A BEAUTIFUL ALIEN BY JULIA MAGRUDER BOSTON Richard G. Badger & Co. (Incorporated) 1901 COPYRIGHT 1899 BY RICHARD G. BADGER & CO. _All Rights Reserved_ _PRINTED BY LAKEVIEW PRESS SOUTH FRAMINGHAM, MASS. , FOR RICHARD G BADGER & COMPANY (INC) BOSTON_ [Illustration] A Beautiful Alien I. On the deck of an ocean steamer, homeward bound from Europe, a man andgirl were walking to and fro. Their long march of monotonous regularityhad lasted perhaps an hour, and they had become objects of specialattention to the people scattered about. A man, who was taking his afternoon exercise alone, and who hadaccidentally fallen into line directly behind this couple, kept thatposition purposely, turning as they turned, and, without seeming to doso, observing them narrowly, for the reason that the woman wasuncommonly beautiful. This man--Albert Noel by name--was an artist by instinct and habit, though a lawyer by profession. He painted pictures for love andpractised law for money, or conventionality, or to please his motherand sisters, or from some reason which, however indefinite, had beenstrong enough to predominate over the longing he had always had to goto Paris, live in the Latin Quarter, and be simply and honestly whathis taste dictated. Few people, perhaps, suspected his Bohemianproclivities; for he lived an extremely conventional life, was the idolof his mother and sisters, and, being well born, well-off, andsufficiently good-looking, was regarded as an excellent matchmatrimonially. In spite of this fact he had never been known to beseriously in love; though, being a quiet man, this experience mighthave befallen him without the knowledge of his friends. He was cominghome from Europe now, reluctantly and with regret; but, since he hada profession, it must be attended to. He observed the tall young woman who walked in front of him on herhusband's arm (some instinct told him that it was her husband) froman artist's standpoint only. It had occurred to him that here was aremarkable model for a picture. He furtively studied the lines of herfigure, which was clad in a long, tight-fighting cloak, trimmed withfur, and the contour and color of the knot of brown hair, whose livinglustre shone richly between the dull fur that bordered her collar andher hat. Every moment the study fascinated him more, as he followed andturned, as they turned. Suddenly it struck him that perhaps his interestin the pair ahead of him might, in spite of him, be observed; and so, rather reluctantly, he took a seat in one of several empty chairs at thesteamer's stern. Here he could still observe them, at intervals, as theycame and went. They spoke to no one, not even to each other, though hewas convinced they were newly married. Both of them looked very young. After a few turns the lady complained of being tired, and proposed theyshould sit down. Her companion assented by a nod, and they took theseats next to Noel. She spoke English, but with much hesitation andwith a strong foreign accent. The man was silent still, as they seatedthemselves and wrapped their rugs about them; for in spite of the fullblaze of the sinking sun it was very cold. Noel also kept still, lookingand listening. He was a little back of them, and only her pure profilewas visible to him. The man's profile, which was also a handsome one, hecould see beyond hers. For a long time there was silence. The wind grew keener. The tarpaulinwhich covered the white life-boat near by trembled from end to end, asif the thing hid were alive and shivering. The sea-gulls that followedthe boat fluttered and dipped about in the cold air. The sun, a greatgold ball, was sinking rapidly in a mist of pink and yellow light. Thewide stretch of water underneath it was a heavy iron black, exceptwhere, near the ship, it was dashed into green-white foam. Noel lookedat the face of the woman near him, and, seeing a sudden light ofinterest in her eyes, followed their glance to where a school ofdolphins was rising and plunging in the cold sea water. He heard hercall her companion's attention to them by a quick exclamation; but hemade no answer, scarcely showing that he heard. Noel became aware that the face before him was not only beautiful, butsad. There were no lines upon it of either care or sorrow, but both werewritten in the eyes. These were very remarkable, --almost gold in color, and shaded by thick lashes, darker even than her dark brown hair. Theywere large, well-opened, heavy-lidded; and no wonder was it that, whenhe had seen all this, he began to desire to meet their gaze, that hemight thereby know them thoroughly. The sun sank. People began to complain of the increasing cold, andgather up wraps and books and move away; but still the man and woman satthere silent, and Noel did the same. The distant sky was tinted now withcolors as delicate as the flowers of spring, --pink and cream and lilac, softening to a rich line of deep purple at the horizon. A slight sighescaped the woman's lips; and then, as if recollecting herself, she satupright, and looked about at the objects near her. Her glance passedacross Noel, and was arrested with a certain amusement on the littlecannon lashed to the side of the deck, which in its cover of whitetarpaulin had evidently given her some diverting thought. Then in themost hesitating, laboriously constructed English, Noel heard her tellingher companion what it had made her think of. By using a littleimagination with what he heard and saw, he arrived at her meaning. Shewas attempting to say that it looked like a child on all fours, tryingto frighten its companion by throwing a table-cloth over its head. Thereit was complete, --the head, the hands and feet, the bulky body. Noelcaught her meaning, and smiled involuntarily. It was really wonderfullylike. He controlled his features instantly, however; and, as her gazewas fixed upon her husband, she did not see him. But her childish ideahad awakened no response in the husband. He simply asked her meaningover again, and seemed unable to comprehend it, and not sufficientlyinterested to make much effort. The few words he uttered proved thatEnglish was his native tongue. One would have said he had the ability, but not the inclination, to talk, while with her the contrary wastrue. Noel, now that he found that she was alive to her immediatesurroundings, got up and moved away. He went and looked out at thesea-gulls; but all the time he was seeing her eyes, and comparing themto topaz, to amber, to a dozen things, but without feeling that he hadmatched, even in his imagination, their peculiar and beautiful color. It was the first day out; and he liked to think that he couldoccasionally look at this face for a week to come, and when he got toshore he would paint her. He had a studio in the suburbs, to which heoften went and to which his mother and sisters had never been invited. It was often a delight to him to think of its freedom and seclusion. He was acutely jarred upon, as he stood alone at the deck rail, by theapproach of a man who had a club acquaintance with him at home, which hehad shown a disposition to magnify since coming aboard the steamer. Hewas not a man for whose talk Noel cared at any time, but he felt adistinct rebellion against it just now. This feeling was swiftly put toflight, however, by the fact that on his way to him the new-comer passedand bowed to the beautiful girl, receiving in return a bow and a smile. The bow was gracious, the smile charming, lighting for an instant thegravity of her calm face, and showing perfect teeth. "Ah, Miller! that you? How're you coming on?" said Noel, with a suddenaccess of cordiality, making a place for the new-comer at his side. "All right, thanks, considering it's the first day out. That's generallythe biggest bore, because you know there are six or seven more just likeit to follow. Pretty girl that, ain't it?" "Who is she?" asked Noel, refusing to concur in the designation. "Mrs. Dallas, according to her new name. " "And that is her husband?" "That is her husband. He's not a bad-looking fellow, either; but youdon't look as if you approved him. " "I?" said Noel. "Why shouldn't I? He seems a good-looking fellow enough. Do you know her?" "Yes, I know her. Everybody knew her at Baden. It was not very hard todo. " "What do you mean?" said Noel, looking at him suddenly very straight andhard. "Oh, I simply mean that her father, who seems a rather bad type ofadventurer, gave free access to her acquaintance to any man who mightturn out to be marriageable. He introduced me to her as soon as he saw Ihad been attracted by her looks, and I used to talk to her a good deal. Her mother, it seems, died in her childhood; and she was put to schoolat a convent, where she remained until she was eighteen. Her father thenbrought her home, and began assiduously his efforts to marry her off. Itwas plain that she hampered him a good deal, but he had a sort of senseof duty which he seemed to fulfil to his own satisfaction by rushing herabout from one watering-place to another, and facilitating heracquaintance with the young men at each. " "And what was the girl thinking of to allow it?" said Noel. "The girl was absolutely blind to it, --as ignorant of the world asa little nun, and apparently quite pleased with her father, who wasavowedly a new acquisition. She must have had good teaching at herconvent; for she sings splendidly and is a pretty fair linguist, too. I tried her in English, however, and found her so uncertain that mysomewhat limited conversation with her was carried on in French. MyFrench is nothing to boast of, but it's better than her English. " "What is she?" "An Italian, with a Swedish mother. She seems awfully foot-loose, somehow, poor thing; and I hope the marriage which her father suddenlycontrived between her and this young American will turn out well forher. He's an odd sort of fellow to me, somehow. " "Where does he come from?" "I don't know, --some misty place in the West somewhere, I believe. Itried to talk with him a dozen times, but I never got so little outof a man in my life. " "Was he so deep or merely forbidding?" "Neither. He was good-tempered enough, and would answer questions;but he seemed to have nothing to give out. He is a quiet man andinoffensive, but somehow queer. " "Does he play cards?" "Not at all. " "Seem to have money?" "Yes, as far as I could judge, he appears to have enough to do ashe chooses and go where he pleases, though I should say he was notextravagant. He seems to care too little for things. " "He cares for her, it's to be supposed. " "Yes. He could hardly help that, and yet he showed very little emotionin his courting days. I used to see them walking together or sitting onthe piazza for hours, and they seemed a strangely silent pair under thecircumstances. I got some key to that mystery, however, when I foundthat he doesn't know a word of French or Italian; and I had alreadydiscovered her limitations in English. " "Why, good heavens! how can she know the man then? It is not possible. And he may turn out to be anything! Do you think her father could haveforced her into this marriage against her will?" "No, I'm sure he did not. I thought of that, but I'm certain it isn'tso. I think she was in love with the man, as she understood it, in herconvent-bred sort of way. He's good-looking and has a certain gentlenessof manner. It may be dulness, but it's what women like. I think herfather, though he felt her a great burden, wanted to do the best hecould for her, without too much trouble. He saw plainly the dangers shewas surrounded by, and was glad to get her married to a quiet youngAmerican, who had no vices and would probably be kind to her. He told mehe wanted her to marry an American, because they made the best husbands. Look at them now. It is always the same thing, --either silence or thatdifficult sort of talk. She has to do the most of it, you see, and inEnglish. He literally knows not a word in any other tongue. " II. It was beautiful weather; and Noel, being a good sailor, spent much ofhis time on deck. Wherever he went about the ship, his eyes continuallysought Mrs. Dallas. Her beauty and singular history interested him much. He also made a close study of the husband. So far he had not cared toavail himself of the opportunity of making their acquaintance, which heknew Miller would gladly have given him. On the afternoon of the second day out he looked up from his book, andfound Mr. And Mrs. Dallas seated near him. He was partly hid by a pileof rope, over which, however, it was easy to see them. He folded hispaper noiselessly, and, leaning back, began to watch them furtively. As usual, they were silent. The man was smoking cigarettes one afteranother, and looking apathetically at the water. The woman's eyes wereon the water, too; but their expression was certainly not apathetic. Noel had never been so puzzled to read a face. He was not only anartist, but also a very human-hearted man; and he longed to go beneaththat lovely surface, and read the thoughts of this woman's mind. Now andthen she turned a puzzled gaze upon her husband, who seemed completelyunconscious of both it and her. Once she spoke, and the strong accentin her painstaking English was fascinating to Noel's ears. She onlyinquired if her husband were comfortable and satisfied to stay here. When he answered affirmatively, she spoke again, --this time so low thatNoel caught only the last word, "Robert. " It was pronounced in theFrench manner, and came from her lips very winningly. "Can't you say Robert?" said her husband, bluntly. "People will laughat you if you talk like that. " "I vill try, " she answered, and turned her eyes away across the water. Noel fancied he saw them widen with tears for a moment; and he looked tosee if her companion were watching her, but his whole attention wasgiven to the cigarette he was rolling. In a few moments, at the man'ssuggestion, they rose and walked away. Noel noticed that she looked at no one as she passed along on herhusband's arm; but he interpreted this to be not shyness norself-consciousness, but rather a sort of instinct against giving anyone that opportunity of looking into her heart through her eyes. One morning a new mood came over Noel, and he asked Miller to introducehim. The latter complied with alacrity. Noel had no sooner bowed hisacknowledgments than he looked at Mrs. Dallas, and addressed her in theItalian tongue. The light that came into her face at the familiar soundsmade his heart quicken. They stood some time by the railing, the groupof four, --Miller talking in a desultory way to Dallas, while Noel spoke, in animated, if somewhat halting Italian, to the young wife. There wasquite a strong breeze blowing; and some dark ribbons, which tied her furcollar, fluttered and sounded on the air. She held to the rail with bothlittle smooth-gloved hands; and her heavy cloth dress clung close abouther, and was blown backward in strong, swaying folds. They talked ofItaly, where Noel had once lived for a while, and of pictures, art, andmusic, for which she had an enthusiasm which made the subjects asinteresting to Noel as his greater knowledge made them to her. He foundher a genuine girl in her feelings, and at once perceived her absoluteinexperience of the world. Her convent breeding came out frequently ina sort of quaint politeness of manner, and it provoked him a littleto find that he was being treated with a sort of deference due to asuperior in age or in experience. He felt himself aged indeed incomparison with her vibrating youth and the innocence of her simplelittle life, which, up to this point, had plainly been that of a child;and he dreaded to think how soon and how suddenly she might grow old. She seemed in a world of mystery now, as one who had utterly lost herbearings, and was too dazed to see where she was or what were theobjects and influences that surrounded her. Out of this shadow hispresence seemed for the moment to have lifted her; and as he talked toher of these subjects, round which the whole ardor of her naturecentred, she seemed a different creature. The restraint and severitydisappeared from her manner, she forgot herself, --her recent self thatwas so strange to her, --and over and over again he looked far into theclear depths of her golden eyes. More than once he glanced at Dallas to see if he showed any disrelish ofthis talk, carried on in his presence in a foreign tongue; but he wasevidently not concerned about it in the least. He smoked his eternalcigarettes, and answered in monosyllables the remarks that Miller wasmaking. He did not look bored, for that expression implies a capabilityof being interested; and that he seemed not to possess, at least so faras Noel's experience went, and Miller's confirmed it. III. Noel had been at home a month. He had opened his law office and gonehard to work, and his friends complained that they saw but little ofhim. He had learned from the Dallases, before parting with them at thewharf, that they were expecting to go to housekeeping in his own city, and he had asked them to send him their address when they wereestablished. So far, it had not come, and he was beginning to fear he had lost sightof them when one day he met them on the street. She, at least, was gladto see him, and when she gave the address and asked him to call, thehusband, in his dull way, echoed the invitation. The next evening he went to the house, which was in an unfashionablequarter, but very charming, tasteful and homelike. As he sat down in thepretty drawing-room some living objects caught his eye, and to his greatamusement he saw that the rug in front of the open fire was occupied bya picturesque group composed of a Maltese cat and four kittens. Themother, who was an unusually large and imposing specimen of her kind, was seated very erect, her front feet straight before her, evidentlymaking an effort to enjoy a nap, which her offspring were engaged inthwarting, after the most vigorous fashion. They were all exactly alike, distinguishable only by the ribbons--blue, green, yellow and red--whichornamented their necks and were tied in bows under their chins. Themother had a garland composed of these four colors around her neck, uponwhich hung a little silver bell. Noel had been watching this prettysight, with a fascinated gaze, and was so preoccupied with their gambolsthat he failed to hear a soft footstep approaching, and did not turn tolook until Mrs. Dallas was standing quite near him, holding out herhand. She was dressed in a gown of a peculiar dim shade of blue that fell infree, straight folds about her, confined by a loose silver girdle roundthe waist. It clothed her beautiful body in a way that satisfied thesoul of the artist who stood and looked at her, uttering light wordsabout the cat and kittens and inaugurating a conversation thatimmediately put them at ease. It was evident that she was glad to see him. She told him so at once. Her husband, she said, had wanted her to go to the theatre, but shehad been every night for so long