himselfin Mackerelville, where the people must get their medical advice cheap, and where a young doctor might therefore make a beginning. Thesweetheart of his youth had entered the Training School for Nurses justwhen he had set out to study medicine. They two had waited long, but shehad saved a few dollars, and at the end of his second year in practice, his income having reached a precarious probability of five hundred ayear, they had married and set up office and house together in tworooms and a dark closet. There were advantages in this condensedarrangement, since the new Mrs. Beswick could enjoy the husband for whomshe had waited so long and faithfully, by sitting on the lounge in theoffice whenever she had sedentary employment--the same lounge that wasopened out at night into a bed. Both of the Beswicks were inured tosmall and hard quarters, and even these they had been obliged to sharewith strangers; since, therefore, they must lead a kind of camp life inthe crowded metropolis they found it delightful to season theirperpetual picnic with each other's society. And, moreover, two rooms fortwo people seemed by comparison a luxury of expansion. When youth andlove go into partnership they feel no hardships, and for the present themost renowned doctor in Madison Avenue was probably something less thanhalf as happy as these two lovers living in a cubbyhole with all theworld before them, though but precious little of it within their reachbeyond two well-worn trunks, three chairs, a table, and a bedsteadlounge. 

Dr. Beswick was profoundly unknown to fame, but he was none the less agreat authority on medicine as well as on most other things in theestimation of Mrs. Beswick, and, for that matter, of himself as well. Heliked, as most men do, to display his knowledge before his wife, and toher he talked of his patients and of the good advice he had given themand how he had managed them, and sometimes also of the mistakes of hiscompetitors; and he treated her to remarks on that favorite theme ofthe struggling general practitioner, the narrowness of the celebratedspecialists. When he came back from his visit to Wilhelmina it was witha smile lighting up all that was visible of his face between two thriftypatches of red side-whiskers. 

"The patient is not very sick, I should say from your face, " was Mrs. Beswick's remark as she finished sewing together the two ends of a pieceof crash for a towel. For this towel the doctor had made a kind ofroller, the night before, by cutting a piece off a broken mop-stick andhanging it on brackets carved with his jack-knife and nailed to thecloset-door. "I can always tell by your face the condition of thepatient, " added Mrs. Beswick. 

"That's where you're mistaken this time, my love, " he said triumphantly. "The Schulenberg girl will die within two weeks. " And he smiled again atthe thought. 

"What do you smile so for? You are not generally so glad to lose apatient, " she said, holding up the towel for his inspection, using herhand and forearm for a temporary roller to show it off. 

"Oh! no; not that, " he said, nodding appreciatively at the towel whilehe talked of something else. "I suppose I ought to be sorry for the poorgirl, and her mother does take on dreadfully. But this case'll explodethat faith-quackery if anything can. The Christian Science doctor, MissCullender, or something of the sort, made her great sensation over thisgirl, who had some trouble in her back and a good deal the matter withher nerves. "

"She's the one there was so much talk about, is she?" asked Mrs. Beswick, showing more animation than sympathy. 

"Yes; when her mind had been sufficiently excited she believed herselfcured, and got up and even walked a little in the square. That's whatgave the woman faith-doctor her run. I don't know much about thefaith-doctor, but she's made a pretty penny, first and last, out of thisSchulenberg case, I'll bet. Now the girl's going to die out of hand, andI understand from the mother that the faith-cure won't work. Thefaith-doctor's thrown up the case. "

"I suppose the faith-doctor believes in herself, " said the wife. 

"Naah!" said the doctor with that depth of contempt which only a ratheryoung man can express. "She? She's a quack and a humbug. Making moneyout of religion and tomfoolery. I'll give her a piece of my mind if sheever crosses my track or meddles with my patients. "

Crowing is a masculine foible, and this sort of brag is the naturalrecreation of a young man in the presence of femininity. 

Two hours later, a frugal dinner of soup and bread and butter havingbeen served and eaten in the mean time, and Mrs. Beswick having alsowashed a double set of plate, cup, saucer, knife, and fork, --there wereno tumblers; it seemed more affectionate and social in this turtle-dovestage to drink water from a partnership cup, --the afternoon hung alittle heavy on their hands. It was not his day at the dispensary, andso there was nothing for the doctor to do but to read a medical journaland wait for patients who did not come, while his wife sat and sewed. They essayed to break the ennui a little by a conversation whichconsisted in his throwing her a kiss upon his hand, now and then, andher responding with some term of endearment. But even this grewmonotonous. Late in the afternoon the bell rang, and the doctor openedthe door. There entered some one evidently not of Mackerelville, amodestly well-dressed young lady of dignified bearing and a gentle graceof manner that marked her position in life beyond mistake. Mrs. Beswickglanced hurriedly at the face, and then made a mental but descriptiveinventory of the costume down to the toes of the boots, risingmeanwhile, work in hand, to leave the room. 

"Please don't let me disturb you, " said the newcomer to the doctor'swife; "don't go. What I have to say to the doctor is not private. "

Mrs. Beswick sat down again, glad to know more of so unusual a visitor. 

"Dr. Beswick, I am Miss Callender, " said the young lady, accepting thechair the doctor had set out for her. "I called as a friend to inquire, if you don't mind telling me, what you think of Wilhelmina Schulenberg. "

When Dr. Beswick had made up his mind to dislike Miss Callender and tosnub her on the first occasion in the interest of science andprofessional self-respect, he had not figured to himself just this kindof a person. So much did she impress him that if it had not been for thenecessity he felt to justify himself in the presence of his wife hemight have put away his professional scruples. As it was he colored alittle, and it was only after a visible struggle with himself that hesaid:

"You know, Miss Callender, that I am precluded by the rules of theprofession from consultation with one who is not a regularpractitioner. "

Miss Callender looked puzzled. She said, "I did not know that I wasviolating proprieties. I did not know the rules were so strict. Ithought you might tell me as a friend of the family. "

"Don't you think you might do that, dear?" suggested Mrs. Beswick, whofelt herself drawn to this young lady, for Miss Callender had won herheart by an evident deference for Dr. Beswick's position andprofessional knowledge, and she was touched by a certain sadness in theface and voice of the visitor. 

The doctor relented when he found that his wife would sustain him in it. 

"I may answer your question if you ask it merely as a friend of thepatient, but not as recognizing your standing as a practitioner, " hesaid. 

Phillida answered with a quick flush of pain and surprise, "I am not apractitioner, Dr. Beswick. You are under some mistake. I know nothingabout medicine. "

"I didn't suppose you did, " said the doctor with a smile. "But are younot what they call a Christian Scientist?"

"I? I hate what they call Christian Science. It seems to me a lot ofnonsense that nobody can comprehend. I suppose it's an honest delusionon the part of some people and a mixture of mistake and imposture onthe part of others. "

"You have made a pretty good diagnosis, if you are not a physician, "said Dr. Beswick, laughing, partly at Phillida's characterization ofChristian Science and partly at his own reply, which seemed to him aremark that skillfully combined wit with a dash of polite flattery. "But, Miss Callender, --I beg your pardon for saying it, --people call youa faith-doctor. "

"Yes; I know, " said Phillida, compressing her lips. 

"Did you not treat this Schulenberg girl as a faith-healer?"

"I prayed for her as a friend, " said Phillida, "and encouraged her tobelieve that she might be healed if she could exercise faith. She _did_get much better. "

"I know, I know, " said the doctor in an offhand way; "a well-knownresult of strong belief in cases of nerve disease. But, pardon me, youhave had other cases that I have heard of. Now don't you think that thepractice of faith-healing for--for--compensation makes you apractitioner?"

"For compensation?" said Phillida, with a slight gesture of impatience. "Who told you that I took money?"

It was the doctor's turn to be confounded. 

"I declare, I don't know. Don't you take pay, though?"

"Not a cent have I ever taken directly or indirectly. " Phillida'salready overstrained sensitiveness on this subject now broke forth intosomething like anger. "I would not accept money for such a service forthe world, " she said. "In making such an unwarranted presumption youhave done me great wrong. I am a Sunday-school teacher and missionworker. Such services are not usually paid for, and such an assumptionon your part is unjustifiable. If you had only informed yourself better, Dr. Beswick--"

"I am very sorry, " broke in the doctor. "I didn't mean to be offensive. I--"

"Indeed, Miss Callender, " said Mrs. Beswick, speaking in a pleasant, full voice and with an accent that marked her as not a New Yorker, "hedidn't mean to be disrespectful. The doctor is a gentleman; he couldn'tbe disrespectful to a lady intentionally. He didn't know anything butjust what folks say, and they speak of you as the faith-doctor and thewoman doctor, you see. You must forgive the mistake. "

This pleading of a wife in defense of her husband touched a chord inPhillida and excited an emotion she could not define. There was that inher own heart which answered to this conjugal championship. She couldhave envied Mrs. Beswick her poverty with her right to defend the manshe loved. She felt an increasing interest in the quiet, broad-faced, wholesome-looking woman, and she answered:

"I know, Mrs. Beswick, your husband is not so much to blame. I spoke toohastily. I am a little too sensitive on that point. I don't pretend tolike to be talked about and called a faith-doctor. "

There was an awkward pause, which the doctor broke by saying presentlyin a subdued voice:

"In regard to your perfectly proper question, Miss Callender, I will saythat the Schulenberg young woman has acute pulmonary tuberculosis. "

"Which means?" queried Phillida, contracting her brows. 

"What people call galloping consumption, " said the doctor. "Now, I can'thelp saying, Miss Callender, "--the doctor's habitual self-contentmentregained sway in his voice and manner, --"that this particular sort ofconsumption is one of the things that neither medicine nor faith wasever known to heal since the world was made. This young woman's lungsare full of miliary tubercles--little round bodies the size of a milletseed. The tissues are partly destroyed already. You might as well try tomake an amputated leg grow on again by medicine or by prayer as to tryto reconstruct her lungs by similar means. She has got to die, and Ileft her only some soothing medicine, and told her mother there was nouse of making a doctor's bill. "

There was a straightforward rectitude in Dr. Beswick that inclinedPhillida to forgive his bluntness of utterance and lack of manner. Hereat least was no managing of a patient to get money, after the mannerhinted at by Miss Bowyer. The distinction between diseases that mightand those that might not be cured or mitigated by a faith-process, whichPhillida detected in the doctor's words, quickened again the doubtswhich had begun to assail her regarding the soundness of the belief onwhich she had been acting, and awakened a desire to hear more. Shewanted to ask him about it, but sensitiveness regarding her privateaffairs made her shrink. In another moment she had reflected that itwould be better to hear what was to be said on this subject from astranger than from one who knew her. The natural honesty and courage ofher nature impelled her to submit further to Dr. Beswick's rather bluntknife. 

"You seem to think that some diseases are curable by faith and some not, Dr. Beswick, " she said. 

"Certainly, " said Beswick, tipping his chair back and drumming on thetable softly with his fingers. "We use faith-cure and mind-cure incertain diseases of the nerves. Nothing could have been better for thatSchulenberg girl than for you to make her believe she could walk. Ishould have tried that dodge myself, but in a different way, if I hadbeen called. "

"Don't speak in that way, dear, " interposed Mrs. Beswick, softly, seeingthat Phillida was pained. 

"Why, what's the matter with that way?" said the doctor, good-naturedly. 

"Well, Miss Callender will think you are not honest if you talk abouttrying a dodge. Besides, I'm sure Miss Callender isn't the kind ofperson that would say what she didn't believe. It was no dodge withher. "

"No; of course not, " said the doctor. "I didn't mean that. "

"You do not admit any divine agency in the matter, doctor?" askedPhillida. 

"How can we? The starting-point of that poor girl's gallopingconsumption, according to the highest medical opinion of our time, is alittle organism called a bacillus. These bacilli are so small that tenthousand of them laid in a row lengthwise would only measure an inch. They multiply with great rapidity, and as yet we can not destroy themwithout destroying the patient. You might just as well go to prayingthat the weeds should be exterminated in your garden, or try to clearthe Schulenberg tenement of croton bugs by faith, as to try to heal thatyoung woman in that way. Did you ever look into the throat of adiphtheria patient?"

"No, " said Phillida. 

"Well, you can plainly see little white patches of false membrane there. By examining this membrane we have come to know the very species thatdoes the mischief--the _micrococcus diphtheriticus_. "

The conversation was naturally a little disagreeable to Phillida, whonow rose to depart without making reply. She went over and shook handswith Mrs. Beswick, partly from an instinctive kindness, judging from herspeech that she was a stranger in New York. Besides, she felt stronglydrawn to this simple and loyal-hearted woman. 

"If you'd like to come to the mission, Mrs. Beswick, " she said, "I'dtake pleasure in introducing you. You'd find good friends among thepeople there and good work to do. The mission people are not allfaith-healers like me. "

"Oh, now, I'd like them better if they were like you, Miss Callender. Ithink I'd like to go. I couldn't do much; I have to do my own work; thedoctor's practice is growing, but he hasn't been here long, you know. Ithink I might go"--this with a look of inquiry at her husband. 

"Why not?" said Dr. Beswick. He could not help seeing that theassociation of his wife with the mission might serve to extend hispractice, and that even Mrs. Beswick must grow tired after a while ofconversations with him alone, sugared though they were. 

When Phillida had gone the doctor's wife said to her husband that shenever had seen a nicer lady than that Miss Callender. "I just love her, "she declared, "if she does believe in faith-healing. "

"Ah, well, what I said to her will have its effect, " he replied, withsuppressed exultation. 

"You said just the right thing, my love. You 'most always do. But I wasafraid you would hurt her feelings a little. She doesn't seem veryhappy. "

XXIX. 

MILLARD AND RUDOLPH. 

Rudolph, coming home from work early on the next Saturday afternoon, sawMillard approaching from the other direction. With that appetite forsympathy which the first dash of sorrow is pretty sure to bring, theyoung man felt an impulse to accost the person who had thought enough ofhis sister's sufferings to give her a wheel-chair. 

"Mr. Millard!"

"Oh, yes; you are Wilhelmina Schulenberg's brother, " scrutinizing theyoung man. "And how is your sister now?"

Rudolph shook his head gloomily. 

"She can not live many days already; she will be dying purty soon. "

"What? Sick again? Then Miss Callender's cure did not last. "

"Ah, yes; her back it is all right. But you see maybe praying is notstrong for such sickness as she has now. It is quick consumption. "

"Poor child!" said Millard. 

"She has been very unlucky, " said Rudolph. "We are all very unlucky. Myfather he died when I was little, and my mother she had to work hard, and I soon had also to work. And then Whilhelmina she got sick, and itgave mother trouble. "

"Has Miss Callender seen your sister?"

"Yes; she did not tell you already?" queried Rudolph. 

"I have not seen her for a long time, " said Millard. 

"Oh!" exclaimed Rudolph, and went no farther. 

"Did she--did she not try to make your sister well?"

"Yes; but believing is all good enough for the back, but it is no goodwhen you're real sick insides. You see it is consumption. "

"Yes; I see, " said Millard. A rush of feeling came over him. Heremembered Mina Schulenberg as she sat that day about a year ago--theday of his engagement--near the bust of Beethoven in the park. She hadbeen the beginning and in some sense she had been the ending of hisengagement. Millard walked away from Rudolph in a preoccupied way. Suddenly he turned and called after him:

"I say--Schulenberg!"

The young man faced about and came back. Millard said to him in a lowvoice and with feeling: "Will you let me know if your sister dies? Comestraight to me. Don't say anything about it, but maybe I can show myselfa friend in some way. Here's my address at home, and between nine andthree I'm at the Bank of Manhadoes. "

Rudolph said yes, and tried to thank him, but Millard strode away, hismind reverting to the poor girl whose now fast-withering life seemed tohave some occult relation to his own, and thinking, too, of Phillida'sunfaltering ministrations. What mistakes and delusions could not beforgiven to one so unwearyingly good? Why did he not share her reproachwith her, and leave her to learn by time and hard experience? Suchthoughts stung him sorely. And this death, under her very hand, of theSchulenberg girl must be a sore trial. Would she learn from failure? Orwould she resolutely pursue her course?

Millard was not a man to lament the inevitable. Once he and Phillida hadbroken, he had set out to be what he had been before. But who shallcause the shadow to go backward upon the dial of Ahaz? When was a humanbeing ever the same after a capital passion that he had been before?Millard had endeavored to dissipate his thoughts in society and atplaces of amusement, only to discover that he could not revolve again inthe orbit from which he had been diverted by the attraction of Phillida. 

Business, in so far as it engrossed his thoughts, had produced atemporary forgetfulness, and of business he now had a great deal. Farnsworth, who had contrived to give everybody connected with the Bankof Manhadoes more uneasiness than one could reasonably expect from a manwhose vitality was so seriously impaired, died about this time, justwhen those who knew him best had concluded that he was to be exemptedfrom the common lot. He died greatly regretted by all who had known him, and particularly by those who had been associated with him in theconduct of the bank from its foundation. So ran the words of theobituary resolutions drafted by Masters, adopted by the Board ofDirectors of the bank, printed in all the newspapers, and engrossed forthe benefit of his widow and his posterity. Posterity indeed gets moreout of such resolutions than contemporaries, for posterity is able toaccept them in a more literal sense. Hilbrough's ascendency in the bank, and his appreciation of Millard, in spite of the latter's symmetricalway of parting his hair, the stylish cut he gave his beard, and theequipoise with which he bore his slender cane, procured the latter'spromotion to the vacant cashiership without visible opposition. Meadowswould have liked to oppose, but he found powerful motives to thecontrary; for Meadows himself was more and more disliked by members ofthe board, and his remaining there depended now on the good-will ofHilbrough. He therefore affected to be the chief advocate, and indeedthe original proposer, of Millard for the place. 

The advancement carried with it an increase of dignity, influence, andsalary, which was rather gratifying to a man at Millard's time of life. It would have proved a great addition to his happiness if he could onlyhave gone to Phillida and received her congratulations and based asettlement of his domestic affairs upon his new circumstances. He didplan to take a larger apartment next year and to live in a little betterstyle, perhaps also to keep horses; but the prospect was notinteresting. 