that she was tired of it, and hadjust decided to stay at home. Was Mr. Dallas then such an infatuatedtheatre-goer? Noel asked. Oh, yes, he always wanted to go every night, she said. It seemed to be a confirmed habit with him, and she was sorryto say she did not care for it much, though she usually went with him. Noel knew that the season was not fairly opened yet, and reflecting uponthe bills advertised at the various theatres, he could but wonder at theman's choice of entertainments. Presently Dallas entered and greeted him civilly, though with his usualapathetic manner, and said he was glad he had come in, as he could keepMrs. Dallas company, as he was going to the theatre. Mrs. Dallas lookeda little surprised at this announcement and suggested his postponing thetheatre, so that he might not miss Mr. Noel's visit, but he answeredthat Mr. Noel he knew would excuse him, and turned to leave the room. As he did so he stepped on one of the kittens which cried out pitifully. It had been an accident, of course, but he might have shown somecompunction, which he utterly failed to do. The little creature hoppedaway on three feet, and Mrs. Dallas, with pretty foreign words of pity, followed it and brought it to the fireside where she sat down with it onher lap, and stroked and soothed it, laying the wounded little pawagainst her lips and making, what seemed to Noel, munificent atonementfor the injury inflicted by her husband. As the kitten settled down contentedly purring in its mistress' silkenlap, the front door closed behind Mr. Dallas, and turning to hishostess, Noel for the first time addressed her in her native tongue, asking the abrupt question, "How are you?" She lifted her golden eyes to his a moment, and then dropped them underthe scrutiny of his gaze, which he felt, the next instant, to have beeninconsiderate. "A little homesick, I dare say, " he went on, looking down at the kitten, "that was to be expected. " "Even when one never had a home?" she asked. "The nearest thing to itthat I have had was the convent where I was educated. The sisters werevery good to me. It was a sweet home, and of course I do miss it attimes. " "Perhaps you had a dear friend there among the sisters, or possibly thepupils. " "Oh, yes, " she said, "a dear girl friend--Nina her name was. She was ayear younger than I, and was not permitted to leave the convent to seeme married. She was heartbroken. We had always planned that the onefirst married was to take the other to live with her. Her parents areboth dead. " "Ah, then when she leaves school she will come to you, no doubt, " saidNoel. "That will be delightful for you. " "I don't know. It is not certain. No, I don't think she will do that, "said his companion, evidently in some confusion. "The fact is I havenot written to her--I couldn't. I don't know what she will think of me, but I cannot write to her. I have tried in vain. I fear she will behurt, but I have done no more than send her a brief note to tell her shemust not judge me by the frequency of my letters--that I love her justthe same--but I seem really not to know what to write. It is all sostrange--the new country and the changes--and everything being sodifferent--and I feel she would want a full and interesting letter, which I cannot yet compose myself to write. This seems very strange, butit will be different in time, will it not? You don't think this feelingof being in such a strange, strange land, as if it couldn't be real, andcouldn't be I--myself--will last always, do you? It will surely passaway. Oh, if you knew how I long to feel at home--to feel it is a placewhere I am to stay! I feel all the time that I must be just on the wayto somewhere, and that I have just stopped here a little while. But Ihave not. It is my home and I am to spend my life here. I try to tellmyself that all day long and make myself believe it, but I cannot. Ioften fear it will distress my husband that I feel so, but he has notfound it out, I'm glad to say. He seems so quiet and satisfied, that Ifeel ashamed to feel so restless. It will go away in time, will it not?It is perhaps because I am a foreigner and this is a strange land thatthe feeling is so strong, but it was almost the same when we were inItaly. Sometimes I am afraid I have not a contented disposition, andthat I will make myself unhappy always by it, and perhaps my husbandtoo, if he should find it out. Sometimes I cry to think how wrong it isof me. My father told me it was my duty to be happy, with a kind, goodhusband to take care of me, and I know I ought, but I feel sohomesick--for, I don't know what--for Nina and the sisters and theconvent. Oh, " she broke off suddenly, "I do hope you will forgive me. Itis very silly to talk to you so, all about myself, but I have had noone to speak to--at least no one but my husband, and I could not tellhim all these feelings that I ought to be ashamed of. I know it is myduty to be satisfied and not feel homesick, but you think it will passaway after a while, do you not?" What was he to say? The truth was very plain to him that it would neverpass, but go on growing worse and worse, as gradually she came to knowher own soul better and to understand herself, in the light of the newrelationship she had entered into. In the case of most women therevelation she had so unconsciously made to him of the insufficiency ofher marriage would have been unwomanly, and perhaps it was even so inher, but it was so only in the sense of being childlike. She was reallyno more than a child, and more ignorant of the world than many a childof ten. What did she know about marriage or the needs of her own soul?Evidently nothing, and some day he saw before her a terrible awakeningfrom this trance of ignorance. His heart literally ached for her as hesought diligently in his mind for some way to help her and could findnot one. The only thing was to let her talk freely, to encourage her bya gentle friendly interest, such as a girl friend might have shown, andto give her the relief of expression for these vague troubles andperplexities which, when uttered, seemed intangible and entirelyinexplicable to her. Not once did she so much as imply any reproach toher husband, and it was plain that she felt unconscious of any groundfor complaint. She alluded to him frequently and always most kindly, andlaid at her own door the entire fault of her discontent. Noel spoke little, but led her gently on to talk as freely as she chose. Often she would pause and remind herself that she was doing wrong totake up his whole visit with talk about herself, but it was evident itnever once occurred to her that she had been guilty of any self-betrayalwhich she should not have made. He saw her utter loyalty to her husband, even in thought, and it made his blood boil to think of his stupidinsensibility to the possession he had in such a wife. Gradually he was able to soothe her--or perhaps it was the relief ofutterance that made her presently seem more light-hearted. Noelpronounced a great many platitudes in an insincere effort to persuadeher that things would get better, and somehow they seemed to give hercomfort for the moment. As if to put the subject by, she called thebig cat to her, snapping her fine slim fingers, and saying, "Come, Grisette"; and the creature jumped into her lap with the obedience of awell-trained dog. Then she enticed the kittens to follow, one by one, until they were all in her lap playing with her ribbons, catching at herlittle embroidered handkerchief with their soft paws, and rolling overin high glee. She talked to them as if they had been children, pettedand chided them in the prettiest way, and then put them down, one byone, with a kiss on each little soft head that made Noel half angry andwholly pitying. It was so touching to see her tenderness, her longingto expend the great store of love within her--and to see her, too, soutterly without an object for it. The cat and kittens having returned to their place on the rug, Noelproffered a request he had been wanting to put all the evening andasked her to sing. He had found out on the steamer that she possessedan extraordinarily beautiful voice. Her face, which had grown brighter, clouded suddenly. "I cannot, " she answered. "I don't sing at all. My husband got me apiano, thinking it would please me, but I have not opened it. I wasafraid he would be disappointed, but he has not noticed it. I used tobe sorry he was not fond of music, but this makes me glad. " "Do you really mean that you are going to give up singing? If you do youmust let me assure you that it would be very wrong, a wrong to others, to let such a voice as yours be silent. " "Oh, do not tell me that, " she said, "I want not to do anything wrong, but indeed I cannot sing. I have tried it sometimes when I sit alone, and it is always the same thing--I choke so I cannot sing. I will getover it, but don't ask me to sing yet. " He could not say another word, especially as the tears were evidentlynear her eyes, and seeing that the hour was late and her husband, forwhose return he had expected to wait, was delayed, he got up to take hisleave. "Vill you not vait for Robert?" she said, speaking for the first time inEnglish and showing already a greater ease in its use. "He vill not belate. I haf not know him to remain so long as this, since I am here. " Noel smiled to hear her, but shook his head. "No, " he answered, "I must go now, but first I want to get you to giveme a promise. " He put out his hand as he spoke, and she placed hers init with the confidence of a child. "You are in a strange land, " he said, "but I don't want you to feelthat you are altogether among strangers. You may have some need offriends--trouble or sickness or some of the things that are alwayshappening in this sad world, may come to you. I trust not. I hope to Godthey may let you go by, but we can never tell what will come to us, andI want you to promise me that if you are ever in need of a friend youwill write to me. Your husband may be ill, or something like that, " headded hurriedly, fearing he had ventured too far, though she showed nosign of thinking so. "And if it is a thing in which you want a woman'shelp, I have sisters and a mother and they shall come to you. Will youpromise me this?" "I vill. Oh, I vill promise truly, " she said. "But vill you not comemore?" "Oh, perhaps so, now and then, " he said hurriedly. He could not tell herhe had resolved not to, but that was the fixed determination which hadbeen the result of this evening's experiences. He saw her needs of helpand tenderness so clearly and he longed so to answer them that the veryintensity of that longing was a warning to him. If he had been a youngerman, or she an older woman, he might not have come to this hardresolution, but he was experienced enough to know that there was dangerin such a companionship as he was tempted to enter into. If she had beenolder and better acquainted with the world that also might have made adifference, but it would have been exactly the same thing as takingadvantage of the unknowingness of a child. Then again, in the thirdplace, if her husband had been careful of her, or even suspicious andjealous, he might have thought it some one's else affair than his, andallowed himself the delight of this acquaintanceship, guarding andloving her like a brother, but none of these supposititious cases wasso. The matter as it stood threw the whole responsibility upon him, and, as a man of honor, he could see but one course open to him. So he stood and held her by the hand with a feeling that she was hislittle sister, struggling with another feeling that she was not, andtook a long look at her lovely face. How he yearned to paint it, andperhaps, for the asking, he might! "One thing more, " he said at last, feeling that he must get it over, "I have never heard your first name, will you not tell me what it is?" "Christine, " she said, and as he repeated it gently she exclaimed: "Oh, it is truly a pleasant thing to hear it. I have not heard it sinceso long a time. Robert do say it is too, vat you call--I forget, but hecall me Chrissy, and my own name do seem a thing forgot. " "Good-night, Christine, " he said, feeling sure he might venture thisonce, "and do not think I have forgotten you, if you don't see me soon. I am very busy--my friends claim my spare time--I live very far away, but if you are ever in any trouble, little or big, and you or yourhusband should need me, send a line to my club, and I will come theinstant I receive it. Good-by, be a good, brave girl, and don't forgetme. " During all these parting words she had let him hold her little hand. Hewanted to kiss it before dropping it, for it seemed to him unlikely thathe would ever touch it again. He resisted this, however, and merely saidgood-by again and left her. Looking back before he closed the front door he could see her in thepretty drawing-room seated on the rug before the fire, her silkdraperies crushed beneath her, and holding all the kittens in her lap, the mother-cat sitting by, and looking on contentedly. It was upon thispicture that he closed the door. Just outside he met Dallas, who apologized for being late. He had stayedfor the ballet, he said, knowing his wife was not alone. He asked Noelto come again, but got no very satisfactory response. IV. During the months that followed Mrs. Dallas did not see Noel again, and the news accidentally reached her that he had gone abroad withhis mother and sisters. He had called on her once, probably on theeve of his departure, but she had been ill that evening, and the servanthad excused her. It had been reported to her that he had inquiredparticularly whether her illness was serious and had been informed thatit was not. That was the last she had heard of him, until she had madesome acquaintances in the society in which he was known, and then sheoccasionally heard his name mentioned and gained the information alludedto. Her introduction into this society had come about very suddenly. For along time she had known absolutely no one, and once, in her intenselonging for some one to speak to, she had obeyed an ardent impulse andrun across the street to a house where a young girl and her motherlived, the former keeping a day-school for small children, and hadbegged the little teacher to come over and spend the evening with her. Out of this a friendship had sprung, which had been for a long time heronly resource. Her husband's habit of going to some place of amusementin the evening seemed to be an inveterate one, though he cared little, apparently, for what he saw. She wearied through a great many eveningswith him, and then got out of the habit of accompanying him. It wasevident he cared little whether she went or stayed. One Sunday afternoon the little school-teacher persuaded her to gowith her to a great church near by. They were given seats close tothe choir, and when a familiar piece of music began Christine, in utterself-forgetfulness, lifted up her voice and sang. When the service wasover the conductor of the singing came up to her, and pleading thecommon bond of music, introduced himself and begged that he and his wifemight be allowed to call on her to enlist her interest and services ina great charity entertainment which he was getting up. Christine agreed, with the feeling that it would be ungracious to decline, and the nextday they called. The outcome of the visit of Mr. And Mrs. Jannish was an engagement onthe part of Mrs. Dallas to sing the leading rôle in an opera which hadbecome a cherished wish among some of the best amateur musicians of thecity. The scheme had halted only for want of a soprano capable of takingthe responsibility of the most difficult part. Jannish was an authorityin this musical set, and he knew that the acquisition he had made fortheir scheme would be not only approved, but rejoiced over. It was suchan infinite improvement upon the idea of securing the services of aprofessional--a thing that they had almost been compelled to resort to. Mrs. Dallas qualified her consent by the securing of her husband'sapproval, though she said she felt sure he would not withhold it. Hewas out at the time, but before the visitors left he came in. He wascalled and introduced and the request put to him by Jannish, in his mostelaborate and supplicatory style. Consent was immediately given, with anair of slightly impatient wonder at being dragged into it at all. It wasprecisely what his wife had expected, and as she looked at him as hespoke, there was a different expression on her face from that which itwould have worn a few months back. That vague and wondering look wasless noticeable and an element of comprehendingness that made her eyeslook hard now struggled with it sometimes. After the visit of Jannish and his wife other people called, andimmediately Mrs. Dallas was drifting in a stream of musical engagementsand rehearsals that took up most of her time, and formed a strongcontrast to her former mode of life. She had opportunities to indulgeher taste for dress and to wear some of the charming costumes whichbelonged to her trousseau--bought with what girlish ardor, and then laidaway out of sight! She soon came to be admired for her dressing, aswell as her beauty and her voice, and as is usual in such cases, the menregarded her with more favor and less suspicion than the women. The goodwill of the latter sex was, however, secured to some extent, when it wasdiscovered that the prima donna, who they all perceived was to maketheir opera a great success and the envy of all sister cities withaspiring musical _coteries_, was apparently indifferent to theattentions of the men, if not, indeed, embarrassed by them. She neverwent anywhere, to rehearsals or resorts of any kind, public or private, without her husband, no matter who tried to entice her away. She neverleft his side, except under the necessity of going through her part, and then she returned to him unvaryingly. He was good-looking andwell-dressed, and some of the company of both sexes made an effort tomake something out of him, but he always seemed surprised when he wasspoken to, and to find it a trouble to respond. He was too free fromself-consciousness to be awkward, and would sit passive, twirling hismustache and looking on, and was apparently as satisfied to be aspectator of this performance as to go to see something professional. He had grown accustomed to sameness, perhaps, for he never seemed toobject to it. To see his wife the object of enthusiastic adulation on all sides, whether sincere or put on of necessity, as it was by some of thecompany, appeared to arouse in the husband no emotions of eithersatisfaction or displeasure. V. The great occasion came. The evening's entertainment rose, minute byminute, to its climax of glory, on which the curtain fell, amidst anenthusiasm so intense that only the controlled good breeding of theinvited audience prevented demonstrations of a noisy character. Christine had been previously seen by very few of them, and as theaudience dispersed, her name, coupled with expressions of enthusiasticsurprise and admiration, was on every lip. Fifteen minutes after the curtain went down the theatre was empty anddeserted, every light was out, and profound silence reigned where solately all had been excitement and animation, and the young creaturewho had occasioned so much the greatest part of it was being drivenhomeward, leaning back in the close carriage and clasping close thework-hardened hand of the little teacher who was her companion. Herhusband sat opposite, silent as usual, and after a few impetuous, ardent words of love and appreciation Hannah had fallen silent too, merely holding out her hand to meet the hard and straining clasp thathad seized upon it as soon as they were settled in the carriage. After the performance people who had leaped from the audience to thestage, privileged by an acquaintance with some of the company, hadpressed forward eagerly for an introduction to Christine. Invitations tosupper were showered upon her. She might have gone off in a carriagedrawn by men instead of horses if she had desired it. But she had turnedaway from it all. She was in haste to go, and summoning her husband andfriend as quickly as possible, she had declared she was tired out, andhad made her excuses with an air so earnest, and to those who had thevision for it, so distressed, that amidst the reproaches of some and theregrets of others she had made her escape. She shivered as the cold night air struck her face outside the theatre, and drew her wrap closer about her as she stepped into the carriagewhich was waiting. The drive homeward was silent. The two women sattogether, each feeling in that fervent handclasp the emotions whichfilled the heart of the other. Mrs. Dallas had been roused by somethingto an unusual pitch of excited feeling, and her little friend, by theintuition of sympathy, defined it. The way was long and Mr. Dallas, making himself as comfortable as possible on the seat opposite, took offhis hat, leaned his head back and in a few moments was breathing audiblyand regularly. "He is asleep, " whispered his wife, and then, on the breath of adeep-drawn sigh, she added in the same low whisper, "Oh, God, havemercy on me. " "What is it?" whispered Hannah timidly, her voice tender with sympathy. "Hush! I am going to tell you everything. Wait till we get home. I amgoing to tell you all. " She spoke excitedly, though still in a whisper, and it was evident thatthe agitation under which she labored was urging her on to actions inwhich the voice of discretion and prudence had no part. Hannah, who had long ago suspected that her beautiful friend--whose faceand voice, together with the luxury of her surroundings and dress hadmade her acquaintance seem like intercourse with a being from a highersphere--was not happy, now felt an impulse of affectionate pity whichmade her move closer to her companion and rather timidly put her armaround her. In an instant she was folded in a close embrace, the barewhite arm under the wrap straining her in an ardent pressure that drewher head down until it leaned against the breast of the taller woman, and felt the bounding pulses of her heart. "I am so miserable, " whispered the soft voice close to her ear. "I amgoing to tell you about it. If I couldn't talk to somebody to-night Ifeel as if I should go mad. Whether it's right or wrong I'm going totell you. I can't bear it this way any longer. Oh, I am so unhappy--Iam so unhappy. " Hannah only pressed closer, without speaking. There was nothing that shecould say. She felt keenly that in what seemed the brilliant lot of herbeautiful friend there were possibilities of anguish which hercommonplace life could know nothing of. So they drove along in silenceuntil the carriage stopped at the door. Mr. Dallas was sleeping sosoundly that it was necessary for his wife to waken him, and he got up, looking sleepy and confused, and led the way into the house, while thecarriage rolled away, the wheels reverberating down the silent streets. In the hall Hannah looked at her friend and saw that her face, thoughpale, was perfectly composed, and her voice, when she spoke to herhusband, was also quiet and calm. "Hannah is going to stay all night, you know, " she said. "You needn'tstay up for us. I will put out the lights. " He nodded sleepily and went at once up-stairs, as the two women turnedinto the drawing-room. The lights in the chandelier were burningbrightly and a great deep chair was drawn under them, upon which Mrs. Dallas sat down, motioning her friend to a seat facing her. She waswearing the dress in which she had sung the last act of the opera--aGreek costume of soft white silk with trimmings of gold. It was in thisdress that she had roused the audience to such a pitch of admiration byher beauty, and seen close, as Hannah was privileged to see it now, there were a score of perfections of detail, in both woman and costume, which those who saw her from afar would not have been aware of. Hannah, who had an ardent soul within her very ordinary little body, looked ather with a sort of worship in her eyes. Meeting this look, Mrs. Dallas smiled--a smile that was sadder thantears. "Oh, Hannah, I am so unhappy, " she said. "I want to tell you but Idon't know how. Oh, my child, I am so miserable. " Her utterance had still that little foreign accent that made it sopathetic, although, in spite of some odd blunders, she had becomealmost fluent in the English tongue. There was still no indication oftears in either her voice or her eyes, as she leaned back in the paddedchair, her head supported by its top, and her long bare arms with theirpicturesque Greek bracelets resting wearily on its cushioned sides. Hannah looked at her with the tenderness of her kind heart overflowingin great tears from her eyes and rolling down her cheeks. She pressedher handkerchief to her face in the vain effort to keep them back, butthe woman for whom they fell shed no tears. She sat there calm and quietin her youth and beauty and looked at the plain little school-teacherwith a wistful gaze that seemed as if it might be envy. "Tell me, Hannah, " she said presently, when the girl had dried her eyesand grown more calm, "tell me frankly, no matter how strange it may seemto you to have the question asked, what do you think of my husband?" This startling question naturally found Hannah unprepared with ananswer, and after clearing her throat and getting rather red, she saidconfusedly that she had seen so little of Mr. Dallas, her intercoursewith him had been so slight, that she really did not feel that she knewhim well enough to give an answer. "You know him as well as I do, " his wife replied. "As he is to you--asyou see him daily, exactly so he is to me. I have waited and waited forsomething more, but in vain. I have come at last to the conclusion thatthis is all. " Hannah, between wonder and distress, began to feel the tears rise again. The other saw them and bent forward and took her hand. "Don't cry, poor little thing, " she said. "Yes--cry if you can. It showsyour heart is soft still--mine is as hard as stone. Oh, God, how I havecried!" she broke off, in a voice grown suddenly passionate. "How I havelaid awake at night and cried until my body was exhausted with the sobs. I have thought of my little white bed in the convent, where I slept soplacidly, for every night of all those blessed, quiet, peaceful years, until my whole longing would be that I might once more lay myself downupon it and close my eyes forever. If an angel from Heaven had offeredme a wish it would have been that one. Oh, Hannah, you do not know. Youought to be so happy. You are so happy. Do you know it? I didn't knowit, and I was never grateful for it, but always looking forward to beinghappy in the future, and oh, how I am punished!" She wrung her hands together and bit the flesh of her soft lips, as ifwith a sense of anguish too bitter to be borne. "I always thought, " said Hannah, in a husky voice that sounded still oftears, "that a woman who was beautiful and gifted and admired, and had ahusband to take care of her, must be the happiest creature in the world. I used to look at you with envy, but I knew, before to-night, that yousuffered sometimes. " "Sometimes! Oh, Hannah, it is not sometimes--butalways--continually--evening and morning--day-time and night-time, forwhen I sleep I have such dreams! The things that were my day dreamslong ago come back to me in sleep, and when I wake and think of myselfas I am, I know not why I do not die of it. Oh, Hannah, if you havedreamed of marriage, give it up. Live your life out as you are. Die adear, sweet, good, old maid, teaching little children and being kindto them and taking care of your old mother. Oh, my dear, don't callyourself lonely. Don't dare to say it, lest you should be punished. There is no loneliness that a woman can know which can be compared to amarriage like mine. Oh, I am so lonely every moment that I live, that Ifeel there is no companionship for me in all this crowded world, for thebitterness of my heart is what no one can feel or share. " "Why did you marry your husband?" said Hannah, surprised at her ownboldness. "Why? I am glad you asked me that. I will tell you, and perhaps you maybe saved what I have suffered. If my mother had lived it might havebeen all different. Surely, surely a mother would have known how to saveher child from what I have suffered. A father might not--perhaps afather might not be to blame, though sometimes--oh, Hannah, it isdreadful, but my father seems to me a cruel, wicked man. It was he thatdid it. What did I know? Why your knowledge of the world is great andvast compared to mine! I had had only the sisters to teach me, and theywere as ignorant as I. My father told me he had no home to take me to, and that Robert would give me a sweet home, and love and protection andkindness, and that I would be so happy and must consider myself veryfortunate. He told me that Robert could not express himself very well, speaking a different tongue from my own, but that he loved me devotedlyand that the great object of his life would be to make me happy. And soI married him, glad to please my father, pleased myself, as a child, atthe idea of having a home of my own, and ignorant as a child of what Iwas doing. " "And without loving your husband?" said the little teacher, with a lookthat showed she could be severe. "What did I know about love? I thought I loved him. He was handsome andkind to me and my father said he adored me--he told me himself that heloved me. If his manner was not very ardent, what did I know about ardorin love-making? I knew my not being able to speak English fluently mustbe a hindrance to him in expressing himself, and I thought he waseverything I could wish, and never doubted I should be as happy as achild with a doll-house and everything else that she wanted. As Iremember now, " she said reflectingly, as if searching back into hermemory, "Robert was different in those days--not an impassioned lover, compared to the tenor who sang in the opera to-night, but compared towhat he is now, he was so. There was once that he seemed to care alittle--" She broke off and Hannah spoke: "I was thinking to-night about you and whether you were not in danger, "she said, with a certain air of wisdom which her somewhat hardexperience of life had given her. "How that man looked at you as he sangthose words! That wild passion of love which they expressed seemed areality. I wondered if you could hear them unmoved--and a thought ofdanger for you made me feel unhappy. " Christine did not answer her for a moment. A strange smile came to herlips as her eyes rested gently on the little teacher. Eyes and smile hadboth something of hopelessness in them, as if she despaired of makingherself understood. "That was sweet of you, Hannah, " she said presently, a look of simpleaffectionateness chasing away the other. "It is good to think thatthere was any one, in all that great crowd of people, who cared so muchabout me, but, my good little friend, never trouble yourself with thatthought in connection with me again. My heart is dead--so dead that itseem weary waiting for the rest of me to die, and nothing but theresurrection morning that renews it all can ever give me back the heartI had before I was married. It did not die suddenly at one blow, butit died a lingering death of slow, slow pain. Think what it is! I amyounger than you, and already joy and pleasure and hope are words thathave no meaning for me. Oh, poor Hannah! I oughtn't to make you cry, and yet your tears are blessed things. When I could cry I was not sowretched. " She leaned toward the girl and clasped her close, kissing the teardropsfrom each eye and soothing her, as if hers had been the sorrow. "I want to be just to my husband, " she went on presently. "I do believehe is not to blame. He gives me all he has to give, but there isnothing! Oh, when I look into my heart and see its power of suffering, and see, too, how marvellously happy I might once have been, I seem athousand worlds away from him--my husband, who ought to be the veryclosest, nearest, likest thing to me! Perhaps he is not happy, but atleast he does not suffer, and he is always contented to live on as weare--no work, no friends, no ambition, no interest in life, except mereliving. Oh, but it is hard! How long will it go on so, Hannah?" shebroke out suddenly, with a ring of fervor in her voice. "Did you everhear of any one living on and on and on, in a life like this? Could itgo on until one got old and deaf and wrinkled, and can anything end itbut death? It seems so impossible that I can be the little Christine whoused to sit and dream of happiness in marriage, and of the handsomelover who would come some day and carry me off to a beautiful land whereall my dreams would be realized. I came out on that stage to-night, " shewent on, sitting upright and folding her beautiful arms, "and while thepeople were looking at me and clapping, a thought came to me that mademe feel like sobbing. I wondered in my soul how many broken hearts werecovered by those lace and velvet garments, and those smiling, superficial faces. The thought absorbed me so that I forgot everythingand the prompter thought I'd forgotten my part entirely and gave me mycue. " "I saw you. I saw the strange look that came over your face, but Idid not know what it meant. And perhaps the people envied you andthought you must be so happy, to be so beautiful and admired. Oh, poorChristine! I am sorry for you. I wish you could be happy. It seems asif you might. " "_You_ might! Everything is possible to you. There is no reason, Isuppose, why you may not have all the happiness I ever dreamed of, for, after all, the beginning and end of it was love. And yet I have advisedyou never to marry--for I often disbelieve in the existence of the sortof love that I have dreamed of--but how can I tell? I know nothing butmy own life, and I tell you that is an intolerable pain. I sit here andsay the words and you hear them, but they are words only to you, shutoff as you are from all the experiences that make up my suffering. Lately there has been a new one. If anything could make my life moremiserable it would be the addition of poverty and privation to what Ibear already--and that is what I am threatened with--what may probablybe just ahead of me. Suppose that should come too! Why, then I should bemore unhappy yet, I suppose, although I have thought I couldn't be. " She spoke still with that strange calm which her companion had wonderedat from the beginning of their conversation. Her manner in the carriageseemed to be a part of the excitement of the evening's performance, butnow the cold calm of reaction had come on and she was very quiet. Shehad leaned back again in the big chair, and looked at Hannah gravely. Neither of them thought of sleep, and their faces expressed its nearnessas little as if it were afternoon, instead of midnight. The last wordsuttered by Christine had presented a practical difficulty to her friendwhich her own experiences brought home to her forcibly, while they shuther off from a just sympathy with some of her other trials. "What do you mean?" she said. "Isn't your husband well off and able tosupport you comfortably?" "How do I know? How am I to find out?" "Ask him. Make him explain to you exactly what his circumstances are. Iwonder you haven't done that long ago. " "You will wonder at a good deal more if you go on. For my part, I havewondered and wondered until I have no power to wonder left. I did askhim--that and many other things--and the result is I am as blind andignorant this moment as you are. " She spoke almost coldly. One wouldhave thought it was another and an almost indifferent person whoseaffairs she was discussing. "But how can you be ignorant?" said Hannah. "Does he refuse to answeryour questions?" "No--he doesn't refuse to answer them, though it is evident he thinksthem useless and annoying--but generally he tells me he doesn't know. " "Doesn't know how much money he has, or whether he is rich or poor?" The other nodded in acquiescence. "Why, how on earth can that be so? Doesn't he always have money to payfor things as you go along?" "Yes--heretofore he has always had. I have needed nothing for myself. All the handsome clothes you see me wear belong to my poor, miserabletrousseau. " She smiled bitterly as she said it, but there were no tearsin her eyes and her voice was utterly calm. "What makes you think, then, that he may not continue to have plenty?" "A letter I read without his permission, though he left it on the tableand probably didn't care. I have been troubled vaguely for some time tofind he knew nothing whatever about his business affairs, and that hemerely drew on his lawyer for what he wanted, and was always content solong as he got it. Lately, however, although he had been looking for aremittance, the lawyer's letter came without it, and it was that letterthat I read. I saw he looked annoyed, but not for long. He put theletter down and spent the evening playing solitaire, as he always doeswhen he doesn't go to the theatre. After he went to bed I read theletter. It was from the lawyer in the far West, who had always hadcharge of the money left by his father--and he said that havingrepeatedly warned him that he could not go on spending his principalwithout coming to the end of his rope, he had to tell him now that theend was almost reached. He might manage to send him a remittance soon byselling some bonds at a great sacrifice, and as his orders wereimperative of course he would have to do this, but he notified him thatthere was scarcely anything left, a certain tract of land, which wasalmost valueless, and that, he said, was the entire remnant of hisinheritance, which could never have been very much as he certainly hasno extravagant tastes. " "Why didn't you tell him you had read the letter and ask him about it?"said Hannah, her rather acute little face