While he sat one evening debating such things the electric bell of hisapartment was rung by the conductor of the freight-elevator, who came tosay that there was a German man in the basement inquiring for Mr. Millard. His name was Schulenberg. Rudolph had come in by the mainentrance, but the clerk, seeing that he was a workingman, had spoken tohim with that princely severity which in a democratic country few buthotel and house clerks know how to affect, and had sent him packingdown-stairs, out of sight, where he could have no chance to lower therespectability of a house in which dwelt scores of people whose nameswere printed in the Social Register, they subscribing for the same at agood round price. 

Rudolph had lost his way two or three times before he could find theentrance to the lift, but at the convenience of the elevator-man he washoisted to Millard's floor. When he presented himself he lookedfrightened at being ushered into a place accessible only by means of somuch ceremony and by ways so roundabout. 

"Mr. Millard, my sister has just died. You told me to tell you already, "he said, standing there and grasping his cap firmly as though it werethe only old friend he had to help him out of the labyrinth. 

"When did she die?" asked Millard, motioning the young fellow to achair. 

"Just now. I came straight away. "

"Who is with your mother?"

"Miss Callender and a woman what lifs in the next room. "

Millard mused a minute, his vagrant thoughts running far away fromRudolph. Then recovering himself he said:

"Have you money enough for the funeral?"

"I haf fifteen dollars, already, that I haf been puttin' in the GermaniaSpar Bank for such a trouble. I had more as that, but we haf had badluck. My uncle he will maybe lend me some more. "

"What do you work at?"

"Mostly odd jobs. I had a place in a lumber-yard, but the man he failedup already. I am hopin' that I shall get something more steady soon. "

"It will be pretty hard for you to go in debt. "

"Yes, " with a rueful shrug. "But we're unlucky. Poor folks 'mos' alwaysis unlucky already. "

"Well, now, you let me pay these expenses. Here's my card. Tell theundertaker to send his bill to me. He can come to the bank and inquireif he should think it not all right. But don't tell anybody about it. "

"I thank you very much, very, very much, Mr. Millard; it will make mymother feel a leetle better. And I will pay you wheneffer I haf the goodluck to get some money. "

"Don't worry about that. Don't pay me till I ask you for it. Was MissCallender with you when your sister died?"

"Yes. Oh, yes; she is better as anybody I effer see. "

Millard said no more, and Rudolph thanked him again, put on his cap, andwent out to try his luck at finding the door to the freight-elevator fora descent from this lofty height to the dark caves of thebasement--vaulted caves with mazes of iron pipes of all sizes overhead, the narrow passages beset by busy porters bearing parcels and trunks, and by polyglot servants in dress-coats and white aprons running hitherand thither with trays balanced on their finger-tips and mostly quiteabove replying to the questions of a bewildered intruder clad introusers of well-worn brown denim. 

XXX. 

PHILLIDA AND PHILIP. 

Mrs. Gouverneur concluded not to try her clever hand on Millard andPhillida again. Pessimistic Philip could no longer reproach her forhaving blasted his hopes, for he had a new chance if he chose to improveit. But to improve any opportunity seemed to be out of Philip's power, except perhaps the opportunity to spend his last available dollars on arare book. He had of late been seeking a chance to invest some hundredsin a copy of Captain John Smith's "Generall Historie of Virginia, "provided that he could find a copy with 1624 on the title-page. The 1626was rare and almost, if not exactly, word for word the same as the 1624;but it would not do. For there were already several twenty-sixes in thiscountry, and there was no fun in possessing a book that two or threeother people could boast of having. When not busy with his books Philipwas mostly crouched in an armchair in his library, or for a changecrouched in an armchair at the Terrapin Club--in either case smokingand, as his mother believed, making profound reflections which might oneday come to something. For how could a bright-minded man like Philipfail to bring forth something of value, seeing he bought expensivebooks and gave so much of his time to meditation?

That Phillida should be specially asked to dine at her aunt's was ratherinevitable under the circumstances, and Mrs. Gouverneur saw to it thatshe came when Philip was at home and when there was no other company. This arrangement pleased Phillida; Uncle Gouverneur was dull enough, butCousin Philip was always interesting in talk, and a good fellow, if hedid spend his life in collecting books mostly of no particular value toanybody but a curiosity-hunter, and in poking good-natured fun at otherpeople's cherished beliefs. 

The meal was well-nigh finished when Philip said to his cousin whoconfronted him--there were only four at the table:

"Phillida, I saw Mrs. Maginnis day before yesterday at Mrs. Benthuysen's. She is still sounding your praises as a faith-healer, butshe confided to me that a pious girl and a minister's daughter ought notto be proud. She suggested that you didn't get that from your father. 'Her pride comes from the mother's side, they tell me, ' she said. 'How'sthat, Mr. Gouverneur?' and she laughed at what she regarded a capitaldrive at me. "

Phillida was not pleased at the mention of Mrs. Maginnis. Since thedeath of Wilhelmina, two weeks before, her mind had been disturbed as tothe substantial value of faith-cures. Dr. Beswick's rationalism on thesubject rose to trouble her. Happily she had not been sent for to visitany new cases, the death of Wilhelmina, her first notable example, having a little spoiled the charm of her success, as Dr. Beswick hadforeseen. Doubt had made her cowardly, and there lurked in her mind ahope that she might no more be called upon to exercise her gift in thedirection of faith-healing, and that she might thus without thenecessity of a formal decision creep out of responsibility and painfulnotoriety in a matter concerning which she could not always feelabsolutely sure of her ground. To this shrinking the revolt of her tasteagainst such getters-on as Miss Bowyer had contributed, for her mind wasafter all that of a young woman, and in a young woman's mind taste islikely to go for more than logic. To Philip's words about Mrs. Maginnisshe only replied:

"Curious woman, isn't she?"

"Yes, " interposed Mrs. Gouverneur, desirous of turning the talk awayfrom what she saw was a disagreeable subject to Phillida--"yes; and Idon't see the use of taking such people into society in such a hurry, merely because they _are_ exceedingly rich. "

"Mrs. Maginnis is respectable enough, " said Philip, "and interesting, "he added with a laugh; "and I thought her the most brilliant of theparty at Mrs. Benthuysen's, taking her diamond necklace into theaccount. "

"Yes; no doubt she's entirely respectable, " said Mrs. Gouverneur. "Soare ten thousand other people whom one doesn't care to meet in society. It seems to me that New York society is too easy nowadays. "

"It's not too easy toward the poor; eh, Phillida?"

"That's no great deprivation to the poor, " said Phillida. "They couldnot indulge in fashionable amusements anyhow, and some of the mostsensible among them believe that the families of fairly prosperousworkingmen are happier and more content than the rich. "

"Certainly people in the social world are not examples of peace ofmind, " said Philip. "For me, now, I would have sworn last week that Ishould be as perfectly happy as a phoebe-bird on a chimneytop if I couldonly get a John Smith of 1624, which I've been trying for so long. But Igot it yesterday, and now I'm just miserable again. "

"You want something else?" queried Phillida, laughing. 

"Indeed I do. You see the splendid John Smith looks lonesome. It needs acomplete set of De Bry's Voyages to keep it company. But I couldn't finda complete De Bry for sale probably, and I couldn't afford to buy it ifI should stumble on it. John Smith has eaten up the remainder of my bookallowance for this year and nibbled about two hundred dollars out ofnext year. "

When dinner was over Philip said:

"Come up-stairs, Phillida, you and mother, and see my lovely old CaptainSmith in the very first edition, with the fresh-looking portrait ofPocahontas as Lady Rebecca. "

"You go, Phillida; I'll follow you in a minute, " said Mrs. Gouverneur. 

"The book is of the earliest impression known, " went on Philip withenthusiasm as he led the way up-stairs followed by his cousin, "and isperfect throughout except that one page has been mended. "

"Mended?" queried Phillida, as she followed Philip into his library andsitting room. "Do they darn old books as they do old stockings?"

"Oh, yes! it is a regular trade to patch books. "

Saying this, Philip turned up the gas, and then unlocked a glass casewhich held what he called his "nuggets, " and took down the two preciousvolumes of the bravest and boastfullest of all the Smiths, laying themtenderly on a table under the chandelier. Turning the leaves, hedirected Phillida's attention to one that seemed to have the slightestdiscoloration of one corner; rather the corner seemed just perceptiblyless time-stained than the rest of the leaf. 

"There, " he said; "the most skillful mender in London did that. "

"Did what?" said Phillida. 

"Put on that corner. Isn't it a work of art?"

"I don't see that anything has been done there, " said Phillida. "Thecorner is ever so little paler than the rest, maybe. "

"That is the new piece. The mender selected a piece of hand-made paperof similar texture to the old, and stained the new piece as nearly tothe tint of the old leaf as possible. Then he beveled the edge of theleaf, and made a reverse bevel on the piece, and joined them withexquisite skill and pains. "

Phillida held the leaf between her and the light, regarding it withwonder, hardly able to believe that a piece had been affixed. 

"But, Philip, how did he get a corner with the right printing on it? Theline where the two are joined seems to run through the middle of wordsand even through the middle of letters. "

"All the letters and parts of letters on the corner were made by thehand of the mender. He has imitated the ink and the style of the ancientletters. Take this magnifying glass and you may be able to detect thedifference between the hand-made letters in the new part and the printedones. But to the naked eye it is perfect. "

"What a genius he must be!" said Phillida. "I should think that the bookwould be worth more than if it had never been torn. Do they ever tear apiece out just for the sake of mending it?"

"On the contrary, it would have added fifty dollars to the price of thiscopy if the original page had been complete, or if it could have beenmended without a possibility of detection--say by a process offaith-cure. "

Philip said this laughing, as he set a chair for Phillida, and then satdown himself. 

"I beg pardon, Phillida. I oughtn't to jest about what you--feel--to besacred. "

Phillida colored, and compressed her lips a little. Then she said:

"I don't think I ought to refuse to hear anything you have to say aboutfaith-cure, Philip. You evidently differ with me. But I want to know thetruth; and I--" here Phillida made a long pause, smoothing out the foldsof her gown the meanwhile. "I will tell you, Cousin Phil, that I am notalways so confident as I used to be about the matter. "

Mrs. Gouverneur looked into the room at this moment, but perceivingthat the conversation had taken on a half-confidential tone, she onlysaid:

"I'll have to leave you with Philip a little longer, Phillida. I havesome things to see to, " and went out again. 

Philip went to a drawer of rare old prints, and turned them over rapidlyuntil he came to one of Charles II. Touching for the king's evil. 

"There, " he said; "Charles was a liar, a traitor who took money tobetray the interests of his country, and a rake of the worst. Youwouldn't believe that he could cure sickness by any virtue in his royaltouch. Yet great doctors and clergymen of the highest ranks certifyincredible things regarding the marvelous cures wrought by him. If onemight believe their solemn assertions, more cures were wrought by himthan by any other person known to history. The only virtue that Charlespossessed was lodged in his finger-tips. "

"How do you account for it?"

"The evidence of a cure is the obscurest thing in the world. People getwell by sheer force of nature in most cases. Every patent medicine andevery quack system is therefore able to count up its cures. Then, too, many diseases are mere results of mental disturbance or depression. Themind has enormous influence on the body. I know a doctor who cured awoman that had not walked for years by setting fire to the bedding whereshe lay and leaving her a choice to exert herself or be burned. "

"But there are the cures by faith related in the Bible. I am afraidthat if I give up modern cures I must lose my faith in miracles, " saidPhillida. An unusual tenderness in Philip's speech had dissipated herreserve, and she was in a mood to lay bare her heart. In this lastremark she disclosed to Philip her main difficulty. With a mind likehers such things are rather matters of association than of simple logic. Religion and miracles were bound up in the same bundle in her mind. Toreject the latter was to throw away the former, and this, by anotherhabitual association in her mind, would have seemed equivalent to themoral subversion of the universe. On the other hand she had associatedmodern faith-healing with Scripture miracles; the rejection offaith-cures involved therefore a series of consequences that seemedinfinitely disastrous. 

If it had been merely an abstract question Philip would not havehesitated to reject the miraculous altogether, particularly in anyconversation in which such a rejection would have yielded interestingresults. But Phillida's confiding attitude touched him profoundly. Afterall, he deemed faith a very good thing for a woman; unbelief, likesmoking and occasional by-words, was appropriate only to the coarsersex. 

"Well, " he replied evasively, "the Bible stands on a very differentground. We couldn't examine the ancient miracles just as we do modernfaith-cures if we wished. The belief in Bible miracles is a poetic andreligious belief, and it does not involve any practical question ofaction to-day. But faith-healing now is a matter of greatresponsibility. "

Philip spoke with a tremor of emotion in his voice. His cousin wassitting at the other side of the table looking intently at him, anddoing her best to understand the ground of his distinction betweenancient and modern miracles, which Philip, agitated as he was by afeeling that had no relation to the question, did not succeed inclearing up quite to his own satisfaction. Abandoning that fieldabruptly, he said:

"What I urge is that you ought not to trust too much to accidentalrecoveries like that of the Maginnis child. If faith-healing is amistake it may do a great deal of harm. "

Phillida's eyes fell to the table, and she fingered a paper-weight withmanifest emotion. 

"What you say in regard to responsibility is true, Philip. But if youhave a power to heal, refusal is also a responsibility. I know I mustseem like a fool to the rest of you. "

"No, " said Philip, in a low, earnest voice; "you are the noblest of usall. You are mistaken, but your mistake is the result of the best thatis in you; and, by George! Phillida, there is no better in anybody thatlives than there is in you. "

This enthusiastic commendation, so unexpected by Phillida, who had feltherself in some sense under the ban of her family, brought to theparched and thirsty heart the utmost refreshment. She trembled visibly, and tears appeared in her eyes. 

"Thank you, Philip. I know the praise is not deserved, but your kindnessdoes me no end of good. "

Mrs. Gouverneur came in at this moment. Phillida's eyes and Philip'sconstraint showed her that something confidential had passed betweenthem, and she congratulated herself on the success of her plan, thoughshe could not divine the nature of the conversation. Phillida would notbe a brilliant match for Philip in a worldly point of view, but it hadlong been a ruling principle with Mrs. Gouverneur that whatever Philipwanted he was to have, if it were procurable, and as the husband of sucha woman as Phillida he ought to be a great deal happier than in mousingamong old books and moping over questions that nobody could solve. Besides, Phillida possessed one qualification second to no other in Mrs. Gouverneur's opinion--there could be no question that her family was afirst-rate one, at least upon the mother's side. The intrusion of athird person at this moment produced a little constraint. To relievethis Mrs. Gouverneur felt bound to talk of something. 

"I scold Philip for wasting his time over old books and such trifles, "she said to Phillida. "I wish you could persuade him out of it. "

"Trifles!" exclaimed Philip. "Trifles are the only real consolation ofsuch beings as we are. They keep us from being crushed by theimmensities. If we were to spend our time chiefly about the momentousthings, life would become unendurable. "

The conversation drifted to indifferent subjects, and Philip talked withan unwonted gayety that caused Phillida to forget her anxieties, whileMrs. Gouverneur wondered what change had come over her son that heshould feel so much elation. The confidence and affection that Phillidahad exhibited while conversing with him this evening consoled Philip forthe misery of having to live, and his cheerfulness lasted throughout hervisit. At its close he walked towards her home, with her hand upon hisarm, in an atmosphere of hope which he had not been accustomed tobreathe. At the door Phillida said:

"Good-night, Cousin Philip. Thank you for the kind advice you have givenme. I don't think I shall agree with it, but I'll think about it. " Thenin a low voice she added, "If I have made a mistake it has cost medear--nobody knows how dear. "

After he had left her Philip's buoyancy declined. These last words, evidently full of regrets as regarded her relation with Charley, gavehim a twinge of his old jealousy and restored him to his habitualdiscouragement. 

XXXI. 

A CASE OF BELIEF IN DIPHTHERIA. 

It was inevitable that Phillida should turn Philip's talk over in hermind again and again. There were moments when she felt that her healingpower might be as much of a delusion as the divinity in the touch of themerry King Charles. There were other times when Dr. Beswick's infectingbacteria germinated in her imagination and threatened destruction to herfaith, and yet other times when sheer repulsion from Miss Bowyer's cantof metaphysical and Christian therapeutics inclined her to renounce thebelief in faith-cure, which seemed somehow a second cousin to thisgrotesque science. But the great barrier remained; in her mindfaith-healing had associated itself with other phases of religiousbelief, and she could find no resting-place for her feet betwixt herfaith and Philip's ill-concealed general skepticism. She did go so faras to adopt Philip's opinion that an exclusive occupation of the mindwith the immensities rendered life unendurable. She came to envy hercousin his eagerness over unreadable Indian Bibles, black-letterCaxtons, and a rare date on a title-page. She envied Millard thediversion that came to him from his interest in people, his taste indress, his care for the small proprieties, his love for all the minorgraces of life. Why should she alone of the three be crushed beneath thetrip-hammer of the immensities? But she ended always as she had begun, by reverting to that ancestral spirit of religious strenuousness inwhich she had been bred and cradled, and by planting herself once moreupon the eleventh of Hebrews and the renowned victories of faith thathad been the glory of the Church in every age. To leave this groundseemed to her an abandonment by consequence of all that was dearest andnoblest in life. Nor was she aware that with each cross-examination herhold on the cherished belief became less firm. 

About two weeks after her talk with Philip she had just concluded afresh conflict of this sort, and settled herself once more in what sheintended should hereafter prove an unwavering faith in the efficacy ofprayer, at least in certain cases, even against all sorts of bacteria, when it was announced that Mr. Martin wished to see her. It was eighto'clock, and the evening was a raw and rainy one in March. 

"Howdy do, Miss Callender? How's all with you?" said Martin, whenPhillida appeared at the door. 

"How do you do, Mr. Martin?" she said. "Won't you come in?"

"No, thank you, " said Martin, standing shivering in the vestibule, hissolemn face looking neither more nor less like mortuary sculpture thanit ever did. "Mother wants to know if you won't come down right awaythis evening. Our Tommy is seemingly sick. "

"Seemingly sick?" asked Phillida. "How do you mean?"

"He's got a belief in a sore throat, " said Mr. Martin, "and he'sseemingly not well. Mother'd like to see you. "

After a moment of puzzled thought Phillida comprehended that this way ofspeaking of disease was a part of the liturgy of Christian Science. Shecould not persuade Mr. Martin into the parlor; he waited in thevestibule while she got ready to go. Once out on the wet sidewalk hesaid:

"It's all the fault of the infant-class teacher, down at the Mission. "

"What is the fault of the infant-class teacher, Mr. Martin?" askedPhillida with some surprise. 