animated and serious at once. "I did. " "And what did he say?" "That a woman had no business meddling with men's affairs, and that hecould not help it. " "But if it is so why doesn't he get something to do?" "I asked him and he said he couldn't. " "But had he tried?" "He said he had--several times. " "What could he do?" Christine shook her head. "I have wondered, " she said, "and I can think of nothing. He said he wasnot trained to any business, and I know no more what to tell him to dothan he knows himself. The lawyer advised him to go to work, but did notsuggest how. He spoke as if he did not know of his marriage, for he saida man ought to be able to get something to do that would support one. " "Oh, Christine! and is this all you accomplished?" "This is all. " "How long ago was it?" "About a week. " "And you have gone through with all that rehearsing and dressing andacting with this weight on your mind? How could you do it?" "I was determined to do it. It kept me from thinking. I could notwithdraw at the last moment. I knew that as soon as the performancewas over I would have to look the thing in the face somehow, though Iam more helpless than any child. The thought has pursued me througheverything. It terrifies me less when I sit and face it calmly, so, thanwhen I put it by and it comes rushing back--as it did to-night while Iwas singing my last solo. I thought it would take my breath away, butinstead it seemed to give an impulse to my voice that made me sing asI had never sung before. I wondered to hear myself, and I was notsurprised the people applauded. It was a love song, but what did I carefor the stupid man who stood and rolled his eyes at me sentimentallywhile I sang it? I was in a frenzy, not of love, but despair. This lastknowledge that has come to me has put the final touch. To be an actualbeggar, as I may be before long, leaves nothing more but death--and thatwould be peace and satisfaction and joy. " "But surely your father will help you when he understands. " "He has no money generally. I know he had to borrow some to get mywedding clothes. He explained to me that the last cent of my littleinheritance from my mother had been spent on my education. Besides, " sheadded, with a change of tone that made her face harden, "I shall nottell him. I feel bitterly toward my father. He could never have trulyloved me: he wanted to rid himself, as soon as he could, of the burdenof me. So I am left absolutely without a friend. I don't forget you, Hannah, " she added quickly. "You are my friend, I know, and would helpme if you could. Your love can help me and it does and will, but we arepoor little waifs together--only you can do something to supportyourself, and your mother loves you, while I am utterly helpless andhave no love in all the world except what you give me. Oh, Hannah, youmust never leave me!" "Where is Mr. Noel--the gentleman you told me of who was so good toyou on the steamer, and afterward came to see you and spoke to you sokindly?" "He has forgotten me--at least I suppose so, " she said, shaking herhead. "Yes, he was good to me. I think he would be sorry for me. He hasgone back to Europe and taken his mother and sisters. Some one wasspeaking of them and said they all loved him so. You and I are moredesolate than most people, Hannah. You have only your mother and me tolove you--and I have only you. " VI. The clock on the mantel struck twelve. Christine rose to her feet with alittle shiver. There was a mirror not far away, toward which she turnedand surveyed herself from head to foot. As she did so the soft folds ofher Greek drapery settled about her, severe and beautiful. The masses ofher dark hair were drawn into a loose, rich knot pierced by a golddagger, and her eyes--so remarkably beautiful in color and expressionthat no one ever saw them unimpressed--were clear and steady as theygazed at the reflected image in front of her. "I wonder, " she said, lifting her bare arms with a sort of consciousunconsciousness and clasping her hands in a fine pose behind her head, which she turned slightly to one side, "I wonder if this is the verylast of me--the very last of the Christine who loved to look beautifuland wear rich clothes and be admired, and who thought that she would oneday be loved. " Turning away from that long look she held out both fair arms to Hannah. "Come close, close, Hannah, " she said, as the plain little teacher, inher rough dark gown, was drawn into her embrace. "I want to feel someliving thing near my heart to-night, for I am frightened and lonely. Ihave told myself good-by. Christine is dead and gone and I have buriedher. I want some one near me in these first moments of my strange newself. Oh, Hannah, if we could die! Not you--for your mother needsyou--but me. Oh, Hannah, " she said, in a strained voice that sounded asif it were only by an effort that she kept her teeth from chattering, "if I hadn't you to-night I don't know what would become of me. " Hannah tried to soothe her with soft words of comfort and assurances oflove. "It will not be so dark and sad and friendless as you think, " she said. "All those people who have admired and praised you so will surely begood to you--" But she was interrupted sharply. "I am done with them, " she said, "and done with fine dressing, andbecoming colors. " Her voice shook, and Hannah, seeing that she wascompletely unnerved, succeeded in persuading her to go up to her ownroom. On the threshold she paused. "Come into the dressing-room with me, " Christine said. "Don't leave me. He will not wake, " she added, seeing her friend glance toward the doorbetween the dressing-room and sleeping-room. "He sleeps like a stone. Ishall lie here on the lounge till morning. I often do. I have lainthere, night in and out, and almost sobbed my heart away, and no oneknew. " Hannah braided the lovely hair, unfastened the exquisite white and golddress, which fell in a rich mass on the floor, and out of it Christinestepped, looking more lovely than ever and more childlike. She caughtsight of the ornaments she still wore, and hastily taking them off laidthem in a heap on the dressing-table. "They can be sold, " she said. "I shall never want to put them on again. Oh, Hannah, you are so good to me, " she went on in the plaintive voiceof an unhappy child, as Hannah brought a warm dressing-gown and made herput it on, and little soft-lined slippers for her feet. "I am so cold, "she said, shivering. "Some day you will know, perhaps, how unhappy I am. You don't know half of it now, and I cannot tell you. Oh, you have mademe so comfortable, " she added, as Hannah tucked a warm coverlet overher, on the big, soft lounge. "I haven't had any one to take care of mefor so long. Don't leave me, Hannah. Sit in that big chair and hold myhand and let me go to sleep. I am so tired. " Her lids drooped and her voice fell. In another moment she was asleep. Once only Christine opened her eyes, and finding Hannah still there saidpiteously, "Oh, I am so unhappy, " but the plaintive little tones diedaway in sleepiness, and in a moment she was drawing in the regularbreaths of profound slumber. By-and-by, without waking her, Hannah drew her hand away, and leaningback in the big chair, threw a great shawl all around her, and worn outby the experiences of the evening, she also fell asleep. Morning found them so. The rising sun looking in at the window wakedthem simultaneously, and with a remembering look on both faces, theywere clasped in each other's arms. A long embrace and then a kiss. Noword was spoken, and when they met at breakfast and were joined by Mr. Dallas, the manner of all three was as usual. The servant who waited sawnothing to comment upon, except, perhaps, that the unwonted presence ofa guest made little difference in the usual silentness of the meal. VII. Noel remained abroad a year and a half and came home at last with a newdetermination, which he promptly put into effect. This was to begin inearnest the practice of his profession. He was tired of travelling, andeven his beloved painting was not enough to satisfy the more insistentdemands for occupation and interest, which his maturity of mind andcharacter gave rise to. Not very long after his return he went to call on the Dallases. He wasinformed, on inquiring at the house, that a family of another name nowoccupied it, and no one could tell where Mr. And Mrs. Dallas had gone. He made inquiries at several places in the neighborhood, but in vain. He walked away, with a sad and tender feeling in his heart for the poorforeign girl, whose beauty, youth and childlike charm had taken a stronghold upon his mind. The annoying thought occurred to him that he hadbeen foolishly prudent and apprehensive of danger. He wondered if ithadn't been a sort of coxcombry in him to think there was any danger toher in free and frequent intercourse with him! As for the danger tohimself, that it was cowardly to think about. He wished he had acteddifferently, and felt unreasonably troubled at having let the girl driftbeyond his knowledge. She had looked so young and appealing as he hadseen her last, seated on the rug with the kittens on her lap, and sobeautiful. No one he had seen before or since was as beautiful. The typeseemed almost unique. He knew her to be utterly ignorant of the world, and he hated to think what experience might have taught her of it. Heought to have looked after her more. The reproachful thought stung him. He said to himself that he'd be a little more careful the next time hefelt inclined to occupy this high moral platform and be better thanother men! He ought to have seen that common kindness demanded a littlemore of a man than this. He was completely self-disgusted, andregistered a sort of mental vow that if he ever found the young creatureagain he would befriend her, if she were still in need of a friend, andtake the consequences. He was not so irresistible, he told himself, asto be necessarily dangerous to the peace of mind of all the women of hisacquaintance. He had acted the part of a prig and he was well punishedfor it. Noel had altered in some ways since his former return from Europe. Forone thing his appearance had changed. He had now a thick, close-trimmedbeard, which made him look older and graver. There were some prematuregray hairs, also, in his close-cropped hair. The weather was very hot, and his mother and sisters had gone at once totheir country house, but Noel lingered in town, although, socially, itwas almost deserted. One afternoon of a very hot day, when the neighborhoods of sodafountains alone were populous, and men walked about the streetswith umbrellas in one hand and palm-leaf fans in the other, withcoats open, hats pushed back and frequent manipulation of theirpocket-handkerchiefs, Noel, whose sense of propriety admitted of noneof these mitigations of the heat, was standing at a down-town crossing, waiting for a car. He was going to his club to refresh himself with abath, order a dinner with plenty of ice accompanying it, and then takea drive in the park behind a horse warranted to make a breeze. It wasgetting intolerable in town, and he had just determined to leave itto-morrow. As he stood waiting he observed, on the opposite corner, a womancarrying a baby. He had a good heart and it troubled him to see thatthe child seemed ill. He was struck, too, with the fact that the woman, although closely veiled, had something in her figure and bearing, aswell as her dress, which made her present position seem in some wayincongruous. His practised eye perceived that her figure was good, and his instinct told him that she was a lady. He looked at her soattentively that his car passed without his seeing it until it was toofar to hail. As another car, going the opposite way, came along andstopped, the woman got on it, and a resemblance, which some fleetingmovement or position suggested to his mind, struck him so powerfullythat almost without knowing what he was doing he found himself runningto overtake the car, which had started on. It was not difficult to do, and once having undertaken it, it would have looked silly to stop, so heswung himself on to the platform. The car was full and he did not goinside. He saw the figure his eye was following take a seat high up, andturn the child so that it might get the air from the window. He couldsee the poor, little pinched face, utterly listless and wan, and byreason of its sickness totally bereft of the beauty that belongsto plump, round, rosy babyhood. And yet the child had wonderfuleyes--strange, large eyes of a clear, golden-brown color--the likeof which he had seen once only before. Memories, speculations andpresentments seemed to crowd upon him. He tried to get a view of themother, but her back was turned to him, and a fat German woman, with apile of unmade trousers from a clothing establishment, almost hid thesight of that. Usually he could not see these poor sewing-women, withtheir great, hot burdens of woollen cloth on their knees, without asentiment of pity, but he did not give this one a thought. His mind waswholly absorbed in scanning curiously, though furtively, the baby'spoor, little white face, and all that he could see of the mother's dressand figure. Presently the car came to a halt. The German woman got upand labored down the aisle with her burden and got off, but some onequickly moved into the vacant seat. Still he could see better now, andthe better he saw the stronger grew the conviction in his heart. Gradually the car thinned out, and he might have gone nearer, butsomething held him back. He kept his position by the conductor, untilhe rang his bell and called out the name of a landing from which theexcursion boats went out daily. Then the woman rose, lifting her babywith gentle carefulness, and came down the aisle and got out. Shepassed directly by Noel, but her thick veil was impenetrable, and yet, from the nearer view of her figure and the pose of her head, the feelinghe had was deepened and strengthened. He got out, too, and followed her, and as he walked directly behind her, his eyes fastened on the rich coilof her wavy dark hair, he felt sure that this was Christine Dallas. "Poor thing!" he said under his breath. The tears were near his eyes, but a feeling of rage surged up and overmastered them. Where was thegirl's husband? Where were all the men and women that ought to haveprotected her and given her support and companionship in this hour? She toiled on in front of him now, her figure braced to its burden. Thebaby was light, but she carried in addition to it a shawl and a smallbag. He longed to go and help her, but he feared to startle or distressher. If he had been a stranger he would not have hesitated, and hewondered at the cruel indifference of the passers-by. They were mostlylaborers, draymen and porters, but at least they were men, and it madehis blood boil to see them passing her carelessly and almost jostlingher. She got on board the boat, which was not crowded, and he followed alittle way behind. It gave him a sense of keen distress to see herthreading her way through groups of rough men, who ignored or jostledher, to the little window where she bought her ticket, and it angeredhim to see how indifferently the man sold it to her, and pushed her herchange. For a while he kept at a distance, observing her, however, as she tookher way, with an air of familiarity with her surroundings, to a place ondeck sheltered alike from observation and from the strong breeze whichwas already beginning. Here the stewardess brought her a pillow, handingit without speaking and waiting significantly. She took it in silence, then got out her purse, a meagre-looking one, and put a little coin intothe woman's hand. As she did so she said, "Thank you, " and the leastlittle foreign inflection--a lingering difficulty with the "th"--gaveNoel the last assurance that he needed. How unforgotten the voice was!He believed he would almost have recognized it without any words. The woman made no reply, but pocketed her fee and walked away. ThenNoel, who had seated himself quite near, with his face so turned thathe could see her without the appearance of gazing at her directly, sethimself to watch what followed. There was no one else near and it wasevident that she had not observed him. Indeed, she did not look abouther at all, but kept her eyes on the baby, whose apathetic little facedid not change. Shaking and smoothing the pillow she laid it on the seatand tenderly placed her baby on it. The boat had started and the breeze, delicious as it was to a strong person, might yet be too much for a sickchild, and this the mother plainly feared, for she hastily hung hershawl over the railing beside the pillow. But this she soon discoveredkept off too much air. Noel could note her mental processes andcomprehend them as he saw her put up her hand to loosen her thick veil. His pulses quickened. He was sure already, and yet a figure, a pose, aknot of hair, even a voice and accent might deceive him. So he watchedintently as she unfastened her veil and took it off. The brim of her hatwas narrow and left her face fully exposed. It was Christine Dallas--a girl no longer, no longer blooming andchildlike and wondering--but saddened, matured, mysteriously changed, with more than the old charm for him in her exquisite woman-face. Itwas turned to him in profile, distinct against the distant sky, andthe remembered eyes were veiled by their dark-fringed lids, as shelooked down upon her child. The veil, ingeniously fastened with a few pins, proved a convenientawning. She laid her arm above it on the rail, as she bent her headtoward the baby. Although the eyes were hid, the mouth--in her a featureof extreme sensitiveness--told the story of past suffering and presentpain. What a face! No artist had ever had a model such as that before him, and the pale attenuation of the sick child was almost as interesting asubject. But Noel never thought of it. For once the artist in him becamesubservient, and he looked on with no feeling but a pity so great thatit absolutely filled his heart and left no room for any other. The mother's suffering face put on a smile, and she made a littlekissing sound with her lips to try to attract the baby's notice, androuse it from its apathy. "Mother's precious little pigeon, " she said caressingly, and catchingthe thin little face between her soft thumb and forefinger and giving ita loving twitch. But, instead of smiling back at her, a piteous littletremor came around the baby's mouth. His thin forehead wrinkled and hebegan to whimper. She caught him to her heart with a motion of passionate love and pity, and began to rock her body to and fro as she held him there. "Did mother hurt her baby?" she said, speaking in low tones of keenestself-reproach. "There, then, mother wouldn't trouble him any more!Mother was bad and naughty to try to make her boy laugh when he was sosick! Mother loves her baby, that she does, and when her little man getswell he'll play and laugh with mother then, won't he?" The whimper died away, and when the soft crooning and rocking hadcontinued a little while the baby dropped its weary lids and slept. Shelaid him in her lap, raising her knee to elevate his head, by restingher foot on the round of a chair. He sank into his new position with atremulous sigh, and slept on. And as he slept she watched him, her greateyes fastened on his thin little face with a look as if she would devourit with love. Afraid to touch him, lest he should wake, she caught thefolds of his dress in her hand with a strength that strained its sinews, as if she were afraid he would be snatched away from her. Noel, who had expected every moment that she would turn, had now ceasedto look for it. She was evidently unconscious of everything, herselfincluded, except the child. As she bent her head above it, never takingher eyes from its wan little countenance, the look of hungry love thatcame to her was stronger than any look he had ever seen expressed upon aface before. Presently, as if unable to resist the impulse, she took oneof the little hands, blue-white for lack of blood, and held it in herown. He could divine the fact that it cost her an effort not to squeezeit hard. Her eyes fastened on it hungrily, and then looked into thepinched little face. Evidently this sleep was something coveted, for shemade these slight movements with the utmost caution, and did not ventureto change her constrained position. And as she so watched the baby, Noel, keeping as profoundly still, watched her. He saw that her plain, gray costume, charmingly fashioned as it was, was yet somewhat worn andshabby, as if from over-long usage; that her round straw hat was shabby, too, and one of her little boots, cut and finished in such a pretty, foreign fashion, had a small hole in it. The long glove on her lefthand was ripped at the finger-ends. The right hand was bare, and lookedvery strong and healthy as it held the little feeble one. With her otherhand she was holding a fan between her child's eyes and the sun. She hadnever ceased a little rocking motion of the knee. Oh, if she could onlykeep him asleep! her whole attitude and motion seemed to say. Now andthen she uttered low, hushing sounds as a pang of pain would contractthe baby's face, and threaten to waken him. These little noises came toNoel faintly, and he felt himself sharing with her this intense desireto keep the child asleep. Suddenly, above the soothing monotone of thevessel's motion, there was a sharp steam-whistle. Christine gave alittle smothered cry, and the next instant burst into tears. It was toomuch for her over-strung nerves. At the same moment the baby waked andbegan to cry weakly. The sound recalled her to herself and she took thelittle creature in her arms and rocked and hushed it, at the same timefighting with her own sobs, brushing away her tears with a fold of thebaby's dress and trying to speak to it soothingly. But she was utterlyunnerved, and the tears and sobs kept coming back even while she spokethose calming, loving words. Noel could bear it no longer. He was afraid of increasing her agitation, but he felt he must go to her aid. So he took quietly the few steps thatbrought him to her and said gently: "Christine, give the baby to me. Don't mind my seeing you. Don't mindanything, but just try to be quiet and rest a little. I will help you. " She looked at him an instant without recognition, then a gleam ofcomprehension came into her eyes, and in a confused, weak way she lethim take the baby, and falling back upon the seat she hid her face inher hands and fell to sobbing. Noel, for the first time in his lifeholding a young baby in his arms, was yet skilful with it, since nothingbut strength and tenderness were required, and he had both. He soothedthe little creature into silence, walking backward and forward a fewsteps, and watching Christine intently, without speaking to her. It wasonly a moment or two that she gave way, and he felt it would relieveher. She wiped her eyes and sat up. "I don't know what made me do it, " she said. "I have never done sobefore. It is so foolish; but I did so want baby to stay asleep, and Iwas hoping nothing would wake him, and the whistle scared me so. Let mehave him now, Mr. Noel. Thank you, oh, thank you. Perhaps he feelsbetter. He has had a nice little sleep. " Noel would have kept the child, but he saw she was not to be preventedfrom taking it, and when she had got it in her arms she began to look atit and talk to it and walk it about with every appearance of havingforgotten Noel altogether. He had called her Christine under impulse, and he now recalled the fact that she had taken it simply and withoutany protest. On the whole, he was glad. To have called her by the formalname by which he had known her might have struck some chord of pain. Hedid not even know that she bore it still. Dallas might be dead or worsethan dead to her. A score of possibilities suggested themselves to hismind. But he felt he must try, if possible, to make her understand him. "Poor little ill baby, " he said, going close to her side, where shestood by the railing with the baby laid upon her shoulder, her headtilted so as to rest her cheek on his. "I hope he is better. I am soglad I saw you, Christine. You must let me help you, exactly as if Iwere your brother, for no brother could want to help you more. I reallythink I forgot I wasn't when I called you by your name just now. But youdidn't mind it, did you?" "Oh, no, " she said simply. "But where did you come from?" she asked, asif the question had just occurred to her. "Let us say from the skies, " he answered, smiling. "I think my goodangel must have sent me to take care of you. Sit down, if you will holdthe baby. Let me make you more comfortable. " He went and brought a large and easy chair from some unknown quarterand made her sit in it. Then, saying he would be back presently, hewalked away. Before he returned the stewardess appeared, smiling andobsequious, making a profuse offer of her services to hold the baby, orto do anything desired of her. She brought a comfortable hassock, whichshe placed under Christine's feet, and only the latter's determinationprevented her from taking possession of the baby. She told her exactlywhere she was to be found in case she should be wanted, and ended bypresenting her with a key which, she told her, would open a stateroom atthe head of the stairs. As the woman walked away Noel returned. Christine told him how kind the stewardess had been, and said that shehad never known there were any staterooms on board, this being anexcursion boat. "Oh, there are generally two or three, " said Noel carelessly, "for thepeople to go to when they want to rest. If you'd like to, we'll go nowand inspect. " Evidently the prospect pleased her, so they went together, but sherefused to allow him to carry the baby, or even to send for the woman. When they opened the door everything was clean and fresh, as if justprepared for them. Christine looked about her with an air of relief thatit rejoiced him to see. He told her to get a little rest, if she could, and that he would stroll about for a while and come back for her. Shewent in and closed the door and he turned away. In a few minutes thestewardess knocked, to offer her services, and Christine, as sheaccepted them, felt a sudden change as to her whole surroundingatmosphere. Noel, meanwhile, had gone up on deck, and was walking about and lookingaround him curiously. He was certainly out of his element, but hishabits of life had been such as to make him feel at home almostanywhere. What he rebelled at was the thought of Christine being in thisplace. Her distress of mind and her poverty seemed so indecently exposedto view. He lingered a while in the thick of the crowd, torturinghimself with the horrible incongruity between it and the poor, dearwoman in the stateroom below. He had contrived to have put at herdisposal the best the boat afforded, but it was abominably meagre. Whatbusiness had she here at all? It was no place for her. His whole naturerebelled at it, and he grew savage as he thought that it was no businessof his to put it right. Throwing his cigar away he went below and knocked very gently at thestateroom door. It was opened by Christine, who had, perhaps, bathedher face, for the traces of tears were almost gone, though enoughremained to give her eyes an appealingness that went to his very heart. "Well, " he said, in that tentative tone which admits of any sort ofanswer. She looked immediately at the baby lying on the berth and stood aside tolet him see. "He is quiet, " she said. "I don't think he is in any pain. I am going to take him on deck again. The doctor said the only thing forhim was change of air. I couldn't take him away, so he said to bring himdown here on the water every afternoon would do him good, and I've beenbringing him every day. " "And is he better?" Noel said, forcing himself to appear to be thinkingchiefly of the child. He saw that the idea absorbed her so completelythat she had no thought of herself and apparently none of him, and thiswas well. "His fever is not so high, " she said. "Oh, he has been so ill. Once Ithought--" but she broke off unable to speak, and turning toward theberth caught up the child with the fervor of passion, though she did notforget to touch him tenderly, and held him close against her. Then sheput on his little head a muslin cap that perhaps had fitted him once butwas now pitifully large, and carried her light burden out into thesaloon and up the steps, refusing Noel's offer to help her. They wentback to their old places, which were quiet and away from the crowd, andwhen Noel had made her as comfortable as he could, he drew his chairnear and sat down. And then the watch began again. He looked at her, andshe looked down at the baby on her lap, and apparently the baby was nomore unconscious of the gaze bent on him than Christine was of the lookwith which Noel steadily regarded her. He burned to ask her questions asto what had taken place since he had seen her last, but he feared towaken her from her unconsciousness. It was evident that she accepted himas a simple fact. He had come and here he was. If he helped her to takecare of the baby it was all right and she was glad. Not a scruple as tothe acceptance of the help had occurred to her. He saw this and was toothankful for it not to be willing to take precautions againstinterrupting this most satisfactory course of things. The child would die, he felt sure of that, and his heart quivered tothink how she would suffer. And who was there to help her to bear it? Healmost wished he was in truth her brother, that his might naturally bethat right; almost, but not quite. Well, he wished a great many vain anduseless things as he sat there opposite to her, conscious that she hadforgotten him. He moved, and even coughed, but she took no notice. Thebaby's little mouth twitched slightly and her whole being became acutelyconscious. She changed its position and words of passionate lovingnesscrowded upon her lips. But instead of responding to them, it began towhimper fretfully--a sound that brought a spasm of positive anguishacross her face. "There, then, mother's little dear lamb that mother has hurt andtroubled! Mother loves her little man, and he'll get well and make poormother happy again--won't he?" It was some time before the child could be quieted. The peevish littlewhine almost angered Noel when he saw how it was cutting intoChristine's heart. In the hope of diverting the baby he put out his handand began to snap his fingers softly in front of its face. There was aring on the hand that sparkled, and the baby saw it and stretched outhis little hand toward it. A gleam of pure delight came into themother's face. "He hasn't noticed anything for days, " she said, catching Noel's handin an ardent grasp and holding it so that the baby could see the ring. He felt her fingers close upon it almost lovingly. He knew she couldhave kissed it, because it had for that second been of interest to herchild--and with no knowledge that it was in any way different from thering upon it. When the baby turned away from it fretfully she let itdrop. At last the little invalid went to sleep in Christine's lap. The boat, which was not to land but went only for the excursion on the water, hadturned and they were going back toward the city. The breeze that playedaround Christine's bent head blew little curly strands about her faceand called a faint flush into her cheeks. Noel noted everything. Night began to draw on and she could no longer see the baby's facedistinctly. She drew the end of a light shawl over him, saying as shedid so: "The doctor says this is the best of all--the coming back in the freshevening air. " She sat up in her place then, and Noel could see that she kept her handupon her baby's pulse. "Do you ever sing now?" he asked abruptly. She shook her head. "No--except little songs to baby. " "I heard while I was in Europe of your making an immense hit in theamateur opera. Why did you stop?" "I was forced to. Those people compelled me. I don't know why, but theylooked on me as something apart from them. The women were strange andunfriendly, and the men--I don't know, " she broke off confusedly, "butit is all hateful to me to think of. I was glad to get away from them. The night of the opera was the last time. Oh, if my baby will get well, "she said, bending to touch his thin hair with her lips, "I will neverneed anything but him. You believe in prayer--don't you? Will you prayto God to make him well?" Noel promised with a willingness that seemed to comfort her. Absorbed inthe child once more, she soon seemed to forget him and silence fellbetween them again. It was scarcely broken during the whole return trip. She seemed to have nothing to say to him. When she spoke to him at allher thrilling voice dropped to a whisper, and it was always to give someinformation about the baby. Once she said with fervent interest, "He isasleep, " and once she told him that his skin felt cool and natural. Thiswas all. It must be owned that Noel didn't think very lovingly of thatpoor atom of humanity as he sat there. It was the baby that had causedher to be in this false position, which he felt so keenly, and it wasterror for the baby which brought that suffering look to her face. Andyet something of the same feeling was in his own breast as he palpitatedat the thought of this little creature's dying and breaking the heart ofits mother, who plainly loved it with the absorbingness of the firstpassion she had ever known. When they reached the wharf it was quite dark, and the electric lightsand publicity of the place made Noel shrink so from the thought ofexposing the girl, in her suffering, to the gaze of such men and womenas he saw about him, that, without consulting her, he called a carriageand helped her into it, following and seating himself opposite her. Sheprotested at first, but he said: "I have a long way to go and need a carriage, and I may as well drop youat home. Where must I put you down?" She gave a street and number. The door was shut, the man mounted to hisbox and drove away, and they were alone together. Alone, except for thebaby, but that was enough to make him feel that he and all the worldbeside were thousands of miles away from her. They drove on in silence. Now and then as they passed a bright light, her beautiful face, outlinedby its dark hat-brim and darker hair, shone out from the shadow, but forwhich he might have felt himself in a dream interrupted by no sound, except the monotonous rumble of the wheels. Always as he looked her eyeswere lowered to catch each passing glimpse of the baby's face. She neverlooked at him. He began to feel it necessary to ask one or two questions that he mightknow what to prepare for, but as he broke the silence to begin she saidwarningly, in a low whisper: "Sh-sh-sh, he is waking, " and then fell to rocking and crooning over thebaby and coaxing him back to sleep. When he seemed quite quiet again shesaid suddenly in a low whisper, and in the dark he felt her eyes uponhim: "What makes you so kind? No one is ever kind to me. I thought nobodycared. I had one friend but she went away. She did not want to leave me, but she had to go far off somewhere to make a living for her mother. " "I will always help you if you will let me, " Noel said, whispering too, for fear of being silenced. "I will send my sisters to see you, if youwill let them come--" "Oh, no!" she said, interrupting him impulsively. "Don't send any womenout of the world you live in to see me. They are cruel--they havedreadful thoughts of me. They look at me strangely and suspect me. Oh, no--I'd rather take my baby to the end of the earth and hide from them. I beg you not to send any one to see me. " Noel hastened to promise her that he certainly would not go against herwish, and was wondering how he should find out the things he longed soto know, when suddenly the carriage stopped. The driver got down and rang the bell. As Noel was helping Christine toget out, the door was opened and the figure of Dallas appeared. It was asurprise to him, somehow, and an unwelcome one. How his spirit rose inabhorrence of this man! Christine went up the steps with the baby, and as he had her bag andshawl Noel followed, telling the driver to wait. It was a miserable little house, poor and cheap, and empty, and but forthe counteracting effect of his anger against Dallas, Noel thought hemust have almost sobbed to see Christine here. Dallas himself was not atall discomposed as he recognized his visitor and asked him in, offeringa hand which Noel managed to touch. The baby was still asleep, and when Christine had placed it carefully ona wretched little couch, she seemed, for the first time, free to thinkof Noel. She turned and asked him to sit down--at the same time glancingabout her with a sudden rush of consciousness, which until now a nearerinterest had crowded out. The poverty-stricken look of her surroundingswas made the more evident by the few objects belonging to other daysthat lay about--a charming sacque, smartly braided and lined with richsilk, hung on the back of a chair, and a handsome travelling rug wasfolded under the baby on the sofa. Everything was clean, for Christineeven yet had not come to contemplate the possibility of doing without aservant. There was a small kerosene lamp on a table, over which were spread alot of cards with their faces up. Some one had evidently been playingsolitaire, and as evidently, on the witness of another sense, beenaccompanying the game by the smoking of bad tobacco. The room reekedwith it to a degree that made Noel feel it an outrage to Christine. Butwhat was he to do? There was but one thing. He said good-by and wentaway, carrying the memory of Christine's face flushed scarlet for shame. He remembered afterward that Dallas had taken no notice of the baby--noteven glancing at it or inquiring for it--a thing which the poor motherhad