"This seeming sore throat of Tommy's. "

"How can that be? I don't understand. "

"Well, you see she talked to the children last Sunday aboutswearing and other such sins of speech. Now sin and disease arecor--what-you-may-call-it. Tommy he came home with that big head ofhis running on the talk about swearing, and in two days here he iswith a--a belief in a sore throat. If I had my way I'd take thechildren out of Sunday-school. But mother will have her own way, you know, and I ain't anywhere when it comes to anything likethat. "

Phillida said nothing in reply to this, and presently Mr. Martin beganagain:

"It ain't my doing, the getting you to come and pray for Tommy. I wantedsomebody ruther more scientific; Miss Bowyer she knows the cause andeffect of things. But mother ain't enlightened yet, and she declared upand down against Miss Bowyer. And I declared up and down against doctorsthat can only cure sickness on the mortal plane. So, you see, wecomp'omised on you. But I let mother know that if she would be soobs'inate ag'inst Miss Bowyer I wa'n't risponsible for the consequences;they'd be on her head. She can't say that I'm risponsible. "

Phillida shuddered, and made a motion as of drawing her sack moreclosely about her. 

"Though for that matter, " Martin went on, "Tommy's kind of settled thething himself. He declared up and down that he didn't want Miss Bowyer, and he declared up and down he didn't want a man doctor. What he wantedwas Dick's Sunday-school teacher. And neither one of us kind of liked torefuse him anything, seeing he's sick; and so that kind of settled it. And so the risponsibility'll be--I don't know where--unless it's onyou. "

Phillida found Tommy in a state of restlessness and dullness, complaining of difficulty in swallowing. Mrs. Martin was uneasy lestthere should be something malignant about the attack; but to Phillidathe case seemed an ordinary one, not likely to prove serious. She heldTommy in her arms for a while and this was a solace to the littlefellow. Then she prayed with him, and at half-past nine she returnedhome leaving Tommy sleeping quietly. When she neared her own door shesuddenly bethought her that she had not seen the other children. Sheturned to Mr. Martin, who was walking by her side in silence and with ameasured stride that would have been very becoming to an undertaker, butwith which Phillida found it quite impossible to keep step. 

"I didn't see the rest of the children, Mr. Martin; where are they?" sheasked. 

"Well, a neighbor acrost the street come over to-day and took 'em away. She didn't know but it might be dip'thery. "

"Have you had any diphtheria in your neighborhood?"

"Well, yes; the caretaker of our flats down on the first floor of thenext house lost a child last week by a belief in dip'thery. The neighboracrost the street thought Tommy might have got it, but we didn't believeit. But it made mother kind of uneasy, and she wanted to see you or adoctor to-night. For my part, I knew that it was the talk of theinfant-class teacher that was at the bottom of it, dip'thery or not. Sinoughtn't to be mentioned to a child. It's likely to break out into abelief about sickness. "

Phillida's spirits suddenly sank to zero. Alarm at the responsibilityshe had taken got the better of her faith by surprise, and she said:

"Mr. Martin, get a doctor. It may be diphtheria. "

"Why, what if it is?" said Mr. Martin. "It's better to treat it on aspiritual plane. No, I'm not a-going back on my faith in the very wordsof the Bible. "

"But, Mr. Martin, I don't feel sure enough to want to be responsible forTommy's life. You must get a doctor as you go home. You go almost pastDr. Beswick's in Seventeenth street. "

"No, I won't do that; I'd made up my mind already that your treatmentwa'n't thorough enough. You haven't had the experience; you haven'tstudied the nature of disease and the cor-what-you-may-call-it betweensin and sickness. I'll call Miss Bowyer if Tommy don't mend beforemorning. "

Just then it began to rain again. The sudden plash of the downpour andPhillida's instinctive impulse to get quickly under shelter interruptedthe conversation. A minute later Miss Callender was standing in thevestibule with a weeping umbrella in her hand, while she heard Mr. Martin's retreating footsteps, no whit hurried by the fitful gusts ofrain, or the late hour, or the illness at home. 

She thought of running after him, but of what use would that be, seeinghis obstination against treating diseases on the mortal plane? She wouldhave liked to go home with him and beg the mother to send for a doctor;but she could not feel sure that this would serve the purpose, and whileshe debated the rain came on in driving torrents, and the steady beat ofMr. Martin's steps was lost in the distance and the rush of waters. Invain she told her mother that the child did not seem very ill, in vainshe told herself during the night that Tommy had only an ordinary cold. She was restless and wakeful the night long; two or three times shelighted a match and looked at the slow-going clock on the mantelpiece. 

In that hour unbelief in the validity of her cures came into her mindwith a rush that bore down all barriers before it. Her mind went overto Dr. Beswick's side of the question, and she saw her success in somecases as the mere effect on the nervous system. In the bitterness ofsomething like despair she thought herself a deluded and culpableenthusiast, worthy of ridicule, of contempt, of condemnation. There wereno longer any oscillations of her mind toward the old belief; thefoundations of sand had been swept away, and there was no space to makea reconstruction. Scarcely could she pray; unbelief tardily admittedthreatened to revenge itself for the long siege by sacking the wholecity. She was almost ready to plunge into Philip's general skepticism, which had seemed hitherto a horrible abyss. At a quarter to five o'clockshe lighted the gas, turning it low so as not to disturb the others. Shedressed herself quickly, then she wrote a little note in which she said:

 I am uneasy about Mrs. Martin's child, and have gone down there. Back to breakfast. PHILLIDA. 

This she pinned to Agatha's stocking, so that it would certainly beseen. Then she threw an old gray shawl over her hat, drawing it abouther head, in order to look as much as possible like a tenement-housedweller running an early morning errand, hoping thus to escape thecuriosity that a well-dressed lady might encounter if seen on the streetat so early an hour. The storm and the clouds had gone, but the air wasmoist from the recent rain. When she sallied forth no dawn wasperceptible, though the street lamps were most of them already out. Just as the sky above Greenpoint began to glow and the reeking streetstook on a little gray, Phillida entered the stairway up which shestumbled in black darkness to the Martin apartment. 

The Martins were already up, and breakfast was cooking on the stove. 

"Is that you, Miss Callender?" said Mrs. Martin. "I didn't expect you atthis hour. How did you get here alone?"

"Oh, well enough, " said Phillida. "But how is little Tommy?"

"I'm afraid he is worse. I was just trying to persuade Mr. Martin to gofor you. "

"I came to give up the case, " said Phillida, hurriedly, "and to beg youto get a doctor. I have done with faith-cures. I've lost my faith inthem entirely, and I'm afraid from what Mr. Martin told me last nightthat this is diphtheria. "

"I hope not, " said Mrs. Martin, in renewed alarm. 

Mr. Martin, who was shaving in his shirt-sleeves near the window, onlyturned about when he got the lather off his face to say: "Good-morning, Miss Callender. How's things with you?"

Phillida returned this with the slightest good-morning. She was out ofpatience with Mr. Martin, and she was revolving a plan for discoveringwhether Tommy's distemper were diphtheria or not. During her longmidnight meditations she had gone over every word of Dr. Beswick's aboutbacteria and bacilli. She remembered his statement that the _micrococcusdiphtheriticus_ was to be found in the light-colored patches visible inthe throat of a diphtheria patient. At what stage these were developedshe did not know, but during her hours of waiting for morning she hadimagined herself looking down little Tommy's throat. She now asked for aspoon, and, having roused Tommy from a kind of stupor, she inserted thehandle as she had seen physicians do, and at length succeeded inpressing down the tongue so as to discover what she took to bediphtheria patches on the fauces. 

"Mrs. Martin, I am sure this is diphtheria. You must get a doctor rightaway. "

"I'll attend to that, " said Mr. Martin, who had now got his beard offand his coat on. 

As he donned his hat and went out the door, Mrs. Martin called: "Father, you'd better get Dr. Beswick"; but her husband made no reply furtherthan to say, "I'll attend to that, " without interrupting for a momenthis steady tramp down the stairs. 

"I'm afraid, " said Mrs. Martin, "that he has gone for Miss Bowyer. "

"I hope not, " said Phillida. 

"If he gets her he'll be awfully stubborn. He has been offended that Isent for you last night. It touches his dignity. He thinks that if hedoesn't have his way in certain things he is put out of his place ashead of the family. "

Phillida presently perceived that Mrs. Martin was shedding tears ofapprehension. 

"My poor little Tommy! I shall lose him. "

"Oh, no; I hope not, " said Phillida. 

But Mrs. Martin shook her head. 

In about half an hour Henry Martin, with a look that came near to beingmore than usually solemn, ushered in Dr. Eleanor Arabella Bowyer, andthen sat himself down to his breakfast, which was on the table, withouta word, except to ask Phillida if she wouldn't have breakfast, too, which invitation was declined. 

Miss Bowyer nodded to Phillida, saying, "Your case?"

"No, " said Phillida; "I have no case. This is a case of diphtheria. "

"Case of belief in diphtheria?" queried Miss Bowyer, and without waitingfor an invitation she calmly poured out a cup of coffee and drank it, standing. When she had finished the coffee and was ready for business, Phillida said:

"Miss Bowyer, let me speak with you a moment. " She drew the psychopathichealer over toward a large old-fashioned bureau that the Martins hadbrought from the country and that seemed not to have room enough for itsancient and simple dignity in its present close quarters. "Miss Bowyer, this is diphtheria. A child in the next house died last week of the samedisease. Mrs. Martin wishes to call a doctor, a regular doctor. Don'tyou think you ought to give way to her wish?"

"Not at all. The father is enlightened, and I am thankful for that. Heknows the mighty power of Christian Science, and he does not wish tohave his child treated on the mortal plane. Parents often differ thisway, and I am sometimes supported by only one of them. But I never giveway on that account. It's a great and glorious work that must bepushed. "

"But if the child should die?" urged Phillida. 

"It's not half so apt to die if treated on the spiritual plane; and ifit dies we'll know that we have done all that opportunity offered. Inall such cases the true physician can only commend the patient to thecare of a loving Providence, feeling assured that disorder has its lawsand limitations and that suffering is a means of developing the innernature. "

Having reeled this off like a phrase often spoken, Miss Bowyer walkedover to the bed where the little lad lay. 

"Miss Bowyer, " said Mrs. Martin, with an earnestness born of her agony, "I don't believe in your treatment at all. "

"That's not necessary, " said the doctor with a jaunty firmness; "thefaith of one parent is sufficient to save the sick. "

"This is my child, and I wish you to leave him alone, " said Mrs. Martin. 

"I am called by the child's father, Mrs. Martin, and I can not shirk myresponsibility in this case. "

"Please leave my house. I don't want you here, " said Mrs. Martin, withan excitement almost hysterical. "I believe you are an impostor. "

"I've often been called that, " said Miss Bowyer, with a winning smile. "Used to it. One has to bear reproach and persecution in a Christianspirit for the sake of a good cause. You are only delaying the cure ofyour child, and perhaps risking his precious life. "

"Henry, " said Mrs. Martin, "I want you to send this woman away and get adoctor. "

"Hannah, I'm the head of this family, " said Martin, dropping his chinand looking ludicrously impressive. But as a matter of precaution hethought it best to leave the conflict to be fought out by Miss Bowyer. He feared that if he stayed he might find himself deposed from the onlyleadership that had ever fallen to his lot in life. So he executed astrategic move by quitting his breakfast half-finished and hurrying awayto the shop. 

Miss Bowyer was now exultingly confident that nothing short of force anda good deal of it could dislodge a person of her psychic endurance fromthe post of duty. 

She began to apply her hands to Tommy's neck, but as there was externalsoreness, the little lad wakened and cried for his mother and "theteacher, " as he called Phillida. 

Mrs. Martin approached him and said: "Miss Bowyer, this is my child;stand aside. "

"Not at all, Mrs. Martin. You are doing your child harm, and you oughtto desist. If you continue to agitate him in this way the consequenceswill be fatal. "

Certainly an affray over Tommy's bed was not desirable; the more so thatno force at present available could expel the tenacious scientist. Phillida, who somehow felt frightfully accountable for the state ofaffairs, beckoned Mrs. Martin to the landing at the top of the stairs, closing the door of the apartment behind them. But even there the hoarseand piteous crying of Tommy rent the hearts of both of them. 

"You must send for Mr. Millard, " said Phillida. "He will have authoritywith Mr. Martin, and he will know how to get rid of her, " pointingthrough the door in the direction in which they had left Miss Bowyerbending over the patient. 

"There is nobody to send, " answered Mrs. Martin, in dismay. 

"I will send, " said Phillida. They re-entered the room, and Phillida puton her sack in haste, seizing her hat and hurrying down the long flightof stairs into Avenue C, where the sidewalks, steaming after theyesterday's rain, were peopled by men on their way to work, and by womenand children seeking the grocery-stores and butcher-shops. Loitererswere already gathering, in that slouching fashion characteristic ofpeople out of work, about the doors of the drinking-saloons; buildingswhose expensive up-fittings lent a touch of spurious grandeur to thepinched and populous avenue. 

XXXII. 

FACE TO FACE. 

Once in the street, Phillida's perplexities began. She had undertaken tosend for Millard, but there were no slow-footed district Mercuries to behad in the Mackerelville part of New York. It was now barely half-pastsix, and Millard would hardly have risen yet. In a battle against grimdeath and Miss Bowyer time seemed all important. She therefore took aFourteenth street car and changed to an up-town line carrying her to thevicinity of the Graydon, debating all the way how quickest to get anexplicit message to Millard without a personal interview, which would bepainful to both, and which might be misconstrued. Phillida alighted fromthe car in the neighborhood of the Graydon, whose mountainous dimensionsdeflected the March wind into sudden and disagreeable backsets andwhirling eddies that threatened the perpendicularity of foot-passengers. She requested a florist, who was opening his shop and arranging a littleexhibition of the hardier in-door plants on the sidewalk, to direct herto a district telegraph office, and was referred to one just around thecorner. To this always open place she walked as rapidly as possible, tofind a sleepy-looking young woman just settling herself at the desk, having at that moment relieved the man who had been on duty all night. 

"Can you give me a messenger right away?" she demanded. 

"In about fifteen or twenty minutes we'll have one in, " said the girl. "We don't keep but two on duty at this hour, and they're both out, andthere's one call ahead of you. Take a seat, won't you?"

But Phillida saw in her imagination Mrs. Martin badgered by EleanorBowyer, and heard again the grievous cry of the frightened and sufferingTommy. After all, she could only make the matter understood imperfectlyby means of a message. Why should she stand on delicacy in a matter oflife and death? She reflected that there was no animosity between herand Millard, and she recalled his figure as he reached his hand to herthat fatal evening, and she remembered the emotion in his voice when hesaid, "Part friends?" She resolved to go in person to the Graydon. 

The entrance to the apartment building displayed a good deal of thatjoint-stock grandeur which goes for much and yet costs each individualhouseholder but little. Despite her anxiety, Phillida was so farimpressed by the elaborate bronze mantelpiece over the great hallfireplace, the carved wooden seats, and the frescoing and gilding of thewalls, as to remember that she was dressed for a tenement in Avenue C, and not for a west-side apartment house. The gray shawl she had leftbehind; but she felt sure that the important-looking hall boys and, above all, the plump and prosperous-seeming clerk at the desk, with anhabitually neutral expression upon his countenance, must wonder why awoman had intruded into the sacred front entrance in so plain a hat andgown at seven o'clock in the morning. She felt in her pocket for hercard-case, but of course that had been left in the pocket of a betterdress, and she must write upon one of those little cards that the housefurnishes; and all this while the clerk would be wondering who she was. But there was a native self-reliance about Phillida that shielded herfrom contempt. She asked for the card, took up a pen, and wrote:

"Miss Callender wishes to see Mr. Millard in great haste, on a matter ofthe utmost importance. "

She was about to put this into an envelope, but she reflected that anopen message was better. She handed the card to the clerk, who took ithesitatingly, and with a touch of "style" in his bearing, saying, "Mr. Millard will not be down for half an hour yet. He is not up. Will youwait?"

"He must be called, " said Phillida. "It is a matter of life and death. "

The clerk still held the note in his hand. 

"He will be very much annoyed if that is not delivered to him at once. It is his own affair, and, as I said, a matter of life and death, " saidPhillida, speaking peremptorily, her courage rising to the occasion. 

The clerk still held the note. He presently beckoned to a negro boysitting on one of the carved benches. 

"Washington, " he said. 

Washington came forward to the counter. 

"Wash, " said the clerk in an undertone--an undress tone kept for thoseupon whom it would have been useless to waste his habitual bearing asthe representative of the corporate proprietorship of the building--"hasMr. Millard's man come in yet?"

"No, sir. "

"Take this up to seventy-nine, and say that the lady is below andinsists on his being called at once. " Then to Phillida, as the form ofWashington vanished upward by way of the marble staircase, "Will youtake a seat in the reception-room?" waving his hand slightly in thedirection of a portière, behind which Phillida found herself in theladies' reception-room. 

In ten minutes Millard came down the elevator, glanced about the office, and then quickly entered the reception-room. There were unwonted tracesof haste in his toilet; his hair had been hastily brushed, but it hadbeen brushed, as indeed it would probably have been if Washington hadannounced that the Graydon was in flames. 

There was a moment of embarrassment. What manner was proper for such ameeting? It would not do to say "Phillida, " and "Miss Callender" wouldsound forced and formal. Phillida was equally embarrassed as she cameforward, but Millard's tact relieved the tension. He spoke in a tone ofreserve and yet of friendliness. 

"Good-morning. I hope no disaster has happened to you. " The friendlyeagerness of this inquiry took off the brusqueness of omitting her name, and the anxiety that prompted it was sincere. 

"There is no time for explanations, " said Phillida, hurriedly. "Mr. Martin has called a Christian Science healer to see Tommy, who is veryill with diphtheria. "

"Tommy has diphtheria?" said Millard, his voice showing feeling. 

"Your aunt wants a doctor, " continued Phillida, "but Mr. Martin has leftthe woman in charge, and she refuses to give up the case. Tommy iscrying, and Mrs. Martin is in a horrible position and wants to see you. "Here Phillida's eyes fell as she added, "There was nobody to send; Icouldn't get a messenger; and so I had to come myself. "

"I am glad--" here Millard paused and began over--"You did the bestthing to come yourself. You will excuse me, but I don't understand. Youhaven't charge of the case at all, then?"

"No, no, Charley--Mr. Millard; there is no time to explain. Get a gooddoctor, and put Miss Bowyer out, if you have to fetch a policeman. Get agood doctor at once. If you save the child you must be quick, quick! Thehorrible woman will be the death of him. "

Millard caught the infection of urgency and began to take in thesituation. He stepped to the door, drew aside the portière, and said:

"Washington, call a coupé for me. Quick, now. " Then he called after theboy as he went to the telephone, "Tell them to hurry it up. "

He turned towards Phillida; then with a new impulse he turned again andwalked impatiently to the office. "Mr. Oliver, won't you ask if my manis below, and send him here as quickly as possible?"

The clerk moved, without ruffling his dignity by undue haste, to thespeaking-tube which communicated with the basement. In the course ofhalf a minute a young Englishman, with a fore-and-aft cap in his hand, came running to the reception-room, in the door of which Millard wasstanding. 

"Robert, " said Millard, "run to the stable and have them send my coupéon the jump. Come back with it yourself. "

The well-trained Robert glided swiftly out of the front door, not evenasking a question with his eyes. 

"You'll go back with me in the coupé?" Millard said to Phillida, who hadrisen and now stood waiting in embarrassment to say good-morning. 

Phillida could not for a moment think of driving back with Millard, notso much on account of the conventional impropriety in it as because hervisit was capable of misconstruction; and while she believed thatMillard knew her too well to put any interpretation of self-interest onher coming, she could not have brought herself to return to Avenue C inhis coupé. If for no other reason, she would have declined in order toavoid prolonging an interview painful and embarrassing to both. She wasworn and faint from the fatigues of the night and the excitement of themorning, and she could not think of the right thing to say. 

"No; I will go home, " she said. Spoken thus, without calling him byname, the words had a severe sound, as of one mortally offended. Asudden access of fatigue and faintness reminded her that she had eatennothing this morning. 

"You will excuse me. I've had no breakfast yet. I've been at Mrs. Martin's since daylight. Good-morning, Mr. Millard. "

This explanation made her perfectly proper refusal somewhat less abruptand direct; but the words were still cold and severe. 

"I will call another coupé, and send you home. You are faint, " he said. 

"No, thank you, " she said, and went out. 

But Millard followed her into the street, and hailed a car, and assistedher to enter it, and lifted his hat and bowed in response to her "Thankyou, " when she had gained the platform. As the car moved away he stood amoment looking after it, and then returned toward the sidewalk, sayingsoftly to himself, "By Jove, what a woman! What a woman that is!"

XXXIII. 

A FAMOUS VICTORY. 

By the time the coupé reached the curb in front of the Graydon, Millardhad fixed in his mind the first move in his campaign, and had scribbleda little note as he stood at the clerk's counter in the office. Handingthe driver a dollar as a comprehensible hint that speed was required, and, taking Robert with him, he was soon bowling along the yet ratherempty Fifth Avenue. He alighted in front of a rather broad, low-stoop, brownstone house, with a plain sign upon it, which read "Dr. AugustineGunstone. " What ills and misfortunes had crossed that door-stone! Whatcelebrities had here sought advice from the great doctor in matters oflife and death! Few men can enjoy a great reputation and be so unspoiledas Dr. Gunstone. The shyest young girl among his patients felt drawn tounburden her sorrows to him as to a father; the humblest suffererremembered gratefully the reassuring gentleness of his voice and manner. But Millard made no reflections this morning; he rang the bell sharply. 

"The doctor hasn't come down yet, " said the servant. "He will not seepatients before nine o'clock. "

"At what time does he come down?"

"At a quarter to eight. "

"It's half-past seven now, " said Millard. "Kindly take this note to hisroom with my card, and say that I wait for an answer. "

There was that in Millard's manner that impressed the servant. He wassure that this must be one of those very renowned men who sometimes cameto see Dr. Gunstone and who were not to be refused. He ran up the stairsand timidly knocked at the doctor's door. Millard waited five minutes ina small reception-room, and then the old doctor came down, kindly, dignified, unruffled as ever, a man courteous to all, friendly with all, but without any familiars. 

"Good-morning, Mr. Millard. I can't see your patient now. Every momentof my time to-day is engaged. Perhaps I might contrive to see the childon my way to the hospital at twelve. "

"If I could have a carriage here at the moment you finish yourbreakfast, with my valet in it to see that no time is lost, could yougive us advice, and get back here before your office hours begin?"

Dr. Gunstone hesitated a moment. "Yes, " he said; "but you would want adoctor in the vicinity. I can not come often enough to take charge ofthe case. "

"We'll call any one you may name. The family are poor, I am interestedin them, they are relatives of mine, and this child I have set my hearton saving, and I will not mind expense. I wish you to come every day asconsultant, if possible. "

Dr. Gunstone's was a professional mind before all. He avoided thoseprofound questions of philosophy toward which modern science propels themind, limiting himself to the science of pathology and the art ofhealing. On the other hand, he habitually bounded his curiosityconcerning his patients to their physical condition and such of theirsurroundings as affected for good or ill their chances of recovery. Hedid not care to know more of this poor family than that he was to see apatient there; but he knew something of Millard from the friendlyrelations existing between him and younger members of his own family, and the disclosure that Millard had kinsfolk in Avenue C, and was deeplyinterested in people of a humble rank, gave Dr. Gunstone a momentarysurprise, which, however, it would have been contrary to all his habitsto manifest. He merely bowed a polite good-morning and turned toward thebreakfast-room. 

These men, in whose lives life and death are matters of hourlybusiness--matters of bread and butter and bank-account--acquire inself-defense a certain imperviousness; they learn to shed theirresponsibilities with facility in favor of digestion and sleep. Dr. Gunstone ate in a leisurely way, relishing his chops and coffee, andparticipating in the conversation of the family, who joined him one byone at the table. It did not trouble him that another family in Avenue Cwas in agonized waiting for his presence, and that haste or delay mightmake the difference between life and death to a human being. This wasnot heartlessness, but a condition of his living and working--apostponement of particular service, however important, in favor of thegeneral serviceableness of his life. 

Millard was not sorry for the delay; it gave him time to dispose of MissBowyer. 

Seeing that Phillida had gone to seek re-enforcements, Mrs. Martin hadconcluded that, in Tommy's interest, a truce would be the better thing. So, while Miss Bowyer was seeking to induce in little Tommy theimpressible conscious state--or, to be precise, the conscious, passive, impressible state--Mrs. Martin offered to hold him in her arms. To thisthe metaphysical healer assented with alacrity, as likely to put thechild into a favorable condition for the exercise of her occulttherapeutic powers. 

"Hold him with his back to the north, Mrs. Martin, " she said; "there, ina somewhat reclining posture; that will increase his susceptibility topsychic influence. There is no doubt that the magnetism of the earth hasa polar distribution. It is quite probable also that the odylicemanation of the terrestrial magnet has also a polar arrangement. Doesthe little fellow ever turn round in his bed at night?"

"Yes. "

"That shows that he is sensitive to magnetic influences. He is trying toget himself north and south, so as to bring the body into harmony withthe magnetic poles of the earth. You see the brain is normally positive. We wish to invert the poles of the body, and send the magnetism of thebrain to the feet. "

Miss Bowyer now took out a small silver cross and held it up before thechild a little above the natural range of vision. 

"Will you look at this, little boy?" she said. 

She did her best to make her naturally unsympathetic voice persuasive, even to pronouncing the last word of her entreaty "baw-ee. " But the"little baw-ee" was faint with sickness, and he only lifted his eyes amoment to the trinket, and then closed the eyelids and turned his facetoward his mother's bosom. 

"Come, little baw-ee. Look at this, my child. Isn't it pretty? Littlebaw-ee, see here!"

But the little baw-ee wanted rest, and he showed no signs of havingheard Miss Bowyer's appeal, except that he fretted with annoyance aftereach sentence she addressed to him. 

"That is bad, " said Miss Bowyer, seeing that Tommy would not look. "If Icould get him to strain the eyes upward for five minutes, while I gazedat him and concentrated my mind on the act of gazing, I should be ableto produce what is known in psychopathic science as the consciousimpressible state--something resembling hypnotism, but stopping short ofthe unconscious state. I could make him forget his disease by willingforgetfulness. I must try another plan. "

Miss Bowyer now sat and gazed on the child, who was half-slumbering. Forfive minutes she sat there like a cat ready to jump at the firstmovement of a moribund mouse. Apparently she was engaged inconcentrating her mind on the act of gazing. 

"Now, " she said to Mrs. Martin in a whisper--for explication was anecessity of Miss Bowyer's nature, or perhaps essential to the potencyof her measures--"now I will gently place the right hand on the forebrain and the left over the cerebellum, willing the vital force of thecerebrum to retreat backward to the cerebellum. This is the condition ofthe brain in the somnambulic state and in ordinary sleep. The righthand, you must know, acts from without inward, while the left acts fromwithin outward. " She suited the action to the words; but Tommy did nottake kindly to the action of her right hand from without inward, or elsehe was annoyed by the action of the left hand from within outward. Evidently Miss Bowyer's positive and negative poles failed to harmonizewith his. He put up his hands to push away her positive and negativepoles; but finding that impossible, he kicked and cried in a way whichshowed him to be utterly out of harmony with the odylic emanations ofthe terrestrial magnet. 

With these and other mummeries Miss Bowyer proceeded during all the longhour and a quarter that intervened between Phillida's departure and thearrival of the reinforcement. Miss Bowyer was wondering meanwhile whatcould have been the nature of Phillida's conference outside the doorwith Mrs. Martin, and whether Mrs. Martin were sufficiently convinced ofher skill by this time for her to venture to leave the place presentlyto meet certain office patients whom she expected. But she concluded torun no risks of defeat; she had left word at her office that she hadbeen called to see a patient dangerously ill, and such a report would doher reputation no harm. 

Mrs. Martin was driven to the very verge of distraction by the sense ofTommy's danger and the necessity she was under of suppressing herfeelings while this woman, crank or impostor, held possession of thechild and of her house. Not to disturb Tommy, she affected a peacefulattitude toward the professor of Christian sorcery, whom, in the anguishof her spirit, she would have liked to project out of a window into thedizzy space occupied by pulleys and clothes-lines. Footsteps came andwent past her door, but there was as yet no interruption to MissBowyer's pow-wow. At length there came a step on the stairs, and a rap. Mrs. Martin laid Tommy on the bed and opened the door. Charley beckonedher to be silent and to come out. 

"What is the name of the faith-healer, Aunt Hannah?" he whispered. 

"Miss Bowyer. "

"Does she still refuse to leave?"

"Oh, yes! She declares she will not leave. "

"You want her out?"

"Yes; I want a doctor, " said Mrs. Martin, giving her hands a littlewring. 

"Tell Miss Bowyer that there is a gentleman outside the door who wishesto see her. Whenever the door is shut, do you fasten it inside. "

"Miss Bowyer, there's a gentleman inquiring for you outside, " said Mrs. Martin when she returned. 

Miss Bowyer opened the door suspiciously, standing in the doorway as shespoke. 

"Did you wish to see me?"

"Are you Miss Bowyer?"

"Yes, "--with a wave inflection, as though half inquiring. 

"Are you the Christian Scientist?"

"Yes, " said Miss Bowyer, "I am. "

"This is a case of diphtheria, isn't it?"

"It's a case of belief in diphtheria. I have no doubt I shall be able toreduce the morbid action soon. The child is already in the state ofinterior perception, " she said, seeing in Millard a possible patient, and coming a little further out of the door. 

"It's catching, I believe, " said Millard. "Would you mind closing thedoor a moment while I speak with you?"

Miss Bowyer peered into the room to see Mrs. Martin giving Tommy adrink. Feeling secure, she softly closed the door, keeping hold of thehandle. Then she turned to Millard. 

"Did you wish to see me professionally?" she asked. 

"Well, " said Millard, "I think you might call it professionally. I liveover on the west side. Do you know where the Graydon apartment buildingis?"

"Yes, oh, yes; I attended a patient near there once, in one of thebrownstone houses on the other side of the street. He got wellbeautifully. "

"Well, I live in the Graydon, " said Millard. 

"Yes, " said Miss Bowyer, with a rising inflection, wondering what couldbe the outcome of this roundabout talk. "Is some member of your familysick?" she asked. 

A bolt clicked behind the metaphysical healer, who turned with the alarmof a trapped mouse and essayed to push the door. Then, remembering whatseemed more profitable game in front, she repeated her question, but ina ruffled tone, "Some member of your family?"

Charley laughed in spite of himself. 

"Not of my family, but a relative, " he said. "It is my cousin who issick in this room, and I called to get you outside of the door. I begyour pardon for the seeming rudeness. "

Miss Bowyer now pushed on the door in vain. 

"You think this is a gentlemanly way to treat a lady?" she said, chokingwith indignation. 

"It doesn't seem handsome, does it?" he said. "But do you think you havetreated Mrs. Martin in a ladylike way?"

"I was called by her husband, " she said. 

"You are now dismissed by the wife. "

"I will see Mr. Martin at once, and he will reinstate me. "

"You will not see Mr. Martin. I shall not give you a chance. I am goingto report you to the County Medical Society and the Board of Health atonce. Have you reported this case of diphtheria, as the law requires?"

"No, I have not, " said Miss Bowyer; "but I was going to do so to-day. "

"I don't like to dispute the word of a lady, " he said, "but you knowthat you are not a proper practitioner, and that in case of a contagiousdisease the Board of Health would put you out of here neck and heels, ifI must speak so roughly. Mrs. Martin is my aunt. If you make anytrouble, I shall feel obliged to have you arrested at once. If you gohome quietly and do not say a word to Mr. Martin, I'll let you off. Youhave no doubt lost patients of this kind before, and if I look up yourrecord--"

"My hat and cloak are in there, " said Miss Bowyer. 

"If you renounce the case and say no more to Mr. Martin I will notfollow you up, " said Charley; "but turn your hand against Mrs. Martin, and I'll spend a thousand dollars to put you in prison. "

This put a new aspect on the case in Miss Bowyer's mind. That Mrs. Martin had influential friends she had not dreamed. Miss Bowyer had hadone tilt with the authorities, and she preferred not to try it again. 

"My hat and cloak are in there, " she repeated, pushing on the door. 

"Stand aside, " said Millard, "and I will get them. "

Somehow Millard had reached Miss Bowyer's interior perception and puther into the conscious, impressible, passive state, in which his willwas hers. She moved to the other side of the dark hall in such a stateof mind that she could hardly have told whether the magnetism of herbrain was in the cerebrum or in the cerebellum or in a state ofoscillation between the two. 

"Aunt Hannah, " called Millard, "open the door. "

The bolt was shoved back by Mrs. Martin. Millard opened the door alittle way, holding the knob firmly in his right hand. Mrs. Martin stoodwell out of sight behind the door, from an undefined fear of getting inrange of Miss Bowyer, whose calm bullying had put Mrs. Martin into someimpassive state not laid down in works on Christian Science. 

"Give me Miss Bowyer's hat and cloak, " said Millard. 

The things were passed out by Mrs. Martin, who, in doing so, exposednothing but her right hand to the enemy, while Charley took them in hisleft and passed them to Miss Bowyer. 

"Now remember, " he said, closing the door and holding it until he heardthe bolt shoved to its place again, "if you know what is good for you, you will not make the slightest movement in this case. "

"But you will not refuse me my fee, " she said. "You have put me out of acase that would have been worth ten or twenty dollars. I shall expectyou to pay me something. "

Millard hesitated. It might be better not to provoke her too far; but onthe other hand, he could not suppress his indignation on his aunt'sbehalf so far as to give her money. 

"Send me your bill, made out explicitly for medical services in thiscase. Address the cashier of the Bank of Manhadoes. I will pay you ifyour bill is regularly made out. "

Miss Bowyer went down the stairs and into the street. But the more shethought of it the more she was convinced that this demand for a regularbill for medical services from a non-registered practitioner concealedsome new device to entrap her. She had had enough of that young manup-stairs, and, much as she disliked the alternative, she thought itbest to let her fee go uncollected, unless she could some day collectit quietly from the head of the Martin family. Her magnetism had neverbefore been so much out of harmony with every sort of odylic emanationin the universe as at this moment. 

XXXIV. 

DOCTORS AND LOVERS. 

Faint from the all-night strain upon her feelings, Phillida returned toher home from the Graydon to find her mother and sister at breakfast. 

"Philly, you're 'most dead, " said Agatha, as Phillida walked wearilyinto the dining-room by way of the basement door. "You're pale and sick. Here, sit down and take a cup of coffee. "

Phillida sat down without removing her bonnet or sack, but Agatha tookthem off while her mother poured her coffee. 

"Where have you been and what made you go off so early?" went on Agatha. "Or did you run away in the night?"

"Let Phillida take her coffee and get rested, " said the mother. 

"All right, she shall, " said Agatha, patting her on the back in ababy-cuddling way. "Only tell me how that little boy is; I do want toknow, and you can just say 'better, ' 'worse, ' 'well, ' or 'dead, ' withoutwaiting for the effect of the coffee, don't you see?"

"The child has diphtheria. I don't know whether I ought to come home andexpose the rest of you. "

"Nonsense, " said Agatha. "Do you think we're going to send you off tothe Island? You take care of the rest of the world, Philly, but mama andI take care of you. When you get up into a private box in heaven as agreat saint, we'll hang on to your robe and get good seats. "

"Sh-sh, " said Phillida, halting between a revulsion at Agatha'sirreverent speech and a feeling more painful. "I'll never be a greatsaint, Aggy. Only a poor, foolish girl, mistaking her fancies for herduty. "

"Oh, that's the way with all the great saints. They just missed beingshut up for lunatics. But do you think you'll be able to save thatlittle boy? Don't you think you ought to get them to call a doctor?"

"I? Oh, I gave up the case. I'm done with faith-healing once for all, Agatha. " This was said with a little gulp, indicating that theconfession cost her both effort and pain. 

"You--"

"Don't ask me any questions till I'm better able to answer. I'm awfullytired out and cross. "

"What have you been doing this morning?" said Agatha, notwithstandingPhillida's injunction against questions. 