taken as a matter of course. He thought, as he shook hands with herat parting, that Christine had tried to speak--perhaps a word ofthanks--but something stopped it and she let him go in silence. The next afternoon Noel, at the same hour, went down to the wharf andboarded the excursion boat, for the deliberate purpose of having somepractical talk with Christine. He soon found her, absorbed so completelyin the baby that his coming seemed scarcely to disturb for a moment theintentness of her preoccupation. This, at first, made him feel a certainirritation, but he soon had reason to congratulate himself upon anabsence of self-consciousness on her part which made it the easier forhim to put certain questions. Everything he inquired about she respondedto with absolute honesty and a sort of vagueness which precluded anysuch feelings as wounded pride. He learned, by his adroit questionings, that they were now very poor, that Dallas had been spending hisprincipal, which was now exhausted, and that their chief means ofsupport was the money she obtained for doing a very elaborate sort ofembroidery which she had learned while at the convent. When he asked ifshe had all the work she wanted she said no, and that she often rangdoor-bells and asked ladies to give her work and was refused. She toldall this with apathy, however, and seemed to have no power of acutefeeling outside of her child. Then Noel, with a beating heart, made a proposal to her which hadoccurred to him during the wakeful hours of the night, but which hehad felt he should hardly have courage for. This was that she shouldcome every day and give him sittings for a new picture he had in mind. When he suggested it, to his delight she caught eagerly at the idea, accepting every word he said in absolute good faith, and showing nodisposition to doubt when he told her that every hour would be manytimes more valuable so spent than in sewing, as good models were rareand very well paid. She thanked him with the simplest gratitude, andwhen she heard that she would be allowed to bring her child with her shepromised to come the next morning to his studio. The baby, she said, wasbetter now, and would sleep for hours at a time, and in the afternoonshe could take him on the water as usual. It was evident that there wasno one else who made any demand upon her time--a significant fact toNoel. Accordingly, next morning she came, her baby in her arms as usual. Shehad made an effort to dress herself attractively, looking upon thematter in a very businesslike way, and so girlish and charming anddelicately high-bred did she look in her French-made gown of transparentblack, with trimmings of pale green ribbons, and a wide lace hat tomatch, that Noel rebelled with all his might against her lugging thatabsurdly superfluous baby up those long steps. Still it was necessary toaccept the inevitable, and he set his teeth and said nothing. When shehad laid the sleeping child upon a lounge and turned toward him, hereyes fastened eagerly upon a great bunch of crimson roses in a bluechina bowl, which Noel had gotten in honor of her coming. She did not, of course, suspect this, but he saw that here, at least, was a vivid andspontaneous feeling apart from her child, as she bent above the mass ofrich color. "Oh, how good they are!" she said. "I seem to want to eat them, andsmell them and look at them all at once. " She held them off and regarded them enjoyingly a moment and then raisedthem to her face again, and smelled them with audible little sniffs, even nibbling the red leaves with her white teeth, as she looked at Noelover them and smiled. He went, delighted, and brought a basket ofluscious grapes which he held out to her. She took a large bunch, andholding it by the stem began to pick the grapes off one by one and eatthem enjoyingly. They were pale green in color, and he noted the effectof her clear pink nails against them and the beautiful curves of thelong fingers that held the stem. He poured out some water in a beautifulold Venetian goblet and offered it to her. There was a bit of ice in it, which she tinkled against the side with the delight of a child beforeshe drank it. "I am sure I am dreaming, perfectly sure, " she said seriously. "I onlyhope I won't wake until I have finished this bunch of grapes. " Then she lifted the glass to her mouth, tilting it until she had got theice, which she chewed up noisily with her sharp little teeth. Noel felta keen delight to see that she was letting herself be gay for a briefmoment, but he seemed to see into the sadness back of it more plainlythan ever. "Oh, I am very happy, " she said, suddenly throwing herself into a chairwhere she could see her sleeping child. "My baby is better--a greatdeal better; he has smiled twice, and is sleeping so peacefully! Yes, I am happy!--and yet the other feeling--the one that has been with mealways lately--is here too. It is very strange that one can be at thesame time very happy and also the most miserable woman in the world!Does this sound like craziness? I am not crazy. There are somepeople--did you know it?--who can't go crazy!--who never would, nomatter what happened to them! A doctor told me that, and I believe it. He says it is constitutional or inherited or something like that--aphysical thing--having a very strong brain that couldn't be upset!" She rose now, and insisted that the sitting should begin. Noel saw againthe unforgotten outline of her beautiful head, with its rippling darkhair drawn backward into that low knot behind. It was in silence that she seated herself, and he began to work. He feltas if some fair saint were sitting to him, and that the picture wouldnever come out right without a nimbus round the head. As he went on withhis rapid drawing in charcoal he saw a change settle heavily upon theface before him. Utter sadness seemed to come there as soon as the linesrelaxed into their natural look. At last, when he felt he had done enough to entitle her to feel thatshe had really rendered service, he threw a cloth over the picture anddeclared the sitting ended. She did not, however, ask to look at it, butwent over at once to where the baby lay, and stood looking down uponhim. Noel, who had followed her, stood silently beside her for somemoments. Suddenly she said aloud: "I am very miserable. " He took it in silence, as he had taken her former confession ofhappiness. Presently she went on: "I said, a little while ago, that I was happy, and for a moment I seemedto feel it in spite of all the misery. God knows I don't forget to thankHim that my baby is better"--her lips trembled--"but what is his dearlife to be? What is mine to be? Always like this? Oh, God help me! Myheart is broken. " He thought she was going to cry, but she did not. She only clasped herhands hard together and drew in her lower lip, clenching it in herteeth. "Perhaps I ought not to speak like this, " she said. "I don't knowwhether it is very wrong or not. But it is so long since any one waskind to me or seemed to care. " "It is not wrong, " said Noel, "don't think it. Ease your heart byspeaking, if it comforts you. Try to remember what we are to eachother--think of me as your brother. " Thus invited, he hoped she would speak freely, but she caught her lipagain, as if in the effort of self-repression, and shook her head. Noelwas hurt. "Do you not trust me?" he said. "I trust you always, " she answered. "You are good and kind and true, andnot like other men. Oh, how bad they are! What things they can think ofa woman! The world is dark and evil, and I and my baby arealone--alone--alone!" The vehemence of this outburst seemed to recall her to herself and hersurroundings, and by a tremendous effort she managed to attain a mannerand expression of calm. The baby stirred and opened its eyes, and in amoment everything else was forgotten. A few moments later, when, with the child in her arms, she was ready togo, Noel, as he handed her her gloves and pocketbook, slipped somethinginto the latter. "I don't know what you will think of the reward of your morning'slabor, " he said, in an off-hand way. "To me it seems miserably little, although you, with your notions, may think it too much. You don't know, of course, that a model such as the one I've secured this morning ishard to get, and can always command a good price. You have fairly andhonestly earned it and I hope you will be willing to come again. May Isay to-morrow?" "If baby is as well as to-day. Oh, how good you are! I hope God willbless you for being so good to me. " "I hope He would curse me if I were not, " said Noel, and then, restraining his vehemence, he begged her to let him carry the babydown-stairs for her. This she utterly refused, and it cut him to theheart to feel that her reason for doing so was not so much to save himtrouble as to prevent his being seen in such a condescending attitudetoward his model. So he had to see her go off alone with her burden. Herebelled passionately at the sight. Since the baby was--a stubborn factin an emaciated form--and Christine could not be happy to have it out ofher sight, the situation should, at any rate, have had the mitigationswhich civilization supplies. A picturesque _bonne_, in an effective capand apron, should have carried the child for her, and a footman shouldhave held open the door of a comfortable carriage for her on reachingthe street. Instead of which he had to meet the maddening possibilitythat the cabman was careless and insolent and that passers-by in thestreet stared at her. With his hands thrust deep in his trousers' pockets he turned back intothe studio, slamming the door behind him with his elbow, and walkingmoodily over to the window, where he stood a long while lost in thought. The one satisfactory reflection which the situation suggested was thathe had succeeded in making Christine accept, as a natural arrangement, the fact that when artists employed models they always sent them to andfrom the studios in a cab, which it was the artist's business to payfor. VIII. The next day Christine came again, and although she was comforted by thefact that the baby still seemed better Noel thought he had never seen orimagined such absolute sadness as both her face and manner showed. Thepicture progressed in long spaces of absolute silence, while Christinesat as immovable as the sleeping child near by. It seemed to Noel, inspite of his inexperience, that the child lay more in a state of stuporthan sleep, and that its prostration argued the very lowest degree ofvitality, but Christine seemed satisfied when he was asleep and so Noelmade no comment. During the sitting that day he asked Christine if he would prove himselfa nuisance to either her or her husband if he sometimes called in theevening. To the first part of the inquiry she replied that she would beglad to see him, and to the latter, with a sort of hopeless wonder, that Mr. Dallas would not mind. Noel went once, and once only. The visit was too painful to himself, andhe felt also to Christine, to be repeated. The hideous barrenness of theplace seemed an outrage to her delicacy and made the refinement of herbeauty seem cruelly out of place. But more than all, when Noel looked onthe untidy negligence and brutal insensibility of the man who was atliberty to call her wife, and whom she acknowledged as husband, he feltit unbearable. He was even worse than he remembered him. Formerly hehad, at least, dressed well and kept up the forms of civility. Noelcould imagine that he was now glad to be rid of the trouble. He did noteven care to be particular about his person since he was now in aposition where that bother could be dispensed with. As soon as Noel began to talk to Christine Dallas filled his pipe andwent off to the table to play solitaire. Noel fancied that the smell ofthe rank tobacco, which was unimproved in quality, made the poor girlsick. It was a relief when Dallas got up after a while, and shoving thecards together in a heap left the room. Then Noel inquired for the baby. Somehow he always shrank from speaking of it before Dallas. "He is asleep up-stairs. Eliza is with him: He is better, " saidChristine, "but the doctor says there is no certainty until the hotweather is over. Oh, it's selfish of me to want him to live, " she added, with a sudden agitation in her voice, "but it isn't that; it isn't lifeI want for him--only to keep him with me--to be where he is. If Icould--" She broke off huskily, and Noel, out of pity for her, got up and walkedto the other end of the little room. When he got back she had recovered, and said with a smile: "I am out of patience with myself for being gloomy now. You will thinkme such a poor coward. The baby is better and I will try to be bright. I said in my prayers to God that if He would let my baby get better Iwould be happy, and ask for nothing else. But what do you think thisis?" she added, with a change of tone, drawing something from her pocketand holding it hid in her closed hand. "I can't imagine, " said Noel, full of delight to see that look ofinterest and amusement on her face. "A present for you from me! Isn't that funny? It isn't anything veryvaluable and perhaps you won't care for it, but I have a feeling thatI want you to have it. It's the cross of the Legion of Honor, whichbelonged to my grandfather. My mother left it to me among some trinketsof hers, which have all been sold. Don't look sorry about it; you don'tknow how little it matters now! This I could never have sold, andbesides it is worth very little really--but I felt I wanted you to haveit. Will you let me give it to you?" She opened her hand and held it out to him with the cross lying on thepalm. Noel was deeply touched. "I never really expected to be decorated, " he said, "but there is nopossible way in which a decoration could come to me that could give mesuch pride and pleasure as this. Take it? I should think so! When I usedto dream of being a painter I thought perhaps I'd have a great picturein the _Salon_ and get a decoration for it. But I assure you this isbetter. " "Oh, what pleasant things you say!" said Christine. "You make me feelquite happy, " and she held out the cross for him to take. "I want you to fasten it on, " said Noel. "I mean always to wear it. Willyou pin it here?" He turned back his coat and Christine came close to him and compliedwith the utmost willingness. The pin was a little blunt or rusted and ittook her several seconds to put it in and fasten it. Their faces werealmost on a level, and Noel's eyes looked closer than they had ever donebefore at her youthful loveliness. Hers were bent in complete absorptionupon her task. When she had fastened the pin she drew backward, still holding open thecoat that she might see the cross in its new position. All the time shenever looked at Noel, but all the time he looked at her. "Thank you, " she said simply. Noel seemed stricken with silence. His mind was confused, and he did notknow what to say. And Christine, wondering that he did not speak, liftedher large eyes to his face and looked at him questioningly. Then Noelremembered himself, and in perfect recollectedness and self-possessionhe took her hands and kissed them, first one and then the other. "You have made me your knight, " he said. "Let me never forget it. I am aknight of the Legion of Honor. I shall carry this cross about me alwaysto remind me of it. Thank you, and bless you, Christine. " Then he dropped her hands, and they sat down and fell to talking. Forthe first time in his recent intercourse with her she was able to speakof general subjects. There was a momentary lull in her anxiety aboutthe baby, and in her release from that recent and heavy burden she felta rebound from the more remote causes of unhappiness too. So they gotinto a talk that was easy and almost bright. They spoke together offoreign lands familiar to them both, of music and painting, and all thethings from which her present life divided her so completely that, asChristine said presently, it was like recalling dreams. And then in themidst of it Dallas came in, with his slovenly dress and horrible pipe, and Christine, with an awful look of recollectedness, came back toreality. It was impossible to take this man into a talk like theirs, andNoel quickly said good-night. IX. The next day and the next Christine went to the studio, and the sittingspassed in almost total silence. It had become more than ever impossiblefor them to speak to each other, and they both realized it. Then camea day on which Noel waited in vain for Christine. When morning andafternoon were passed and he got no tidings he could bear the suspenseno longer, and went to the house to inquire. Old Eliza, the negroservant, opened the door for him and told him the baby was dying. Hisheart grew cold within him. What would Christine do? How could she bearit? He asked if the doctor had been, and was told he was now up-stairs. He inquired for Dallas. "Gone to walk, " Eliza said with contempt, andthen added that "He might as well be one place as another, as he didn'tdo no good nowhar. " Noel saw the doctor, an elderly, capable, decided man, who, as he soonfound, took in the whole situation and sympathized with Christine asheartily as he excoriated her husband. Noel said he was an old friend ofChristine's, who was anxious to do all that was possible for her, andhad the satisfaction of seeing that he had inspired Dr. Belford withconfidence in him. He soon saw that it was unnecessary to ask the goodphysician to see that her wants and those of the child were supplied, ashis own sympathies were thoroughly enlisted, so he could only beg to benotified of anything he could possibly do, and go sadly away. When Noel came, early next morning, a scant bit of black drapery, tiedwith a white ribbon, told him that the thing had happened which deprivedChristine of all she loved on earth. The desire of her eyes was takenfrom her and her house was left unto her desolate. Eliza opened the door, and he came inside the hall and asked her a fewquestions. The baby had died about midnight, the woman said. Dr. Belfordhad stayed until it was over. The child was now prepared for burial, the mother having done everything herself, seeming perfectly calm. Shewould not eat, however, and was lying on the bed by the baby. He did notneed to inquire for the father, for at the end of the hall was thedining-room, where he could see Dallas, with his back turned, seated atthe table, evidently making a hearty breakfast, the smell of which smoteoffensively the visitor's nostrils. Noel felt he must get away, and yetthe thought of Christine, lying up-stairs alone by her little dead baby, seemed to pull him by his very heartstrings. He put some money into Eliza's hand, telling her to use it as shethought necessary, and then went away. He next sought Dr. Belford andsent a message to Christine, which he felt would fall as coldly as uponthe ear of a marble statue, and then he went to a florist's and sent hera great heap of pure white flowers, which he thought she