"Getting Miss Bowyer out of the Martin house. Mr. Martin was determinedto have her, and he went for her when his wife sent him for a doctor. "

"Miss Bowyer! I don't see how you ever got her out, " said Agatha. "Didyou get a policeman to put her into the station-house on the mortalplane?"

"No; I did worse. I actually had to go to the Graydon and wake upCharley Millard--"

"You did?"

"Yes; I couldn't get a messenger, and so I went myself. And I put thecase into Charley's hands, and he sent his man Friday scampering after acoupé, and I came home and left him to go over there and fight it out. "

"Well, I declare!" said Agatha. "What remarkable adventures you have!And I never have anything real nice and dreadful happen to me. But hemight have brought you home. "

"It wasn't his fault that he didn't. But give me a little bit of steak, please; I have got to go back to the Martins'. "

"No, you mustn't. Mother, don't you let her. "

"I do wish, Phillida, " said the mother, "that you wouldn't go down intothe low quarters of the town any more. You're so exposed to disease. Andthen you're a young woman. You haven't got your father's endurance. It'sa dreadful risk. "

"Well, I'm rather responsible for the child, and then I ought to bethere to protect Mrs. Martin from her husband when he comes home atnoon, and to share the blame with her when he finds his favorite put outand Charley's doctor in possession. "

"So you and Charley are in partnership in saving the boy's life, " saidAgatha, "and you've got a regular doctor. That's something like. I canguess what'll come next. "

"Hush, Agatha, " said the mother. 

Phillida's appetite for beefsteak failed in a moment, and she pushed herplate back and looked at her sister with vexation. 

"If you think there's going to be a new engagement, you're mistaken. "

"Think!" said Agatha, with a provoking laugh, "I don't think anythingabout it. I know just what's got to happen. You and Charley are justmade for each other, though for my part I should prefer a young mansomething like Cousin Philip. "

Phillida was silent for a moment, and Mrs. Callender made a protestinggesture at the impulsive Agatha. 

"I don't think you ought to talk about such things when I'm so tired, "said Phillida, struggling to maintain self-control. "Mr. Millard is aman used to great popularity and much flattery in society. He wouldnever stand it in the world; it would hurt him twenty years hence to bereminded that his wife had been a--well--a fanatic. " This was utteredwith a sharp effort of desperation, Phillida grinding a bit of bread topieces between thumb and finger the meanwhile. "If he were to offer torenew the engagement I should refuse. It would be too mortifying tothink of. "

Agatha said nothing, and Phillida presently added, "And if you think Iwent to the Graydon to renew the acquaintance of Charley, it's--very--unkind of you, that's all. " Phillida could no longerrestrain her tears. 

"Why, Phillida, dear, Agatha didn't say any such thing, " interposed Mrs. Callender. 

"If you think, " said Agatha, angrily, "that I could even imagine such athing as that, it's just too awfully mean, that's all. But you'veworried yourself sick and you're unreasonable. There, now, please don'tcry, Philly, " she added, going around and stroking her sister's hair. "You're too good for any man that ever lived, and that's a greatmisfortune. If they could have split the difference between yourgoodness and my badness, they might have made two fair average women. There, now, if you don't eat something I'll blame myself all day. I'mgoing to toast you a piece of bread. "

In spite of remonstrance, the repentant Agatha toasted a piece of breadand boiled the only egg that Sarah had in the house, to tempt hersister's appetite. 

"Your motto is, 'Hard words and kind acts, '" said Mrs. Callender, asAgatha came in with the toast and the egg. 

"My motto is, 'Hard words and soft boiled eggs, '" said Agatha, who hadby this penance secured her own forgiveness and recovered her gayety. 

In vain was Phillida entreated to rest. She felt herself drawn to Mrs. Martin, who would, as she concluded, have got rid of Miss Bowyer, andseen the doctor and Charley, and be left alone, by this time. So, promising to be back by one o'clock, if possible, she went out again, indulging her fatigue so far as to take a car in Fourteenth street. Arrived at Mrs. Martin's, she was embarrassed at finding Millard sittingwith his aunt. She gave him a look of recognition as she entered, andsaid to Mrs. Martin, who was holding Tommy:

"I thought I should find you alone by this time. "

This indirect statement that she had not considered it desirable toencounter Millard again cut him, and he said, as though the words hadbeen addressed to him, "I am expecting Dr. Gunstone every moment. "

"Dr. Gunstone? I am glad he is coming, " said Phillida, firing the remarkin the air indiscriminately at the aunt or nephew, as either mightplease to accept it. 

At that moment Millard's valet, Robert, in the capacity of pioneer andpilot, knocked at the door. When Millard opened it he said, "Dr. Gunstone, sir, " and stood aside to let the physician pass. 

Gunstone made a little hurried bow to Millard, and, without waiting foran introduction, bowed with his usual deference to Mrs. Martin. "Good-morning, madam; is this the little sufferer?" at the same timemaking a hurried bow of courtesy to Phillida as a stranger; but as hedid so, he arrested himself and said in the fatherly tone he habituallyused with his young women patients, "How do you do? You came to see melast year with--"

"My mother, Mrs. Callender, " said Phillida. 

"Yes, yes; and how is your mother, my dear?"

"Quite well, thank you, doctor. "

The doctor dispatched these courtesies with business-like promptness, and then settled himself to an examination of little Tommy. 

"This is diphtheria, " he said; "you will want a physician in theneighborhood. Let's see, whom have you?" This to Millard. 

Millard turned to his aunt. She looked at Phillida. "There's Dr. Smitharound the corner, " said Phillida. 

Dr. Gunstone said, "Dr. Smith?" inquiringly to himself. But the name didnot seem to recall any particular Smith. 

"And Dr. Beswick in Seventeenth street, " said Phillida. 

"Beswick is a very good young fellow, with ample hospital experience, "said Gunstone. "Can you send for him at once?"

Robert, who stood alert without the door, was told to bring Dr. Beswickin the carriage, and in a very short space of time Beswick was there, having left Mrs. Beswick sure that success and renown could not be faraway when her husband was called on Gunstone's recommendation, andfetched in a coupé under the conduct of what seemed to her a coachmanand a footman. Beswick's awkwardness and his abrupt up-and-downness ofmanner contrasted strangely with Dr. Gunstone's simple but gracefulways. A few rapid directions served to put the case into Beswick'shands, and the old doctor bowed swiftly to all in the room, descendedthe stairs, and, having picked his way hurriedly through a swarm ofchildren on the sidewalk, entered the carriage again, and was gone. 

Millard looked at his watch, remembered that he had had no breakfast, and prepared to take his leave. 

"Thank you, Charley, ever so much, " said his aunt. "I don't know what Ishould have done without you. "

"Miss Callender is the one to thank, " said Millard, scarcely daring tolook at her, as he bade her and Dr. Beswick good-morning. 

When he had reached the bottom of the long flight of stairs, Millardsuddenly turned about and climbed upward once more. 

"Miss Callender, " he said, standing in the door, "let me speak to you, please. "

Phillida went out to him. This confidential conversation could not butexcite a rush of associations and emotion in the minds of both of them, so that neither dared to look directly at the other as they stood therein the obscure light which struggled through two dusty panes of glass atthe top of the next flight. 

"You must not stay here, " he said. "You're very weary; you will beliable to take the disease. I am going to send a professional nurse. "

This solicitude for her was so like the Charley of other times that itmade Phillida tremble with a grateful emotion she could not quiteconceal. 

"A professional nurse will be better for Tommy. But I can not leavewhile Mrs. Martin has any great need for me. " She could not confess tohim the responsibility she felt in the case on account of her havingundertaken it the evening before as a faith-doctor. 

"What is the best way to get a nurse?" asked Millard, regarding herdowncast face, and repressing a dreadful impulse to manifest hisreviving affection. 

"Dr. Beswick will know, " said Phillida. "I will send him out. " She wasglad to escape into the room again, for she was afraid to trust her ownfeelings longer in Millard's company. The arrangement was made that Dr. Beswick should send a nurse, and then Millard and Beswick wentdown-stairs together. 

Phillida stayed till Mr. Martin came home, hoping to soften the scenebetween husband and wife. In his heart Martin revered his wife's goodsense, but he thought it due to his sex to assert himself once in awhile against a wife whose superiority he could not but recognize. Assoon as he had accomplished this feat, thereby proving his masculinity, he always repented it. For so long as his wife approved his course hewas sure that he could not be far astray; but whenever his vanity hadmade him act against her judgment he was a mariner out of reckoning, andhe made haste to take account of the pole star of her good sense. 

He had just now been impelled by certain ugly elements in his nature togive his wife a taste of his power as the head of the family, the morethat she had dared to make sport of his new science and of his neworacle, Miss Bowyer. But once he had become individually responsible forTommy's life without the security of Mrs. Martin's indorsement on theback of the bond, he became extremely miserable. As noontime approachedhe grew so restless that he got excused from his bench early, and camehome. 

Motives of delicacy had prevented any communication between Phillida andMrs. Martin regarding the probable attitude of Mr. Martin toward thetransactions of the morning. But when his ascending footsteps, steadyand solemn as the Dead March in "Saul, " were heard upon the stairs, their hearts failed them. 

"How's little Tommy?" he asked. 

"I don't think he's any better, " said Mrs. Martin. 

"Come to think, " said the husband, "I guess I'd better send word to MissBowyer to give it up and not come any more, and then I'd better get aregular doctor. I don't somehow like to take all the responsibility, come to think. "

"Miss Bowyer's given up the case, " said Mrs. Martin. "Charley's beenhere, scared to death about Tommy. He brought a great doctor from FifthAvenue, and together they sent for Dr. Beswick. Miss Bowyer gave up thecase. "

"Give up the case, did she?" he said wonderingly. 

"Yes. "

"Well, that's better. But I didn't ever hardly believe she'd go and giveit up. "

Mr. Martin did not care to inquire further. He was rid ofresponsibility, and finding himself once more under the lee of his wife, he could eat his dinner and go back to work a happier man. 

XXXV. 

PHILLIDA AND HER FRIENDS. 

The appearance in the Martin apartment of the trained nurse, who was anold friend and hospital associate of Mrs. Beswick's, relieved Phillidaof night service; but nothing could relieve her sense of partialresponsibility for the delay in calling a doctor, and her resolution tostay by little Tommy as much as possible until the issue should beknown. Every day while the nurse rested she took her place with thepatient, holding him in her arms for long hours at a time, and every dayMillard called to make inquiries. He was not only troubled about thelittle boy, but there hung over him a dread of imminent calamity toPhillida. On the fifth day the symptoms in Tommy's case became moreserious, but at the close of the sixth Dr. Beswick expressed himself ashopeful. The next evening, when Millard called, he learned that Tommywas improving slowly, and that Miss Callender had not come to theMartins' on that day. His aunt thought that she was probably tired out, and that she had taken advantage of Tommy's improvement to rest. Butwhen had Phillida been known to rest when anybody within her range wassuffering? Millard felt sure that she would at least have come to learnthe condition of the sick boy had she been able. 

He hesitated to make inquiry after Phillida's health. Her effort toavoid conversation with him assured him that she preferred not toencourage a new intimacy. But though he debated, he did not delay goingstraight to the Callenders' and ringing the bell. 

Agatha came to the door. 

"Good-evening, Miss Agatha, " he said, presuming so much on his oldfriendship as to use her first name. 

"Good-evening, Mr. Millard, " said Agatha, in an embarrassed but austerevoice. 

"I called to inquire after your sister. Knowing that she had beenexposed to diphtheria, I was afraid--" He paused here, remembering thathe no longer had any right to be afraid on her account. 

Agatha did not wait for him to re-shape or complete his sentence. Shesaid, "Thank you. She has a sore throat, which makes us very uneasy. Cousin Philip has just gone to see if he can get Dr. Gunstone. "

When Millard had gone, Agatha told her mother that Charley had called. 

"I am glad of it, " said Mrs. Callender. "Did you ask him in?"

"Not I, " said Agatha, with a high head. "If he wants to renew hisacquaintance with Phillida, he can do it without our asking him. I wasjust as stiff as I could be with him, and I told him that Cousin Philhad gone for the doctor. That'll be a thorn in his side, for he alwayswas a little jealous of Philip, I believe. "

"Why, Agatha, I'm afraid you haven't done right. You oughtn't to be sosevere. For my part, I hope the engagement will be renewed. I am sickand tired of having Phillida risk her life in the tenements. It was verykind of Mr. Millard to call and inquire, I am sure. "

"He ought to, " said Agatha. "She got this dreadful disease taking careof his relations. I don't want him to think we're dying to have him takePhillida off our hands. " Agatha's temper was ruffled by her anxiety atPhillida's sickness. "I'm sure his high and mighty tone about Phillida'sfaith-cures has worried her enough. Now just let him worry awhile. "

Certainly, Agatha Callender's bearing toward him did not reassureMillard. He thought she might have called him Charley; or if that wasnot just the thing to do, she might have made her voice a little lessfrosty. He could not get rid of a certain self-condemnation regardingPhillida, and he conjectured that her family were disposed to condemnhim also. He thought they ought to consider how severely his patiencehad been tried; but then they could not know how Phillida was talkedabout. How could they ever imagine Meadows's brutal impertinence?

He was not clear regarding the nature of the change in Phillida's views. Had she wholly renounced her faith-healing, or was she only opposed tothe Christian Science imposture? Or did she think that medicine shouldbe called in after an appeal to Heaven had failed? If he had felt thatthere was any probability of a renewal of his engagement with Phillida, he could have wished that she might not yet have given up her career asa faith-doctor. He would then have a chance to prove to her that he wasnot too cowardly to endure reproach for her sake. But, from the wayAgatha spoke, it must be that Philip Gouverneur was now in favor ratherthan he. Nothing had been more evident to him than that Philip was inlove with his cousin. What was to be expected but that Philip, with theadvantage of cousinly intimacy, should urge his suit, once Phillida wasfree from her engagement?

But all his other anxieties were swallowed up in the one fear that shewho had ventured her life for others so bravely might have sacrificedit. Millard was uneasy the night long, and before he went to the bank hecalled again at the Callender house. He was glad that it was Sarah, andnot Agatha, who came to the door. He sent in a card to Mrs. Callenderwith the words, "Kind inquiries, " written on it, and received throughSarah the reply that Mrs. Callender was much obliged to him forinquiring, and that Miss Callender had diphtheria and was not so well asyesterday. 

The cashier of the Bank of Manhadoes was not happy that day. He threwhimself into his business with an energy that seemed feverish. He didnot feel that it would be proper for him to call again before the nextmorning; it would seem like trying to take advantage of Phillida'sillness. But, with such a life in jeopardy, how could his impatiencedelay till morning?

Just before three o'clock the Hilbrough carriage stopped at the bank. Mrs. Hilbrough had come to take up her husband for a drive. Hilbroughwas engaged with some one in the inner office, which he had occupiedsince Masters had virtually retired from the bank. Millard saw thecarriage from his window, and, with more than his usual gallantry, quitted his desk to assist Mrs. Hilbrough to alight. But she declined tocome in; she would wait in the carriage for Mr. Hilbrough. 

"Did you know of Miss Callender's illness?" he asked. 

"No; is it anything serious?" Mrs. Hilbrough showed a sinceresolicitude. 

"Diphtheria, " he said. "I called there this morning. Mrs. Callender sentword that Phillida was not so well as yesterday. "

Mrs. Hilbrough was pleased that Millard had gone so far as to inquire. She reflected that an illness, if not a dangerous one, might be a goodthing for lovers situated as these two. But diphtheria was anothermatter. 

"I wish I knew how she's getting along this afternoon, " said Mrs. Hilbrough. 

"I would call again at once, " said Millard, "but, you know, my relationsare peculiar. To call twice in a day might seem intrusive. "

"I would drive there at once, " said Mrs. Hilbrough, meditatively, "butMr. Hilbrough is so wrapped up in his children, and so much afraid oftheir getting diphtheria, that he will not venture into the street whereit is. If I should send the footman, Mr. Hilbrough would not let himreturn to the house again. I'm afraid he would not even approve ofcommunication by a telegraph-boy. "

"A boy would be long enough returning to be disinfected, " said Millard;but the pleasantry was all in his words; his face showed solicitude anddisappointment. He could think of no one but Mrs. Hilbrough through whomhe could inquire. 

"Perhaps, " he said, "you would not object to my sending an inquiry inyour name?"

"Oh, certainly not; that would be a good plan, especially if you willtake the trouble to let me know how she is. Use my name at yourdiscretion, Mr. Millard. I give you _carte blanche_, " said she, smilingwith pleasure at the very notion of bearing so intimate a relation to aclever scheme which lent a little romance to a love-affair highlyinteresting to her on all accounts. She took out a visiting-card andpenciled the words, "Hoping that Miss Callender is not very ill, andbegging Mrs. Callender to let her know. " This she handed to Millard. 

Mr. Hilbrough came out at that moment, and Millard bowed to Mrs. Hilbrough and went in. Hilbrough had been as deeply grieved as his wifeto hear that the much-admired Phillida was ill. 

"What are you going to do, my dear?" he said. "You can not go therewithout risking the children. You can't send James without danger ofbringing the infection into the house. But we mustn't leave Phillidawithout some attentions; I don't see how to manage it. "

"I've just made Mr. Millard my deputy, " said Mrs. Hilbrough. "You see, he feels delicate about inquiring too often; so I have written inquirieson one of my cards and given it to Mr. Millard. "

Hilbrough didn't like to do things in a stinted way, particularly incases which involved his generous feelings. 

"Give me a lot of your cards, " he said. 

"What for?"

"For Mr. Millard. "

"I don't see what use he can make of them, " said Mrs. Hilbrough, slowlyopening her card-case. 

"He'll know, " said Hilbrough. "He can work a visiting-card in more waysthan any other man in New York. " Hilbrough took half a dozen of hiswife's cards and carried them into the bank. 

"Use these as you see fit, " he said to Millard, "and if you need a dozenor two more let me know. "

Under other circumstances Millard would have been amused, this liberaloverdoing was so characteristic of Hilbrough. But he only took the cardswith thanks, reflecting that there might be some opportunity to usethem. 

As he would be detained at the bank until near four o'clock, his firstimpulse was to call a district messenger and dispatch Mrs. Hilbrough'scard of inquiry at once. But he reflected that the illness might be along one, and that his measures should be taken with reference to hisfuture conduct. On his way home from the bank he settled the manner ofhis procedure. The Callender family, outside of Phillida at most, didnot know his man Robert. By sending the discreet Robert systematicallywith messages in Mrs. Hilbrough's name, those who attended the doorwould come to regard him as the Hilbrough messenger. 

It was about five o'clock when Robert, under careful instructions, presented Mrs. Hilbrough's card at the Callender door. Unfortunately forMillard's plan, Mrs. Callender, despite Robert's hint that a verbalmessage would be sufficient, wrote her reply. When the note came intoMillard's hands he did not know what to do. His commission did notextend to opening a missive addressed to Mrs. Hilbrough. The firstimpulse was to dispatch Robert with the note to Mrs. Hilbrough. ThenMillard remembered Mr. Hilbrough's apprehension of diphtheria, and thatRobert had come from the infected house. He would send Mrs. Callender'snote by a messenger. But, on second thought, the note would be a moredeadly missile in Hilbrough's eyes than Robert, who had not gone beyondthe vestibule of the Callender house. He therefore sent a note by amessenger, stating the case, and received in return permission to openall letters addressed to Mrs. Hilbrough which his man might bring awayfrom the Callenders'. This scheme, by which Millard personated Mrs. Hilbrough, had so much the air of a romantic intrigue of the harmlessvariety that it fascinated Mrs. Hilbrough, who dearly loved a manoeuver, and who would have given Millard permission to forge her name and sealhis notes of inquiry with the recently discovered Hilbroughcoat-of-arms, if such extreme measures had been necessary. Mrs. Callender's reply stated that Dr. Gunstone was hopeful, but thatPhillida seemed pretty ill. 

The next morning Millard's card with "Kind inquiries" was sent in, andthe reply was returned that Phillida was no worse. Her mother showed herthe card, and Phillida looked at it for half a minute and then wearilyput it away. An hour later Robert appeared at the door with a bunch ofcallas, to which Mrs. Hilbrough's card was attached. 

"Oh! see, Philly, " said Agatha softly, "Mrs. Hilbrough has sent you someflowers. "

Phillida reached her hand and touched them, gazed at them a moment, andthen turned her head away, and began to weep. 

"What is the matter, Philly? What are you crying about?" said hermother, with solicitation. 

"The flowers make me want to die. "

"Why, how can the flowers trouble you?"

"They are just like what Charley used to send me. They remind me thatthere is nothing more for me but to die and have done with the world. "

The flowers were put out of her sight; but Phillida's mind had fasteneditself on those other callas whose mute appeal for Charley Millard, atthe crisis of her history, had so deeply moved her, though her perverseconscience would not let her respond to it. 

XXXVI. 

MRS. BESWICK. 

About the time that Phillida got her flowers Mrs. Beswick sat mendingher husband's threadbare overcoat. His vigorous thumbs, in frequentfastening and loosening, had worn the cloth quite through in theneighborhood of the buttons. To repair this, his wife had cut littlebits of the fabric off the overplus of cloth at the seams, and workedthese little pieces through the holes, and then sewed the cloth downupon them so as to underlay the thumb-worn places. The buttonholes hadalso frayed out, and these had to be reworked. 

"I declare, my love, " she said, "you ought to have a new overcoat. Thisone is not decent enough for a man in your position to wear. "

"It'll have to do till warm weather, " he said; "I couldn't buy anotherif I wanted to. "

"But you see, love, since Dr. Gunstone called you and sent a carriagefor you, there's a chance for a better sort of practice, if we were onlyable to furnish the office a little better, and, above all, to get you agood overcoat. There, try that on and see how it looks. "

Dr. Beswick drew the overcoat on, and Mrs. Beswick gave herself thepleasure of buttoning it about his manly form, and of turning thedoctor around as a Bowery shopkeeper does a sidewalk dummy, to try theeffect, smoothing the coat with her hands the while. 

"That looks a good deal better, Mattie, " he said. 

"Yes; but it's fraying a little at the cuffs, and when it gives awaythere darning and patching won't save it. There, don't, don't, love, please; I'm in a hurry. "

This last appeal was occasioned by the doctor's availing himself of herproximity to put his arm about her. 

"Annie Jackson got twenty-five dollars for nursing the Martin child. Now, if I'd only done that. "

"But you couldn't, Mattie. You're a doctor's wife, and you owe it toyour position not to go out nursing. "

"I know. Never mind; your practice'll rise now that Dr. Gunstone hascalled you, and they sent a carriage with a coachman and a footman afteryou. That kind of thing makes an impression on the neighbors. Ishouldn't wonder if you'd be able to keep your own carriage in a fewyears. I'm sure you've got as much ability as Dr. Gunstone, though youdon't put on his stylish ways. But we must manage to get you a newovercoat before another winter. Take off the coat, quick. "

The last words were the result of a ring at the door. The doctor slippedquickly out of his overcoat, laughing, and then instantly assumed hismeditative office face, while Mrs. Beswick opened the door. There stooda man in shirt-sleeves who had come to get the doctor to go to the drydock to see a workman who was suffering from an attack of cart-pin inthe hands of a friend with whom he had been discussing municipalpolitics. 

Fifteen minutes later Mrs. Beswick's wifely heart was gladdened byanother ring. When she saw that the visitor was a fine-lookinggentleman, scrupulously well-dressed, even to his gloves and cane, shefelt that renown and wealth must be close at hand. 

"Is Dr. Beswick in?" demanded the caller. 

"He was called out in haste to see a patient, who--was--taken down verysuddenly, " she said; "but I expect him back every moment. Will you comein and wait?"

"Can I see Mrs. Beswick?" said the stranger, entering. 

"I am Mrs. Beswick. "

"I am Mr. Millard. My aunt, Mrs. Martin, referred me to you. Theoccasion of my coming is this: Miss Callender, while caring for mylittle cousin, has caught diphtheria. "

"I'm so sorry. You mean the one they call the faith-doctor? She's such asweet, ladylike person! She's been here to see the doctor. And you wantDr. Beswick to attend her?"

"No; the family have called Dr. Gunstone, who has been their physicianbefore. "

Mrs. Beswick was visibly disappointed. It seemed so long to wait untilDr. Beswick's transcendent ability should be recognized. She was tiredof hearing of Gunstone. 

"I would like to send a good nurse to care for Miss Callender, " saidMillard, "since she got her sickness by attention to my little cousin. My aunt, Mrs. Martin, said that the nurse Dr. Beswick sent to her childwas a friend of yours, I believe. "

"Yes; I was in the hospital with her. But you couldn't get MissJackson, who nursed the little Martin boy. She's going to take charge ofa case next week. It's a first-rate case that will last all summer. Youcould find a good nurse by going to the New York Hospital. "

Millard looked hopeless. After a moment he said: "It wouldn't do. Yousee the family of Miss Callender wouldn't have me pay for a nurse ifthey knew about it. I thought I might get this Miss Jackson to go in asan acquaintance, having known Miss Callender at the Martins'. Theyneedn't know that I pay her. Don't you think I could put somebody in herplace, and get her?"

"No; it's a long case, and it will give her a chance to go to thecountry, and the people have waited nearly a week to get her. "

"I suppose I'll have to give it up. Unless--unless--"

Millard paused a moment. Then he said:

"They say you are a trained nurse. If, now, I could coax you to go in asan acquaintance? You have met her, and you like her?"

"Oh, ever so much! She's so good and friendly. But I don't think I couldgo. The doctor's only beginning, but his practice is improving fast, andhis position, you know, might be affected by my going out to nurseagain. "

But Mrs. Beswick looked a little excited, and Millard, making a hurriedestimate of the Beswick financial condition from the few assets visible, concluded that the project was by no means hopeless. 

"I wouldn't ask you to go out as a paid nurse. You would go and tenderyour services as a friend, " he said. 

"I'd feel like a wretch to be taking pay and pretending to do it allfor kindness, " said Mrs. Beswick, with a rueful laugh. 

"Indeed, it would be a kindness, Mrs. Beswick, and it might save avaluable life. "

"I don't know what to say till I consult the doctor, " she said, dreamingof all the things she could do toward increasing the doctor'srespectability if she had a little extra money. "I can not see that itwould hurt his practice if managed in that way. "

"Indeed, it might help it, " said Millard, seeing Mrs. Beswick'saccessible point. "You'd make the friendship of people who are connectedwith the first families of the city, and you'd make the acquaintance ofDr. Gunstone, who would recognize you only as a friend of MissCallender's. "

"I'll speak to the doctor. I'm sure I wouldn't do it for any one else. Icouldn't stay away all the time, you know. "

"Stay whatever time you can, and it will give me pleasure to pay you atthe highest rate, for the service is a very delicate one. "

"I'll feel like a liar, " she said, with her head down, "pretending to doit all for nothing, though, indeed, I wouldn't go for anybody else. "

"Oh, do it for nothing. We'll have no bargain. I'll make you a presentwhen you are done. "

"That'll be better, " she said, though Millard himself could hardly seethe difference. 

XXXVII. 

DR. GUNSTONE'S DIAGNOSIS. 

Mrs. Beswick, at the cost of a little persistence and a good manycaresses, succeeded in getting the doctor to consent that she should goto the Callenders'. The risk of contagion she pooh-poohed. She called atMrs. Callender's, and, again by a little persistence, succeeded inlaying off her hat and sack and ensconcing herself as a volunteer nurseto Phillida. It seemed a case of remarkable disinterestedness to theCallender family, and a case of unparalleled hypocrisy to Mrs. Beswick, but she could not be dissuaded from staying from the early morning tobedtime, assuring Mrs. Callender that she would rather care for herdaughter than for any one else. "Except the doctor, of course, " sheadded. She was always pleased when she could contrive to mention thedoctor; no topic of conversation brought her so many pleasurableemotions. Phillida became fond of her and whenever she went away longedfor her return. 

Robert brought flowers every day in Mrs. Hilbrough's name, and Millardcalled to inquire as often as he thought proper. The tidings secured onthe third and fourth days indicated that the attack would prove alighter one than that which had almost cost the life of Tommy. On thefifth day it was reported that Phillida was convalescent. Dr. Gunstonehad announced that he would come no more unless there should appearsymptoms of temporary paralysis, such as sometimes follow this disease, or unless other complications should arise. Millard thought it would bemore prudent and, so to speak, realistic, to make Mrs. Hilbrough'sinquiries and his own less frequent after this. He and Robert, therefore, called on alternate days. On Monday it was Mr. Millard whocalled, on Tuesday it was a bunch of flowers and inquiries in Mrs. Hilbrough's name. But Phillida's progress was so slow that it seemeddoubtful after some days whether she made any advancement at all. Thedisease had quite disappeared, but strength did not return. At the endof a week from Dr. Gunstone's leave-taking, the family were in greatanxiety lest there might be some obscure malady preying on her strength, and there was talk of taking her to some southern place to meet half-waythe oncoming spring. But this would have drawn heavily on the familysavings, which were likely to dwindle fast enough; the appearance ofdiphtheria having vacated all the rooms in the house at a time whenthere was small hope of letting them again before the autumn. 

Milder measures than a trip were tried first. The arm-chair in which shesat was removed into the front parlor in hope that a slight change ofscene might be an improvement; the cheerful sight of milk-wagons andbutcher-carts, the melodious cries of old clothes buyers and sellers of"ba-nan-i-yoes" and the piping treble of girl-peddlers ofhorse-red-deesh were somehow to have a tonic effect upon her. But thespectacle of the rarely swept paving-stones of a side-street in the lastdays of March was not inspiriting. Phillida had the additionaldiscomfort of involuntarily catching glimpses of her own pallid anddespondent face in the pier-glass between the windows. 

As for the life of the street, it seemed to her to belong to a world inwhich she no longer had any stake. The shock of disillusion regardingfaith-healing had destroyed for the time a good deal besides. Ifmistaken in one thing she might be in many. However wholesome andserviceable a critical skepticism may prove to an enthusiast in the fulltide of health and activity, to Phillida broken in heart and hope it wasbut another weight to sink her to the bottom. For now there was nolonger love to look forward to, nor was she even able to interestherself again in the work that had mainly occupied her life, but whichalso she had marred by her errors. Turn either way she felt that she hadspoiled her life. 

Looking out of the window listlessly, late one afternoon, her attentionwas awakened by a man approaching with some cut flowers in his hand. Shenoticed with a curious interest that he wore a cap like the one she hadremarked in the hands of Millard's valet. As he passed beneath thewindow, she distinctly recognized Robert as the man Millard had sent tohasten the coming of the coupé, and when he mounted the steps she felther pulses beat more quickly. 

Her mother entered presently with the flowers. 

"From Mrs. Hilbrough with inquiries, " Mrs. Callender read from the cardas she arranged the flowers in a vase on the low marble table under thepier-glass. 

"Mrs. Hilbrough?" said Phillida with a feeling of disappointment. "Butthat was Charley Millard's man. "

"No, that is the man Mrs. Hilbrough has sent ever since you were takenill, " said the mother. "He speaks in a peculiar English way; did youhear him? You've got a better color this evening, I declare. "

"Mama, that is Charley's man, " persisted Phillida. "I saw him at theGraydon. And the flowers he has brought all along are in Charley'staste--just what he used to send me, and not anything out of Mrs. Hilbrough's conservatory. Give me a sip of water, please. " Phillida'scolor had all departed now. 

Having drunk the water she leaned against her chair-back and closed hereyes. Continuous and assiduous attention from Mrs. Hilbrough was morethan she had expected; and now that the messenger was proven to beMillard's own man, she doubted whether there were not some mystery aboutthe matter, the more that the flowers sent were precisely Millard'sfavorites. 

The next day Phillida sat alone looking into the street, as the twilightof a cloudy evening was falling earlier than usual, when Agatha cameinto the room to light two burners, with a notion that darkness mightprove depressing to her sister. Phillida turned to watch the process oftouching a match to the gas, as an invalid is prone to seek a languiddiversion in the least things. When the gas was lighted she looked outof the window again, and at the same moment the door-bell sounded. Tosave Sarah's deserting the dinner on the range, Agatha answered it. Phillida, with a notion that she might have a chance to verify herrecognition of Millard's valet, kept her eyes upon the portion of thefront steps that was visible where she sat. She saw Millard himselfdescend the steps and pass in front of her window. He chanced to lookup, and his agitation was visible even from where she sat as he suddenlylifted his hat and bowed, and then hurried away. 

The night that followed was a restless one, and it was evident in themorning that Dr. Gunstone must be called again. Mrs. Callender foundPhillida so weak that she hesitated to speak to her of a note she hadreceived in the morning mail. It might do good; it might do harm to lether know its contents. Agatha was consulted and she turned the scale ofMrs. Callender's decision. 

"Phillida, dear, " said the mother, "I don't know whether I ought tomention it to you or not. You are very weak this morning. But CharleyMillard has asked for permission to make a brief call. Could you bear tosee him?"

Phillida's face showed her deeply moved. After a pause and a struggleshe said: "Charley is sorry for me, that is all. He thinks I may die, and he feels grateful for my attention to his aunt. But if he had tobegin over again he would never fall in love with me. "

"You don't know that, Phillida. You are depressed; you underestimateyourself. "

"With his advantages he could take his choice almost, " said Phillida. "It's very manly of him to be so constant to an unfortunate andbroken-hearted person like me. But I will not have him marry me out ofpity. "

"I'm afraid you are depressed by your weakness. I don't think you oughtto refuse to see him if you feel able, " said the mother. 

"I am not able to see him. It is easier to refuse in this way than afterI have been made ill by too much feeling. I am not going to subjectCharley to the mortification of taking into his circle a wife that willbe always remembered as--as a sort of quack-doctor. "

Saying this Phillida broke down and wept. 

When Agatha heard of her decision she came in and scolded her sisterroundly for a goose. This made Phillida weep again, but there was afirmness of will at the base of her character that held herdetermination unchanged. About an hour later she begged her mother towrite the answer at her dictation. It read:

"Miss Callender wishes me to say that she is not able to bear aninterview. With the utmost respect for Mr. Millard and with a gratefulappreciation of his kind attention during her illness, she feels surethat it is better not to renew their acquaintance. "

After this letter was sent off Phillida's strength began to fail, andthe mother and sister were thrown into consternation. In the afternoonDr. Gunstone came again. He listened to the heart, he examined thelungs, he made inquisition for symptoms and paused baffled. The olddoctor understood the mind-cure perfectly; balked in his search forphysical causes he said to Mrs. Callender:

"Perhaps if I could speak with Miss Callender alone a few moments itmight be better. "

"I have no secrets from mama, " protested Phillida. 

"That's right, my child, " said Dr. Gunstone gravely, "but you can talkwith more freedom to one person than to two. I want to see your motheralone, also, when I have talked with you. "

Mrs. Callender retired and the doctor for a minute kept up a simulationof physical examination in order to wear away the restraint whichPhillida might feel at being abruptly left for a confidentialconversation with her physician. 

"I'm afraid you don't try to get well, Miss Callender, " he said. 

"Does trying make any difference?" demanded Phillida. 

"Yes, to be sure; that's the way that the mesmerists and magnetizers, and the new faith-cure people work their cures largely. They enlist thewill, and they do some good. They often help chronic invalids whom thedoctors have failed to benefit. "

Dr. Gunstone had his hand on Phillida's wrist, and he could notconjecture why her pulse increased rapidly at this point in theconversation. But he went on:

"Have you really tried to get well? Have you wanted to get well as soonas possible?"

"On mama's account I ought to wish to get well, " she said. 

"But you are young and you have much happiness before you. Don't youwish to get well on your own account?"

Phillida shook her head despondently. 

"Now, my child, I am an old man and your doctor. May I ask whether youare engaged to be married?"

"No, doctor, I am not, " said Phillida, trying to conjecture why he askedthis question. 

"Have you been engaged?"

"Yes, " said Phillida. 

"And the engagement was broken off?"

"Yes. "

"Recently?"

"Yes, rather recently. This last winter. "

"Now, tell me as your doctor, whether or not the circumstances connectedwith that interruption of your love-affair have depressed you--have madeyou not care much about living?"

Phillida's "I suppose they have" was almost inaudible. 