might care toput about the baby. This done he felt helpless, impotent and miserable. The next morning he went with Dr. Belford and helped to lower into theearth the treasure of Christine's heart. There were but four personspresent, the mother, the clergyman, the physician and himself. Dallashad slipped from the house early in the morning, telling Eliza he wouldnot be back, deliberately shirking the unpleasantness of the occasion. He had never shown any love for the child, but a funeral was, in itself, a painful thing, and he ran away from it. This, at least, was theexplanation given by Dr. Belford. Noel felt that the kind old doctor wasthe being who could best help Christine now, since he had been with herthrough the worst of her trial. So it was he who sat beside Christine asthey drove through the crowded city streets, with the little whitecoffin on the seat opposite. Noel went in another carriage with theclergyman, to whom he told something of Christine's history, begging himto go see her and try to give her comfort, which he promised to do. Itseemed a bitter thing to him that both these men seemed to have someplace and position beside Christine--and he none! He looked at herduring the short service, which tortured his heart with pain for her, but behind her thick veil her face was quite invisible, and her figurewas still and cold as marble. He longed unspeakably to try to comforther, but he felt he could not take one step until she gave some signthat she wanted him. He knew that Dr. Belford had told her that hewished to speak with her as soon as she could bear it, and now he mustwait--no matter how long--until she signified her wish to have him come. She had sent him a message of thanks by Dr. Belford, and said she wouldsee him when she could. With that he had to be content. He felt ituseless to deny the plain fact that grief had crowded every thought ofhim out of her heart now. Every day he sent her flowers--although he felt assured that they allfound their way to the cemetery--and every day he went to Dr. Belford tofind out how she was. The report was always the same--calm, uncomplaining, hopeless! He longed to feel that Christine thought of him with some degree ofcomfort, but there was absolutely no foundation for such a hope. He hadalways felt a certain impatient scorn of the unfortunate, and to himtotally uninteresting baby, whom Christine had loved with such idolatry, but now he found himself formulating a passionate wish that he could getback the child's life for her at the sacrifice of his own. He almostfelt that he could consent to it. X. About two weeks after the death of the baby Dr. Belford called uponNoel. It was absolutely necessary, he said, to do something to rouseChristine from her state of hopeless lethargy. He had accordingly laidhis plans to do this. He had discovered, through Eliza, that all themoney furnished for the support of the establishment for some time pasthad come from Christine, and that Dallas even applied to his wife formoney for tobacco and car-fares, pretending he went out looking forwork. "As far as I can understand, " said Dr. Belford, "the creature has nostrong vices--he is too bloodless and inane for them. Even when he hadmoney it doesn't appear that he gambled, and I don't believe he drinks. He is simply wanting in principle, feeling and everything. Eliza sayshe has scarcely spoken to his wife, or she to him, since the baby died. Indeed she never speaks a word to any one beyond what is strictlynecessary. This state of things cannot go on. I told Eliza yesterday togo and ask her for money, which she did. On the heels of it I went toher and told her you wanted to begin a new picture and could find nomodel so suitable as herself. I asked her if she would agree. She toldme then that Eliza had come to her for money to carry on the house, andthat she felt she must, in some way, earn it, as she would not owetradespeople, who could not afford to lose by her. So she asked me totell you she would begin the sittings to-morrow. " "What a friend you are, Doctor, to her and to me!" said Noel, graspinghis companion's hand. The doctor held his hand in a resolute pressure as he looked at himkeenly and said: "I think I know my man. At all events I'm going to trust you. I haven'tmuch belief in saints, but unless you're a double-dyed scoundrel youwill never betray this trust. " Noel answered nothing. The two men grasped hands a second longer andthen, each satisfied with each, they parted. When Christine came the next morning the pity that Noel felt for heralmost overcame him. It was evident that the sight of the place broughtup the saddest memories, and she appeared at the door empty-armed, instead of weighted down by her helpless little burden. The look on herface, as she threw back her veil, was almost more than he could bear. By a mute little gesture she seemed to implore him not to speak of whatfilled the minds of both, and he obeyed her. She gave him both herhands. He felt like falling on his knees before her, and controlledhimself only by a strong effort. It seemed inhuman not to do somethingto help her, but what could he do? "I'm so sorry for you, " was all he could say. "Don't speak. Don't make me speak. You know I thank you for everything. I can't talk. " Then, loosing his hands, she walked off to a window and stood lookingout, while Noel chose a different canvas and busied himself withpreparations for work. Presently she came and placed herself calmly, andNoel began to draw. Occasionally he said some little thing, and sheassented, but they both soon felt that silence was the only thing. Therewas no suggestion of tears in her eyes, but their look was the sadderfor that. When the sitting was ended Noel tried to make her take a glassof wine or some fruit, but she turned from them almost with distaste. Asshe was leaving, however, she asked if she might have the roses on thetable. When Noel eagerly said yes she took the great bunch in her handand went off--he well knew where! After that she came daily, and the picture progressed, but she, thebeautiful model, remained unchanged in her hopeless apathy and misery. One day at the close of the sitting Noel, as usual, went from the studioto his law-office. The season was dull and his partner was out of town, so it devolved on him to read and attend to the mail. He had read halfthrough the little pile of letters which he found awaiting his attentionwhen he took up one bearing the name and address of a law firm in aWestern town, with whom he and his partner had, from time to time, transacted business. He opened it abstractedly and began to run over thecontents rather listlessly, when a name caught his eye that arrested hisattention. The lawyers proposed to his partner and himself to cooperatewith them in a case of bigamy. They had worked it up satisfactorily, they said, their client being the first wife of a man said to be nowliving with a second one in the city of Noel's residence. The man's namewas Robert Dallas. Noel sprang to his feet, while a dizziness that made him almostunconscious took possession of him. He fell back into his chair again, achill running through all his veins. If it should be the man Christinehad married so hastily in a foreign country--the father of her child!The horror of it overcame him so that for several moments he remainedtransfixed. Then he reflected that the name might be a mere coincidence, and took up the letter to finish it. Every word he read strengthened the conviction that it was the RobertDallas that he knew. There was a minute description of him, whichcorresponded perfectly, and the lawyer added that he had sent, byexpress, a photograph and specimens of his handwriting. Noel lookedabout him. An express parcel, which he had not noticed, lay on thetable. He hastily cut the twine and opened it. There were papers andmemoranda, and in an envelope a photograph. He tore it open and theweak, handsome face of the father of Christine's child confronted him. There was no longer a doubt of it; Christine, the innocent, theguileless, the confiding, the pure and sweet and lovely, had beenbetrayed, and by this creature, this miserable excuse for a man, whosedull and feeble beauty looked to him hideous as leprosy. What wouldbecome of her? How would she bear it? Who would take care of her whenthe great shock fell? A sudden strength came into him. A force that had lain as silent andreserved as the force of steam in water surged forth at the fiery touchof the thought that had first come to him. He got up hastily and put thelawyer's letters and the parcel of papers into his iron safe and lockedit. The photograph only he left out, and this he thrust into the innerpocket of his coat. As he was doing so it caught on something. It washis cross. A thought thrilled him. He was her knight of the Legion ofHonor, and he felt that he had kept his trust! He went out of the office, called a cab, and had himself driven to astreet and number in a remote suburb of the city. In a quiet, prettylittle house, overrun with vines, and facing a green and grassy publicsquare as fresh and lovely as it was unfashionable, he stayed a longtime, and when he emerged from it an elderly lady, dressed in black andwith a white widow's cap set above her smoothly-brushed hair, came tothe door with him and pressed his hand with a fervent "God bless you" ashe was leaving her. It was evident that he had inspired her with some of the ardent spiritthat was animating him, for she looked eager and full of interest, andas she turned back within the house, when he had driven off, she hadthe manner of a person who had work to do that called forth her bestenergies and sympathies. Noel had the same air as he caused himself tobe driven from place to place, in pursuance of some purpose which kepthim occupied until far into the night. XI. Next morning when the hour for Christine's sitting came Noel was walkingup and down in his studio with a face intensely pale from pastsleeplessness and present excitement. He looked at his watch frequently, as if impatient, and yet the least sound made him start as if nervousand apprehensive. At last the sound he longed for and yet dreaded washeard, and he went to the door and threw it open for Christine to enter. She came in without speaking, and throwing back her veil revealed herpale, sad face, with its look of passionless woe. Noel took her hand as he closed the door behind her and inquired for herhealth. It was steadier than his, that little black-gloved hand. He feltreluctant to let it go as she withdrew it and began to take off herbonnet and gloves. When she had laid these on the table she ran herfingers with a pretty motion that he had often noticed through theloose masses of her dark hair, where it curved behind her ears. It wasquite mechanical and showed an unconsciousness of self that Noelwondered whether he should ever see in her again. She poured out a glass of water and drank half of it, and then said shewas ready to begin. She looked tired, but she said she was not, andwould like to begin if he were ready. "Sit down, Christine, " he said gently, "I am not ready to begin yet. Iwant to talk to you. " She looked surprised, but sank upon the lounge and he seated himself byher side. The utter lassitude of her expression made his task seemdesperately hard to begin. "I have something to tell you, dear Christine, " he said, "but I want youto make me a promise first. If the few poor little services I have beenable to render you, and the interest and sympathy I have tried toexpress to you have done anything at all, I think they must haveconvinced you that I am your true, devoted friend and that you cantrust me. Tell me this, Christine; you do trust me--don't you?" "More than any one on earth--but that is too little, " she saidhastily--"as much as I could ever have trusted any one--as much as Itrusted those who have been unworthy--and with a feeling that theknowledge of their unworthiness could never affect a thing so high as myfaith in you. " "Thank God that it is so. And now, Christine, I call the God we bothadore and fear to witness that I will be true to your faith in me, tothe last recess of my mind, no less than to the last drop of my blood. See, Christine, I swear it on my cross, " and he drew it out, touchingthe picture as he did so. "Give me your hand, " he said, "and we willhold this sacred cross between my hand and yours, and I will tell youthis thing, and you must try to feel that I am not only your knight butalso your dear brother, in whom all the confidence you have expressedto me is strengthened by the added bond of relationship. Christine, mysister, I want you to realize that there is an ordeal before you whichit will take all the strength that you can summon to bear withfortitude. At first you will think it intolerable--impossible to beborne, and I do not pretend to tell you that the blow will not be awful, beyond words. I only want to say to you now, when you are calm enoughto listen, that it is not so hopeless and terrible as it will look atfirst--that there is light beyond, though at first you may not be ableto see it. Try to keep that in your mind if you can. " She had given him her hand and they clasped the cross between them. Allthe time that he was speaking she looked at him with a calm andunbelieving wonder in her large eyes. As he paused she shook her headwith grave incredulousness and said quietly: "You do not know me, Mr. Noel. I thought you understood a little, butyou are wrong if you think there is anything you could tell me for whichI should care so much. I do not suppose I could make you understand it, but my heart is dead and buried in my baby's grave, and nothing couldmake me feel as you expect me to feel. The two or three people thatI--know" (Noel knew by the pause she made that she had wanted to saylove, but couldn't, in honesty, use the word) "are all well. I have justcome from them--even Dr. Belford I have seen to-day--but if you weregoing to tell me they were all dead I could not care a great deal--atleast not in the way you expect me to care--for what you have to tellme. It may be wicked to have so hard a heart, but I cannot help it. There is absolutely nothing in all the world that could make me feel inthe way you think I ought to feel at what you have to tell me. " "I did not say ought, " said Noel, "there is no ought about it. It is athing inevitable. Oh, Christine, there is no way to lead up to it. Imust just tell you and beg you, for my sake at least, to try to bearit. " "You had better tell me, " she said. "You will see how I can bear it. " The calm security of her tones, the passionless wonder of her quietface were almost maddening. They made him fear the more the effect ofthe shock when it should come. "Christine, " he said quietly, though his heart was leaping, "it issomething about your--about the man you married. " A faint flush came up in her face, and she averted her eyes an instant. Then she looked at him and said calmly: "I thought you knew that long ago that became one of the subjects uponwhich I had ceased to feel deeply. If you think it is wrong of me to saythis I cannot help it. He hated his little child. He never thought itanything but a trouble and a burden, and he was not sorry when it died. He is glad the trouble of it is over. He had long ceased to feel anylove for me--if he ever had it--but if he had cared a little for thepoor little baby I could have forgotten that; but he was cruel towardit in thought and feeling, and if I had not watched the treasure of myheart and guarded it unceasingly he would have been cruel to it in deed, too. I know it and Eliza knows it. Oh, why did you make me speak of it?I ought not to say such things. It is wrong. " "Why wrong, Christine? Why do you feel it to be wrong? Tell me. " "Because he is my husband, " she said sternly, "and I took solemn vows tolove, to serve and to obey him. I said 'for better or for worse. ' I said'till death us do part. ' The God who will judge me knows whether I havekept them. The love one cannot control; but one can force one's self toserve and obey, and that I have tried to do. " "And you have done it. I have felt that I could kneel and worship youfor it--but, Christine, the truth is too evident to be avoided. He isunworthy of you. Suppose you could be free from him?" "Divorce?" she said with a sort of horror. "Never! I scarcely know whatit is--but marriage seems to me a thing indissoluble and inviolate. Icannot forget that he is the father of my child. I could never wish, onthat account, to be free from him. " "Christine, there is another way. Oh, my poor, poor child, you havenever even thought of it, and it breaks my heart to tell you. But thereis a way you might be free from him without divorce--a sad and dreadfulway, my poor little sister, but remember, I implore you, that there islight beyond the darkness. Oh, cannot you think what I mean?" She shook her head. "I know he is not dead, " she said; "there is no other way that I know. " "Suppose--my poor girl, try to be brave now, for you will have to knowit--suppose your marriage to him was not legal--was no marriage at all?" Her face got scarlet. "That is not possible, " she said, "and if it were, it would make nodifference. If he did it without knowing--" "Christine, Christine, he did not! He knew it, my child. Prepareyourself for the very worst. He deceived you wilfully. Oh, Christine, when he was married to you there was an impossible barrier between you. It was such a thing as you could not dream of. Give me your hands andtry to feel that your brother bears this sorrow with you. " He caught herother hand also and pressed them both between his own. "Christine, he was married already. When he married you, he had alreadya wife and child. " She wrenched her hands away and sprang to her feet. A low cry broke fromher. Noel felt that it was he who had applied the torture, and he sawher racked with agony and utterly heedless of the comfort he hadoffered, and had fondly hoped to give her. "Have you proof for what you say?" she cried, her wild look of confusionand terror making her so unlike her usual self that he seemed not toknow her. "I will never believe it without the strongest proof. It istoo horrible, too awful, too deadly, deadly shameful to be true. Bequick about it. If there is proof, let me have it. " "Christine, there is proof. I have it here on the spot, but spareyourself, my poor, poor girl. Wait a little--" "Don't talk to me of waiting. Let me see what you have got. Oh, can'tyou see that I can bear anything better than not to know? Show me whatyou have and if what you say is true--" But she turned away as if his eyes upon her hurt her, and raised her armbefore her face. In an instant she lowered it and said entreatingly: "Oh, show me what you have. Have pity on me. " Noel took the envelope containing the picture from his pocket. "This has been sent me by a lawyer, " he said. "The woman is his client. She says he gave her this picture soon after they were married. Oh, Christine, don't look at it--" But she walked toward him steadily and took the envelope from his hand. He could not bear to see her when her eyes rested on it, so he turnedaway and walked off a few paces, standing with his back toward her. There was a moment's silence. He heard her slip the picture from theenvelope, and he knew that she was looking at it. He heard his watchtick in the stillness, and her absolute silence frightened him. Itlasted, perhaps, a moment more and then he turned and looked at her. Shewas standing erect with the picture in her hand. He saw that she hadturned it over and that it was upon the reverse side that her eyes werefixed. There was some writing on it which he had not seen. She held the photograph out to him, with an intense calm in her manner, but he saw that her nostrils quivered and her breath came short. Herhands were trembling, too, but her voice was steady as she said: "I am convinced. " He glanced down at the picture and saw written on the back in a weak, uncertain hand which Christine had evidently recognized, "To my darlinglittle wife, from Robert. " He felt her humiliation so intensely that he could not look at her, buthe took a step toward her and was about to speak when she turned awayand, with a tottering step, went toward the sofa and fell heavily uponit, her face buried in her hands. A long breath that was almost a groanbroke from her, and then she lay very still, except that now and thena violent shiver would run all along her frame. Poor Noel! He felt thebitterness of the false position he had tried to occupy. If he had beenindeed her brother, this awful grief might have spent itself, to someextent, in his arms. He felt that he was nothing to her, but his heartwas none the less soft toward her for that. Thrusting the picture back into his pocket, he drew a chair near to her, and sat down by her side. He wanted her to feel that he was there, incase she should find it in her heart to turn to him for a help he didnot venture to intrude. It seemed a long while that they remained so, but at last Christine sat up, turning upon him a face so strange andterrible that he trembled at the look of it. Sorrow had seared it like ablight. She had been lying upon a seam in the lounge and it had left ared mark across her face. He thought it looked like the wound upon herheart made visible. "I can never see him again, " she said. "I cannot go home. Oh God, I haveno home! It never was a home to me, except when my baby was in it. Oh, my baby boy!