"Now, my child, you must not let these things weigh upon you. The worldwill not always look dark. Try to see it more lightly. I think you mustgo away. You must have a change of scene and you must see people. I willfind your mother. Good-morning, Miss Callender. "

And with that the doctor shook hands in his half-sympathetic, half-reserved manner, and went out into the hall. 

Mrs. Callender, who was waiting at the top of the stairs, came down andencountered him. 

"May I see you alone a moment?" said the doctor, looking at his watch, which always seemed to go too fast to please him. 

Mrs. Callender led the way to the basement dining-room, below, beckoningAgatha, who sat there, to go up to her sister. 

"Mrs. Callender, there is in your daughter's case an interrupted loveaffair which is depressing her health, and which may cut short her life. Do you think that the engagement is broken off for all time, or is itbut a tiff?"

"I hardly know, doctor. My daughter is a peculiar person; she is verygood, but with ideas of her own. We hardly understand the cause of thedisagreement--or why she still refuses to see the young man. "

"Has the young man shown any interest in Miss Callender since theengagement ceased?"

"He has called here several times during her sickness to inquire, and hesent a note this morning asking to see her. She has declined to see him, while expressing a great esteem for him. "

"That's bad. You do not regard him as an objectionable person?"

"Oh, no; quite the contrary. "

"It is my opinion that Miss Callender's recovery may depend on therenewal of that engagement. If that is out of the question--and it is adelicate matter to deal with--especially as the obstacle is in her ownfeelings, she must have travel. She ought to have change of scene, andshe ought to meet people. Take her South, or North, or East, or West--toEurope or anywhere else, so as to be rid of local associations, and tosee as many new things and people as possible. Good-morning, Mrs. Callender. "

Having said this the old doctor mounted the basement stairs too nimblyfor Mrs. Callender to keep up with him. When she reached the top he hadalready closed the front door and a moment later the wheels of hisbarouche were rattling violently over the irregular pavement that laybetween the Callender house and Third Avenue. 

To take Phillida away--that was the hard problem the doctor had given toMrs. Callender. For with the love affair the mother might not meddlewith any prospect of success. But the formidable barrier to a journeywas the expense. 

"Where would you like to go, Phillida?" said her mother. 

"To Siam. I'd like to see the things and the people I saw when I was achild, when papa was with us and when it was easy to believe thateverything that happened was for the best. It would be about as easy forus to go to Siam as anywhere else, for we haven't the money to spare togo anywhere. I sit and dream of the old house, and the yellow people, and the pleasure of being a child, and the comfort of believing. I amtired to death of this great, thinking, pushing, western world, with itsrestlessness and its unbelief. If I were in the East I could believe andhope, and not worry about what Philip calls 'the immensities. '"

XXXVIII. 

PHILIP'S CONFESSION. 

It was evident that something must be done speedily to save Phillidafrom a decline that might end in death, or from that chronic invalidismwhich is almost worse. All sort of places were thought of, but thedestination was at last narrowed down to the vicinity of Hampton Roads, as the utmost limit that any prudent expenditure would allow theCallenders to venture upon. Even this would cost what ordinary cautionforbade them to spend, and Phillida held out stoutly against any tripuntil the solicitude of her mother and sister bore down all objections. 

Not long after Dr. Gunstone's visit, Mrs. Callender received a letterfrom Mrs. Hilbrough expressing anxiety regarding Phillida, andregretting that her husband's horror of diphtheria still prevented herfrom calling. She continued:

"I very much wish to do something by which I can show my love forPhillida. Won't you let me bear the expense of a trip southward, if youthink that will do good? If you feel delicate about it, consider it aloan to be paid whenever it shall be convenient, but it would give megreat happiness if I might be allowed to do this little act ofaffection. "

Mrs. Callender showed the note to Phillida. "It would save our sellingthe bonds, " she said, "but I do not like to go in debt, and of course wewould repay it by degrees. "

"It is a trifle to her, " said Phillida, "and I think we might accept twohundred dollars or more as a loan to be repaid. "

"Well, if you think so, Phillida, but I do hate to be in debt. "

Phillida sat thinking for a minute. Then her pale face colored. 

"Did the letter come by mail?" she asked. 

Mrs. Callender examined the envelope. "I thought it came from thepostman, but there is no postmark; Sarah brought it to me. "

"Suppose you ask Sarah to come up, " said Phillida. 

On Sarah's arrival Phillida asked her who brought this letter. 

"It wuz that young man with the short side whiskers just under his earsand a cap that's got a front before and another one behind, so't I don'tsee for the life of me how he gets it on right side before. "

"The man that brought flowers when I was sick?"

"That very same, Miss. "

"All right, Sarah. That'll do. " Then when Sarah had gone Phillida leanedher head back and said:

"It won't do, Mother. We can't accept it. "

It was a tedious week after Dr. Gunstone's last visit before a trip wasfinally determined on and a destination selected, and Mrs. Callender, who had a genius for thoroughness, demanded yet another week in which toget ready. Phillida, meanwhile, sat wearily waiting for to-morrow tofollow to-day. 

"Mother, " she said, one day, rousing herself from a reverie, "what agood fellow Cousin Philip is, after all! I used to feel a certaindislike for what seemed to me irresolution and inactivity in him. Butever since I was taken sick he has been just like a brother to me. "

"He has taken charge of us, " said Mrs. Callender. "He has inquired aboutboard for us at Hampton, and he has worked out all the routes by railand steamboat. "

Philip's kindness to his aunt's family was originally self-moved, but, as Phillida convalesced, his mother contrived to send him with messagesto her, and even suggested to him that his company would be cheering tohis cousin. Philip sat and chatted with her an hour every day, but theexercise did not raise his spirits in the least. For his motherfrequently hinted that if he had courage he would be more prompt toavail himself of his opportunities in life. Philip could have no doubtas to what his mother meant by opportunities in life, and he knew betterthan any one else that he was prone to waste his haymaking sunshine intimid procrastinations. But how to make love to Phillida? How offer hisodd personality to such a woman as she? His mother's severe hints aboutyoung men who could not pluck ripe fruit hanging ready to their handspurred him, but whenever he was in Phillida's presence something ofpreoccupation in her mental attitude held him back from tender words. Hethought himself a little ridiculous, and when he tried to imaginehimself making love he thought that he would be ten times more absurd. If he could have got into his favorite position in an arm-chair andcould have steadied his nerves by synchronous smoking, as he wasaccustomed to do whenever he had any embarrassing business matters tosettle, he might have succeeded in expressing to Phillida the smolderingpassion that made life a bitterness not to be sweetened even by Caxtonimprints and Bedford-bound John Smiths of 1624. 

He always knew that if he should ever succeed in letting Phillida knowof his affection it would be by a sudden charge made before hisdiffidence could rally to oppose him. He had once or twice in his lifedone bold things by catching his dilatory temper napping. With this ideahe went every day to call on Phillida, hoping that a fit of desperationmight carry him at a bound over the barrier. At first he looked for somevery favorable opportunity, but after several visits he would have beenwilling to accept one that offered the least encouragement. 

There were but a few days left before Phillida's departure southward, and if he should allow her to escape he would incur the bitterreproaches of his own conscience, and, what seemed even worse, theserious disapproval of Mrs. Gouverneur. 

Phillida and her mother were to leave on Friday afternoon by theCongressional Limited for Baltimore, and to take boat down the bay onSaturday. Philip had arranged it all. It was now Tuesday, and the timefor "improving his opportunity in life" was short. On this Tuesdayafternoon he talked an hour to Phillida, but he could not possiblycause the conversation to swing around so as to be able, even withconsiderable violence, to make the transition he desired. He first lether lead, and she talked to him about the East and the queer ways of theyellow Mongolians she remembered. These memories of early childhood, inthe blessed period when care and responsibility had not yet disturbedthe spirit's freedom, brought her a certain relief from gnawingreflections. When she tired it was his turn to lead, and he soon slippedinto his old grooves and entertained her with stories of the marvelousprices fetched by Mazarin Bibles, and with accounts of people who haddiscovered "fourteeners" in out-of-the-way places, and such like lore ofthe old book-shop. All the time he was tormented by a despairingunder-thought that love-making was just as far from book-collecting asit was from Phillida's Oriental memories. At length the under-thoughtsuppressed the upper ones, and he paused and looked out of the windowand drew his small form down on the chair, assuming his favoriteattitude, while he supported his right elbow with his left hand andabsent-mindedly held the fingers of the right hand near his lips asthough to support an imaginary cigar. 

"Philip, " said the invalid, embarrassed by the silence, "I envy you yourinterest in books. "

"You do?" Philip moved his right hand as he might have done in removinga cigar from the mouth and turned to Phillida. "Why?"

"It saves you from being crushed by the immensities as you call them. Isuppose it has consoled you in many a trouble, and no doubt it has keptyou from the miseries of falling in love. "

She laid her thin hand on the arm of her chair as she spoke. 

"Kept me from falling in love, " gasped Philip, aware that hisnow-or-never had arrived, "how do you know that?"

"I never heard that you were in love with anybody. Excuse me if I havetrodden on forbidden ground. "

"I have loved but one woman, and I'm such a coward that I never had thecourage to tell her, " he said abruptly, at the same time restoring hisimaginary cigar to his mouth. 

"That's a pity, " she said. 

"What a figure I'd cut as a lover! Little, lank, nervous, eccentric inmanner, peculiar in my opinions, lacking resolution to undertakeanything worth while, frittering away my time in gathering rarebooks--what woman would think of me?"

"Philip, you have many excellent qualities, and I shouldn't wonder ifmarriage would be good for you, " said Phillida, in that motherly tonethat only a young woman can assume easily. 

"You'd laugh at me as long as you live if I should tell you whom I havedared to love without ever daring to confess. " His face was averted ashe said this. 

"You poor fellow, " said Phillida, "you are always doubtful of yourself. Come, I think you had better tell me; may be I can encourage you, and itwill give me something to think about and keep away thoughts that Idon't wish to think. "

Philip drew a long breath and then said slowly and with a firm voice, but with his eyes on the window fastenings:

"The woman I love and have loved for a long time is my Cousin Phillida. "

"You are joking, Philip, " said Phillida, but her voice died as shespoke. 

"Yes, " said Philip, in his old desponding tone, "I knew it would seemridiculous to you. That's why I never spoke of it before. "

He looked out of the window in silence, and presently became aware thatPhillida was weeping. 

"O God! let me die, " she murmured in a broken voice. "I am doomed towork only misery in the world. Isn't it enough to have blighted thehappiness of Charley, whom I loved and still love in spite of myself?Must I also plunge Philip into misery who has been more than a brotherto me? If I could only die and escape from this wretched life before Ido any further harm. "

"I am sorry that I said anything, Phillida. Forget it. Forget it, please. " He said in an alarmed voice, rising as he spoke. 

"Cousin, " said Phillida, "you are the best friend I have. But you _mustnot_ love me. There is nothing left for me. Nothing--but to die. Good-by. "

That evening Philip did not appear at dinner and his mother sent toinquire the reason. 

"Mr. Philip says he has a headache, and will not come down, " said themaid on her return. 

After dinner the mother sought his room with a cup of coffee and a bitof toast. Philip was lying on the lounge in his book-room with the gasturned low. 

"What's the matter, Philip? Is your throat sore? Are there any signs ofdiphtheria?" demanded his mother anxiously. 

"No, I am all right. A little out of sorts. Only just let me be quiet. "

"Has anything gone wrong?"

"Nothing more than common. "

"Something has worried you. Now, Philip, I can see plainly that you areworrying about Phillida. Why don't you speak your mind if you care forher, and have it over with?"

"It is over with, mother, " said Philip. 

"And she refused you?" said Mrs. Gouverneur, with rising indignation, for she thought it rather a descent for Philip to offer himself toPhillida or to anybody else. 

"No, she didn't refuse me. I didn't formally offer myself. But I let herknow how I felt toward her. She'll never accept me. "

"May be she will, " said the mother. "Girls don't like to accept at thefirst hint. "

"No, she was kind and even affectionate with me, and broke her heartover my confession that I loved her, so that I'm afraid I have done hera great deal of harm. "

"How do you know she will never accept you, you faint-hearted boy?"

"She let me see her whole heart. She loves Charley Millard as much asever, but, I think, for some reason she doesn't expect or wish a renewalof the engagement. She called me the best friend she had in the world, next to Charley Millard. That's an end of it. A good deal more of an endof it than a flat refusal might have been. "

"She's a foolish and perverse girl, who has compromised her family andruined her own prospects, " said Mrs. Gouverneur. "Your aunt told meto-day that Dr. Gunstone thinks she is going to die of herdisappointment about Charley unless the engagement can be renewed. ButPhillida has determined not to allow a renewal of it. She's always doingsomething foolish. Now, eat a little dinner, or take your coffee atleast. "

"Leave the things here, mother. May be I'll eat after a while. "

Half an hour later Mrs. Gouverneur, uneasy regarding Philip, returned tohis library to find the food as she had left it. 

On inquiry she learned that Philip had just gone out. Whither and forwhat purpose he had sallied forth dinnerless she could not divine, andthe strangeness of his action did not reassure her. She was on the pointof speaking to her husband about it, but he had so little in common withPhilip, and was of a temper so fixed and stolid, that his advice wouldnot have availed anything. It never did avail anything certainly in thefirst hour or two after dinner. 

XXXIX. 

PHILIP IMPROVES AN OPPORTUNITY. 

The intimacy between Millard and Philip Gouverneur had long languished. Philip was naturally critical of Charley after he became the acceptedlover of Phillida, and their relations were not bettered by the breakingoff of the engagement. Phillida's cousin felt that he owed it to her notto seem to condemn her in the matter by a too great intimacy with thelover who had jilted or been jilted by her, nobody could tell which, noteven the pair themselves. Moreover Philip had for years taken a faintpleasure in considering himself as a possible suitor to Phillida. Hefound the enjoyment of a solitary cigar enhanced by his ruminationsregarding the possibilities of a life glorified--no weaker word couldexpress his thought--by the companionship of Phillida, little as he hadever hoped for such a culmination of his wishes. But this love forPhillida served to complicate his relations with Millard. So that it hadnow been long since he had visited The Graydon. Nevertheless on thisevening of his sudden and dinnerless departure from home, the nightclerk remembered him and let him go up to apartment 79 without theceremony of sending his card. 

Millard, who was writing, received Philip with some surprise and acuriosity mixed with solicitude regarding the purpose of his call. Buthe put up his pen and spoke with something of the old cordial mannerthat had won the heart of Gouverneur some years before. 

"I'm glad to see you again, Philip. I began to think you were not comingany more. Sit down, " said Millard. "How is book-collecting? Anythingstartling lately?" he added by way of launching the talk, as he usuallydid on the favorite subject of his companion. 

"No, no, " said Philip, seating himself. 

"I've not seen much of you lately, anywhere, " said Millard, making a newstart. "But that is my fault. I've pretty much cut general society thisspring, and I think for good. I've been busy and tired, and to tell thetruth, I don't care much for society any more. You still go out a gooddeal. Is there anything interesting?"

"Oh, no, " said Gouverneur. 

Seeing that Philip was preoccupied and that all attempts to give himdirection and set him in motion were likely to prove futile, Charleyconcluded to let him start himself in whatever direction his mood mightlead him. He did this the more readily that he himself found talkinghard work in his present mood. But by way of facilitating the start, Millard held out to Philip a bronze tray containing some cigars. 

"No, thank you, Charley. I don't feel like smoking. "

To Millard's mind nothing could have been more ominous than for PhilipGouverneur to refuse to smoke. 

"I suppose I might as well begin at once, " said Philip. "If I wait Inever shall get the courage to say what I want to say. I ought to havewaited till morning, but if I once put off a good resolution it is nevercarried out. So I came down here pell-mell, Charley, resolved not togive myself time to think what a piece of impertinent impudence I wasgoing to be guilty of. " Then after a pause he said: "If you turn me outof the apartment neck and heels, I sha'n't be surprised. "

"Pshaw, Philip, you excite my curiosity, " said Millard, trying to smile, but yet a little aghast at seeing his old friend in this unusual mood, and divining that the subject would be disagreeable. 

"I come to speak about Phillida, " said Philip. 

Ever since Millard's hopes had received their quietus from Mrs. Callender's note in which Phillida declined to receive a visit from him, he had recognized the necessity for getting Phillida out of his mind ifhe were ever again to have any sane contentment in life. If Phillida didnot any longer care for him, it would be unmanly for him to continuebrooding over the past. But he found that exhorting himself to manlinesswould not cure a heartache. There was nothing he could have dreaded somuch at this time as a conversation about Phillida, and, of all peoplehe most disliked to speak of her with Philip Gouverneur. He made noreply at all to Philip's blunt statement of the subject on which heproposed to converse. But Gouverneur was too much absorbed in holdinghimself to his plan of action to take note of his companion's lack ofresponsiveness. 

"I want to ask whether you still love her or not, Charley, " saidPhilip, with a directness that seemed brutal, his gaze fixed on thewall. 

"I have no claims upon her, " said Millard, "if that is what you want toknow. "

"That isn't what I want to know. I asked if you still loved her?"

"I don't know whether even you have a right to ask that question, " saidMillard with manifest annoyance. 

"I am her cousin, " said Philip, looking up at Millard with eyesstrangely unsteady and furtive. 

"If there were any charge that I had wronged her, you, as her cousin, might have a right to inquire, " said Millard, who fancied thatGouverneur had a personal end in making the inquiry, and who at any ratedid not care to be known as a discarded and broken-hearted lover. "I'lltell you plainly that it is a subject on which I don't wish to speakwith anybody. Besides it's hardly fair to come to me as Phillida'scousin, when there is reason to believe your feelings toward her aremore than cousinly. I have no claims on Phillida, no expectation of arenewal of our engagement, and I certainly have no complaint to make ofher. Nobody has any right to inquire further. "

Charley Millard got up and walked the floor in excitement as he saidthis. 

"You're plaguey cross, Charley. I never saw you so impolite before. Didn't know you could be. I suppose you're right, by Jupiter! I went toostraight at the mark, and you had a right to resent it. But I had to goat it like a man having a tooth pulled, for fear I'd back out at thelast moment. "

There was a ten seconds' pause, during which Millard sat down. ThenPhilip spoke again. 

"I know, Charley; you have misunderstood. You think I wish to get adisclaimer that will clear the way for me. Charley--" Philip spoke nowin a voice low and just a little husky, --"if I loved Phillida andbelieved she could love me, do you think I'd wait to ask yourpermission? If I wished to marry her and she loved me, I wouldn't askany man's permission! And I came here not in my own interest, nor inyour interest either. I am here only for Phillida's sake and as hercousin, and I want to know whether you love her. "

"If you want me to do anything for her, I am ready. That is all I oughtto be required to say, " said Millard, softened by Philip's evidentemotion, but bent on not betraying his own feelings. 

"I suppose that means that you don't care for her, " said Gouverneur. Then he went on, looking into the fireplace: "Well, that's an end of it. What an idiot she has been! She has thrown you over and alienated youraffections, and made herself the talk of the streets. You wouldn't thinksuch a fine-looking woman could make herself so utterly ridiculous. Sheis a mortification to her relations, and--"

"Now, Philip, stop, " said Millard, with heat. "You are in my house. Noman shall say a word against that woman in my hearing while I live. Itell you that even her mistakes are noble. If her relatives are ashamedof such as she is, I am sorry for her relatives. " Millard made aneffort to say more, but his utterance was choked. 

Philip laughed a sardonic little laugh. 

"Charley, before God, I was not sincere in a word I said againstPhillida. I lied with deliberate purpose. Now I know that you love her. That's what I wanted to find out. I only denounced her to get at yourfeelings. You wouldn't tell me, I had to resort to a ruse. "

"Do you think it--do you think it's the thing to pry into my feelings?"said Millard, still speaking hotly. 

"Yes, I do, under the circumstances. In return I'll tell you somethingworth your listening to, if you'll only cool off enough to hear it. "

Millard's curiosity was excited by this, but he made no reply; he onlysat still with Philip's eyes fixed upon him. 

"Phillida loves you, " said Philip. 

Millard looked steadily at the smallish figure of his old friend, notshrunken into the chair as usual now, but sitting upright and lookingstraight at him with a strange look he had never seen before. 

"Philip, " he said softly, "how do you know this? Tell me, for God'ssake!"

"I must not betray confidence, " said Philip. "You know me, your friendand Phillida's. I am here to-night--I might say heart-broken, I canhardly say disappointed. I don't blame Phillida for not caring for meexcept as a cousin, or for preferring you. On the whole, if I were inher place I'd do the same, by George!"

Philip laughed again, that little laugh which pained his friend. 

"Why did you come to tell me this, Philip?" Millard was sitting now withhis elbows on the table, and the fingers of his right hand supportinghis cheek, as he regarded Philip steadily. 

"Well, if one can not contrive to do what one wants, he should, Isuppose, do the second best thing. The only thing for me to do--thething that'll be a comfort for me to look back on--is to render Phillidasome service. In short, to save her life and make her happy. "

"How do you propose to do that?" asked Millard. 

"I've already done it, old fellow, " said Philip, with a mixture oftriumph and regret in his voice. "Dr. Gunstone said to Aunt Callender, after talking with Phillida, that unless her engagement with you wererenewed she would probably not recover. I wouldn't have told you thisfor the world if I had found you didn't love her. She'd better die nowthan marry you and discover that you married her from pity. "

Millard went to his desk and took out the note from Mrs. Callender inwhich Phillida had refused to see him. He handed it to Philip. 

"I got that last week, and it seemed final, " he said huskily. "I havefound life almost more than I could carry since, Philip. "

Philip read the note and then returned it to Millard. 

"That's some of her confounded scruples, " he said. "She told me that shehad ruined your life. She thinks you wish to marry her from pity, andshe'd rather die like a brave girl than consent to that. But she lovesyou and nobody else. "

"I wish I were sure of it, " said Millard. 

Philip sat a good while silent. 

"Charley, " he said, "the end I have in view justifies the breach ofconfidence, I hope. I have the assurance of her feelings toward you fromher own lips, and that not many hours ago. She would have died ratherthan tell me had she thought it possible I would tell you. And I wouldhave died rather than betray her if I hadn't believed your feelingstoward her unchanged. "

Saying this he helped himself to a cigar from the tray on the table andlighted it, and then rose to leave. 

"What can I do, Philip? I seem absolutely shut out from making anyfurther advances by this note, " demanded Millard. 

"You mustn't expect any further aid or advice from me. I've done all youcan expect, " said Gouverneur. "Good-by. "

And without shaking hands he went out of the door into the main hall. Millard followed him and, as they reached the elevator, said withemotion:

"Philip, you have done one of the bravest acts. "

"Pshaw! Charley, " said Philip, half-peevishly and looking over hisshoulder at his companion as he pressed the button, "don't put anyheroics on it. There isn't enough of me to play such a part. Such talkmakes me feel myself more ridiculous than ever. "

XL. 

THE RESTORATION. 

How many scores of devices for securing a conversation with Phillida, Millard hit upon during the night that followed Gouverneur's visit, hecould not have told. He planned letters to her in a dozen differentveins, and rejected them all. He thought of appealing to Mrs. Callenderonce more, but could not conceive of Mrs. Callender's overrulingPhillida. His mind perpetually reverted to Agatha. If only he might gainher co-operation! And yet this notion of securing the assistance of ayounger sister had an air of intrigue that he did not like. 

About nine o'clock the next morning there was handed to Mrs. Callender anote from Millard inclosing an unsealed note which Mr. Millard desiredMrs. Callender if she saw fit to hand to Miss Agatha. Mrs. Callendergave it to Agatha without opening it. 

 AGATHA: I wrote to your mother the other day begging permission to call on your sister, and received a reply expressing Miss Callender's desire to avoid an interview. That ought to have put an end to my hope of securing your sister's forgiveness, and for a while it did. But on reflection I am led to believe that her decision was based, not on a lack of affection for me, but on a wrong notion of my feeling toward her. She probably believes that I am actuated by gratitude for her attention to my relatives, or by pity for her sufferings as an invalid. She holds certain other erroneous notions on the subject, I think. I give you the assurance with all the solemnity possible that my devotion to her is greater to-day than ever. Her affection is absolutely indispensable to my happiness. I will undertake to convince her of this if I am once permitted to speak to her. Now if you think that she would be the better for a renewal of our old relations will you not contrive in some way that I may see her this afternoon at three o'clock, at which hour I shall present myself at your door?

 I hope your mother will pardon my writing to you; persuasion exerted by a sister has less the air of authority than that of a parent. I leave you to show this letter or not at your own discretion, and I put into your hands my whole future welfare, and what is of a thousand times greater importance in your eyes and in mine, Phillida's happiness. Whatever may be your feelings toward me I know that Phillida can count on your entire devotion to her interests. CHARLEY. 

The only thing that seemed to Millard a little insincere about thisrather stiff note was the reason assigned for writing to Agatha. Herpersuasions, as Millard well knew, did not have less of authority aboutthem than her mother's. But this polite insincerity on a minor point hehad not seen how to avoid in a letter that ought to be shown to Mrs. Callender. 

Agatha gave her mother the note to read, telling her, however, inadvance that she proposed to manage the case herself. Mrs. Callender wasfull of all manner of anxieties at having so difficult a matter left toone so impetuous as Agatha. For herself she could not see just what wasto be done, and two or three times she endeavored to persuade Agatha tolet her consult Phillida about it. A consultation with Phillida had beenher resort in difficulties ever since the death of her husband. ButAgatha reminded her that Mr. Millard had intrusted the matter to her ownkeeping, and expressed her determination not to have any more ofPhillida's nonsense. 

Phillida observed that Agatha was not giving as much attention topreparations for the journey as she expected her to. Nor could Phillidaunderstand why the parlor must be swept again before their departure, seeing it would be snowed under with dust when they got back. But Agathaput everything in perfect order, and then insisted on dressing hersister with a little more pains than usual. 

"I wouldn't wonder if Mrs. Hilbrough calls this afternoon, " said theyoung hypocrite. "Besides I think it is good for an invalid to bedressed up a little--just a little fixed up. It makes a person think ofgetting well and that does good, you know. "

Agatha refrained from an allusion to faith-cure that rose to her lips, and finding that Phillida was growing curious she turned to a newsubject. 

"Did mama tell you what Miss Bowyer says about your case, Philly?"

"No. "

"Mrs. Beswick told mama that she had it from Mr. Martin. Miss Bowyertold Mr. Martin the other day that she knew you would get well becauseshe had been giving you absent treatment without your knowledge orconsent. Didn't you feel her pulling you into harmony with the odylicemanations of the universe?"

Phillida smiled a little and Agatha insisted on helping her to creepinto the parlor. She said she could not pack the trunk with Phillylooking on. But when she got her sister into the parlor she did not seemto care to go back to the trunks. 

The door-bell rang at three and Agatha met Charley in the hall. 

"She doesn't know a word of your coming, " said Agatha in a low voice. "Iwill go and tell her, to break the shock, and then bring you right in. "

She left Millard standing by the hat table while she went in. 

"Phillida, who do you think has come to see you? It's Charley Millard. Itook the liberty of telling him you'd see him for a short time. "

Then she added in a whisper: "Poor fellow, he seems to feel so bad. "

Saying this she set a chair for him, and without giving Phillida time torecover from a confused rush of thought and feeling she returned to thehall saying, "Come right in, Charley. "

To take off the edge, as she afterward expressed it, she sat for threeminutes with them, talking chaff with Millard, and when she had set theconversation going about indifferent things, she remembered somethingthat had to be done in the kitchen, and was instantly gone down-stairs. 

The conversation ran by its own momentum for a while after Agatha'sdeparture, and then it flagged. 

"You're going away, " said Millard after a pause. 

"Yes. "

"I know it is rude for me to call without permission, but I couldn'tbear that you should leave until I had asked your forgiveness for thingsthat I can never forgive myself for. "

Phillida looked down a moment in agitation and then said, "I havenothing to forgive. The fault was all on my side. I have been veryfoolish. "

"I wouldn't quarrel with you for the world, " said Millard, "but thefault was mine. What is an error of judgment in a person of your nobleunselfishness! Fool that I was, not to be glad to bear a little reproachfor such a person as you are!"

To Phillida the world suddenly changed color while Charley was utteringthese words. His affection was better manifested by what he had justsaid than if he had formally declared it. But the fixed notion that hewas moved only by pity could not be vanquished in an instant. 

"Charley, " she said, "it is very good of you to speak such kind words tome. I am very weak, and you are very good-hearted to wish to comfortme. "

"You are quite mistaken, Phillida. You fancy that I am disinterested. Itell you now that I am utterly in love with you. Without you I don'tcare for life. I have not had heart for any pursuit since that eveningon which we parted on account of my folly. But if you tell me that youhave ceased to care for me, there is nothing for me but to go and makethe best of things. "

Phillida was no longer heroic. Her sufferings, her mistakes, herphysical weakness, and the yearning of her heart for Millard's affectionwere fast getting the better of all the reasons she had believed soconclusive against the restoration of their engagement. Nevertheless, she found strength to say: "I am quite unfit to be your wife. You are aman that everybody likes and you enjoy society, as you have a right to. "Then after a pause and an evident struggle to control herself sheproceeded: "Do you think I would weight you down with a wife that willalways be remembered for the follies of her youth?"

Phillida did not see how Charley could answer this, but she was soprofoundly touched by his presence that she hoped he might be able toput matters in a different light. When she had finished speaking hecontracted his brows into a frown for a moment. Then he leaned forwardwith his left hand open on one knee and his right hand clinched andresting on the other. 

"I know I gave you reason to think I was cowardly, " he said; "but I hopeI am a braver man than you imagine. Now if anybody should ever condemnyou for a little chaff in a great granary of wheat it would give me painonly if it gave you pain. Otherwise it would give me real pleasure, because I would like to bear it in such a way that you'd say toyourself, 'Charley is a braver man than I ever thought him. '" Millardhad risen and was standing before her as he finished speaking. There wasa pause during which Phillida looked down at her own hands lying in herlap. 

"Now, Phillida, " he said, "I want to ask one thing--"

"Don't ask me anything just now, Charley, " she said in a broken voicefull of entreaty, at the same time raising her eyes to his. Then shereached her two hands up toward him and he came and knelt at her sidewhile she put her arms about his neck and drew him to her, andwhispered, "I never understood you before, Charley. I never understoodyou. "

XLI. 

AS YOU LIKE IT. 

The next morning Agatha went over to Washington Square to let Philipknow that the trip southward had been postponed for a week or so. AndPhilip knew that the trip southward would never take place at all, butthat drives with Charley in Central Park would prove much better for theinvalid. 

"Oh, yes, it's all right then. I expected it, " he said. 

"Yes, " said Agatha, "it's all right. I managed it myself, Cousin Philip. I brought them together. "

"Did you, Agatha?" he said with a queer smile. "That was clever. "

"Yes, and they have not thanked me for it. Phillida wishes to see you. She told me to tell you. "

"I don't doubt she can wait, " said Philip smiling, "seeing me is notimportant to her just now. Give her my love and congratulations, andtell her I'll come in the day before she starts to Hampton. There'll betime enough before she gets off, Agatha. " This last was said with alaugh that seemed to Agatha almost happy. 

Phillida's recovery was very rapid; it was all the effect of driving inthe Park. Perhaps also the near anticipation of a trip to Europe hadsomething to do with it, for Millard had engaged passage on the_Arcadia_ the first week in June. To Mrs. Callender this seemed tooearly; it gave the mother and her dressmaker no end of worry about thewardrobe. 

Two weeks after her reconciliation with Charley, Phillida demonstratedher recovery by walking alone to her aunt's in Washington Square. Sheasked at the door to see Mr. Philip, and when she learned that he was inhis book-room she sent to ask if she mightn't come up. 

"Busy with my catalogue, " said Philip as Phillida came in. He had beenbusy making a catalogue of his treasures for two years, but he could notget one to suit him. "I hate to print this till I get a complete 'DeBry, ' and that'll be many a year to come, I'm afraid. I couldn't affordthe cost of a complete set this year nor next, and it's hardly likelythat there'll be one for sale in ten years to come. But it will give mesomething to look forward to. "

All this he said hurriedly as though to prevent her saying somethingelse. While speaking he set a chair for Phillida, but she did not sitdown. 

"Cousin Philip, " she said, "you might just as well hear what I've got tosay first as last. "

"Hear? Oh, I'm all attention, " he said, "but sit down, " and he set theexample, Phillida following it with hesitation. 

"If you had pulled me out of the water, " she began, "and saved my life, you'd expect me to say 'thank you, ' at least. Charley has told me allabout how you acted. We think you're just the noblest man we have everknown. "

"Ah, now, Phillida, " protested Philip, quite bewildered for want of alighted cigar to relieve his embarrassment, "you make me feel like afool. I'm no hero; it isn't in me to play any grand parts. I shall beknown, after I'm dead, by the auction catalogue of my collection of rarebooks, and by nothing else. 'The Gouverneur Sale' will long beremembered by collectors. That sort of distinction fits me. But you andCharley are making me ridiculous with all this talk. "

"Phil, you dear fellow, " said Phillida, passionately, rising and puttingher hands on his shoulder, "you saved me from life-long misery, and maybe from death, at a fearful sacrifice of your own feelings. I'llremember it the longest day I live, " and she leaned over and kissed him, and then turned abruptly away to go down-stairs. 

Philip trembled from head to foot as he rose and followed Phillida tothe top of the stairs, trying in vain to speak. At last he said huskily:"Phillida, I want to explain. I am no hero. I had made a fool of myselfas I knew I should if I ever--ever spoke to you as I did that day. Now, of all things I don't like to be ridiculous. I thought that evening if Icould be the means of bringing you two together it would take the curseoff, so to speak. I mean that it would make me cut a less ridiculousfigure than I did and restore my self-respect. I wanted to be able tothink of you and Charley happy together without calling myself badnames, you know. "

"Yes, yes, " replied Phillida. "I know. You never did a generous thing inyour life without explaining it away. But I know you too well to beimposed on. I shall always say to myself, 'There's one noble anddisinterested man under the sky, and that's my brave Cousin Philip. 'Good-by. " And standing on the first step down she reached him her handover the baluster rail, looked at him with a happy, grateful face whichhe never forgot, and pressed his hand, saying again, "Good-by, Philip, "and then turned and went down-stairs. 

And Philip went back and shut his library door and locked it, and wasvexed with himself because for half an hour he could not see to go onwith his cataloguing. And that evening his mother was pleased to hearhim whistling softly an air from the "Mikado"--he had not whistledbefore in weeks. She was equally surprised when a little later heconsented to act as Charley's best man. To her it seemed that Philipought to feel as though he were a kind of pall-bearer at his ownfuneral. But he was quite too gay for a pall-bearer. He and Agatha hadno end of fun at the wedding; she taking to herself all the credit forhaving brought it about. 

In the middle of the August following, Philip, having come to town fromNewport to attend to some affairs, found a notice from the custom-houseof a box marked with his address. He hated the trouble of going downtown to get it out of the hands of the United States. But when it wasopened he found on top a note from Millard explaining that he andPhillida had chanced upon a complete set of "De Bry" at Quaritch's, andthat they thought it would be a suitable little present for their bestfriend. 

Philip closed the box and took it to Newport with him. He explained tohimself that he did this in order to get an opinion on the set from twoor three collectors whose acquaintance he had lately made in loungingabout the Redwood Library. But the fact was, his Newport season wouldhave been ruined had he left the volumes in town. The books were spreadout on his table, where they held a sort of levee; every book-fancier inall Newport had to call and pay his respects to the rare volumes and tothe choice English bindings. 

"A nice present that, " said Philip's father, as he sipped his champagneat dinner on the day after the son's return with the books. "I've beenlooking them over; they must have cost, binding and all, a hundreddollars, I should think, eh?"

"More than that, " said Philip with a smile. 

"About what?" demanded his father. 

"Considering that the set includes both the Great and the LittleVoyages, it couldn't have cost less than twenty times your estimate, "said Philip. 

"Millard must be richer than I supposed, " said the father. "A man oughtto have millions to make presents on that scale. "

But after supper when Philip and his mother sat on the piazza she said:"I never could tell how things were managed between Charley Millard andPhillida. But since your books came I think I can guess who did it. "

"Guess what you please, mother, " he said, "I did improve my opportunityonce in my life. "

THE END. 

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