--my baby boy!--my little child that loved and clung to me!Oh, God was merciful to take you. My God, I see it now! I thank Thee, Ithank Thee, I thank Thee!" She fell on her knees on the floor, and then she threw herself forwardon the couch, and hiding her face again shook from head to foot withgreat, tearless sobs. "Oh, I am so glad he is dead! It is so sweet to me to think it! I wouldhave had to look into his big, clear eyes that used to seem to read myvery heart, and think of this! Oh, if only I could go and lie beside mybaby, in the deep, still ground where the cruel eyes of men and womencould not see us, I would want no other home. I have been lonely andmiserable, lying in my bed at night, without him, and I have felt thathe missed and needed me, as I did him. Oh, if only God would let me goto him, I would be willing to be put into his grave alive and wait fordeath to come! It would be easier than life with this thing branded onme. " "Branded on you! Oh, Christine, you must not say it. You will not bebranded; you will be, as you have always been, best and purest andtruest among women--to me at least. What have you ever been but an angelof nobleness and heroism and devotion to duty? Oh, Christine, I couldworship you. " She rose to her feet and stood before him. "I believe God will reward you in Heaven for those words, " she said. "You are a man who can see as He sees, in truth and clearness, and youknow, as He does, I have tried to do right. But what you do not know, what He alone can know, is how I have suffered--how every sacred feelingof my woman's heart has been torn and desecrated, and dragged to theearth, and how I endured it all, because I thought it was my duty--andall the time it was--Oh, I feel as if I don't know what may happen to menext to drag me deeper down in misery and sorrow. I thought the worsthad come when my baby died, and now a thing so terrible has come as tomake that the comfort that I hug to my soul. " She sank to a seat on the couch again, and Noel came and took the placeat her side. "Give me your hand, " she said tremblingly. "Oh, I feel so frightened. Now that this has come I feel that the air is full of awful horrors thatare waiting to fall upon me. " Noel took her hands in both his own, and she clung to them with apitiful intensity. "The worst is over, " he said gently. "You have only to let me manage andthink for you now--" "Tell me, " she said, "tell me all there is to know--how you found thisthing out, and what will be done about it. You must tell it every wordto me. I can bear it better now than ever to speak of it again. " And Noel told her, as mercifully and gently as he could, all that he hadlearned from the lawyer's statements. He wanted to show her howconvincing and certain the proof was, that she might be justified inacting on it. She held his hands in a hard grasp and looked at him withexcited, distended eyes as she listened to it all. The mixture ofwildness and calm in her manner and looks positively terrified him. Hefeared her reason might be temporarily disturbed, and would have givenworlds to see her cry and complain, but she heard him through with thesame excited stillness. "I have a safe and pleasant refuge for you for the present, Christine, "he said. "I have arranged everything. A lady--a dear friend of mine, whose son was my friend and a man I loved devotedly--this lady will takeyou and care for you as a daughter. I have told her everything and sheis waiting for you now, longing to love and comfort you. Her son is deadand she has often told me that I, as his friend, came next in heraffections, and that she would do anything on earth to serve me. I wasable to help him once and she never forgot it. So I went and told herall the truth. She has a mind as clean and simple as your own, Christine, and she is longing to love and comfort and take care of you. You will let me take you to her--will you not?" "Oh, yes, " she said. "God bless you for it. I could never go back thereagain, " she added with a shudder, "but I must write a letter. " She rose hastily and Noel, wondering, brought her writing materials. She wrote a hasty note, and sealing it, asked him to have it sent atonce. To his surprise he found it was addressed to Dallas. "I will give it to the janitor as we go down, " he said. "Do you feelable to go now, Christine? A carriage will be waiting for us and I willtake you to that dear woman who will make you feel as if your mother'sarms were around you. " Christine was trembling in every limb, but she reached for her bonnetand tried to tie it on. Her hands shook so that she let it fall. Noelpicked it up and held it a moment, saying soothingly: "Don't hurry. We can wait a little while, if you wish. Try not to be toodespairing. When you drive away from here to-day you leave the pastbehind you, and enter into a new and different life. Your new friend, Mrs. Murray, will know you only as you are now, and you may meet no oneunless you wish to. She has very few friends herself, and she will tellthem what she chooses of you. You will see she is not a woman thatpeople will dare to ask questions of. " He stopped. A look so dreary, strange and full of anguish had come intoChristine's face that he was alarmed and said quickly: "What is it?" She struck her hands together and uttered a low cry. "What is my name?" she said, in a tone so wild and vacant he thoughther mind was wandering. "It used to be, " she said, passing one handacross her forehead, as if in an effort of memory--"it used to beVerrone--Christine Verrone, but I am not that happy-hearted girl thenuns used to call by that name. This is not Christine Verrone. The veryflesh and blood and bones of this body are different--and surely in thismind and heart and soul there is no tinge nor remnant of that oldChristine. How, then, can I be she? Oh! I have no home, no country, nodwelling-place on earth; I have not even a name to be called by!" Noel could bear no more. Taking her hands in his, he held them firmly, and looking in her eyes, said fervently: "Then take my name, Christine. Let me give you a home and friends, andcall you by the name I bear. God knows I would feel honored in bestowingit upon you. If you will commit your precious life into my keeping--ifyou will marry me--" The look of her eyes checked him. The meaning of his words had dawnedupon her slowly, and to his infinite distress he saw that they filledher with pain. "You are speaking out of pity for me. You think I would die beneath it, unless you sacrificed yourself and gave me the protection of your name, "she said, speaking almost eagerly. "Tell me this is so. But you do notknow how I feel. I can bear it somehow, or else I can die. I could neveraccept such a sacrifice from you, and, oh, I could never think ofmarriage again, even to the best and noblest creature on God's earth, without a shrinking that is pain intolerable. " Noel saw he had made a mistake. He saw, too, that the only way out of itwas to let her put this interpretation on it. So he merely soothed andcomforted her, and told her things should be as she chose, and then hetied her bonnet under her chin as if she had been a little girl, gaveher her gloves, lowered the veil before her face and asked her if shewere ready. "You will take your sweet girl-name, " he said, "and be known as Mrs. Verrone. Only Mrs. Murray and I will know anything of your past, and wewill now turn that page, Christine, and go forth into a new world--and abrighter one, please God. " XII. Christine was ill for many weeks, with Dr. Belford in daily attendance, and her faithful old Eliza to help Mrs. Murray with the nursing. Allduring the long fever, the gentle, little old lady, to whom Noel hadconfided her, watched and tended her with a mother's devotion and love. The patient was far too ill to protest, and very soon she learned tolean upon and love Mrs. Murray as though she had indeed been her mother. Again poor Noel felt himself banished, ignored and excluded, as he alonewas kept away from her, but his care for her was so supremely above hiscare for himself that he never made a complaint. He had learned from Eliza--whose mouth was shut so tight to the otherservants that she went among them almost like a dumb woman--that on theday of his making the announcement concerning her husband to Christine, a messenger had brought Dallas a note, after reading which he hadhurriedly put a few things into a valise and left the house. Since thenhe had not been heard from. Evidently Christine had warned him in hernote and he had run away to escape the suit for bigamy. Noel had notsuspected the poor girl's motive in writing, but, on the whole, he wasglad. It was the simplest and surest way of getting rid of him. At last Dr. Belford had pronounced the patient convalescent, and she wassitting up and even moving about the up-stairs rooms. One afternoon Noel came to the house, as usual, to make inquiries. As hemounted the steps he saw that by some accident the door had been leftajar. He bethought him to go in softly, in the hope of finding Mrs. Murray in one of the lower rooms and taking her by surprise. He hadbought a big bunch of crimson roses on the way. He crossed the hallsoftly and made his way to the cozy little sitting-room, attracted bythe flickering light of a wood fire, which looked cheery andcomfortable on a day like this. It was burning rather low, but the roomwas still partly lighted from without, and as he was about to cross thethreshold he saw a picture which made him pause. On a deep lounge half turned toward the fire a girl in white was lyingfast asleep. It was Christine. Her dark hair was all gathered looselyback and coiled in a large knot low down against her fair throat, fromwhich the white lace of her gown fell backward, leaving its beautifulpureness bare. There was a charming air of foreign taste and fashioningabout the whole costume. Poor Christine! She had put it on obedientlywhen Mrs. Murray had brought it to her, selecting it from among thecontents of her trunk as the most comfortable and suitable thing for theconvalescent to wear. It had been long since she had worn or even lookedat it, and it had brought back sad memories of her pretty weddingoutfit, but all her clothes had sad associations for her, and the onesshe had worn more recently would have been worse than this. So she putit on unquestioningly, too listless to care much what she wore, a factwhich did not prevent its being exquisitely suitable to her. She was very white, and the long black lashes that lay against her cheekmade a dark shadow under her eyes that made her look the more fragile. Her face was infinitely sad; the corners of the mouth drooped piteously, and a look of trouble now and then slightly contracted the brows. Noel, who had cautiously drawn near, was seated in a low chair near herfeet, scarcely daring to breathe for fear of waking her, and breakingthe spell which seemed to hold him, also, in a sleep of enchantment. Hemade up his mind deliberately that he would remain and be near her whenshe waked. He had kept himself away from her long enough. Now he mustsee and talk with her. He sat so for some time, the red roses in hishands, and his steady, grave, intense dark eyes fastened upon her face. Presently a long, deep sigh escaped her, and the fair figure on thelounge moved slightly, and then settled into more profound repose. Itwas evident that she was sleeping soundly. A thought occurred to Noel, and moving with infinite cautiousness and slowness he took the roses oneby one and laid them over her white dress. One of her arms was raisedabove her head, so that her cheek rested against it, and the other layalong her side, the hand relaxed and empty. As he was putting the last rose in its place, he observed this little, fragile left hand particularly and saw a thing that made his heartthrob: the wedding-ring was gone from it. Christine was free indeed!Here was the sign and token before his very eyes. Being free he mightwin her for his own. The force of his love in this minute seemed strongenough for any task. Oh, if he could only be patient! He felt it veryhard--the hardest task that could beset him, but he gathered all thestrength that was in him for a great resolve of patience. Thesacredness of it rendered it a prayer. And Christine slept on profoundly. He had known each moment that shemight wake and discover him, but he felt himself prepared for that. He looked at her and realized that she was well, for in spite of herpallor, she had the look of youthful health and strength, and he saidto himself that his banishment was over and the time to set himself tothe task before him was come. As he kept his eyes upon her lovely face a sudden little smile lifted, ever so slightly, the corners of her mouth, as if there were pleasure inher dream. The man's heart thrilled to see it. If a dream could make hersmile--if the power to smile remained to her--reality should do it, too. If he could just be patient! If he could keep down the longing in hisheart that clamored for relief in uttered words! A piece of wood upon the fire fell apart, sending up a bright littleblaze. The sound of it wakened Christine. Still with the memory of thatdream upon her she opened her eyes, and met Noel's gaze fixed on her insweet friendliness and gladness. For an instant neither spoke. Christine's large eyes, clear as jewels in the firelight, gazed at himacross the bank of crimson roses that seemed to send a red flush to herface. Noel spoke first. "All right again, at last!" he said, with a cheering smile. "Have youhad a pleasant nap?" And he leaned forward and held out his hand. A rush of sad remembrance came over Christine's face. The lines of hermouth trembled a little and she dropped her eyes as she took his handin both her own and pressed it silently. Noel knew the touch meant onlygratitude, and it left him miserably unsatisfied, but he felt himselfstrong to wait. She dropped his hand, and for a moment covered her facewith her own, as if to collect herself thoroughly. Then she sat uprightin her seat, scattering the roses to the floor. Noel knelt to gatherthem up for her, and when he had collected the great mass into agorgeous bunch he knelt still as he held them out to her. She took them, hiding her face in their glowing sweetness, and Noel, rising, walked a few steps away, feeling it impossible to speak, unlesshe allowed himself the words he had forsworn. At this instant a cheery voice was heard in the hall. "Who in the world left the front door open?" it said, in energetic, matter-of-fact tones, at the sound of which Noel felt suddenlyfortified. Mrs. Murray had entered just in time, for the sight of Christine herealone had been almost too much for the resolutions of reserve in whichhe had flattered himself he was so strong. XIII. In a little while the lives of Mrs. Murray and Christine had settledinto a calm routine of work and talk, and the simple recreations ofreading and house-decorating which were the only ones that Christineever seemed to think of. She never went out, and worked with as muchapplication as Mrs. Murray would permit at the embroidery which, ather earnest request, the wise old lady had got for her. She andChristine had a frank and loving talk, in which one was as interestedas the other, in Christine's making her own living, and in which itwas settled, to the joy of each, that their home in future was to betogether. They were days of strange peace and calm for poor Christine, and her heart would swell with gratefulness for them, as she sat overher beautiful embroidery, which was in itself a pleasure to her. But the evenings were the best of all, for then Noel invariablycame--sometimes to look in and say a bright and cheery word, on his wayto keep an engagement, sometimes to give them the benefit of the brightstories and good things he had heard at a dinner, and sometimes to spenda whole long evening, talking, laughing and reading aloud from newmagazines and books which he brought with him in abundance. These werethe sorts of delights utterly unknown to Christine before. She had readvery little, and the world of delight that reading opened up to her wasnew, inspiring and enchanting. Noel read aloud his favorite poets, theirtwo young hearts throbbing together, and their eyes alight with feelingat the passages which left the matured heart of Mrs. Murray undisturbed. It had been in vain that Mrs. Murray had tried to induce Christineto sing. It occurred to her at last to put it in the light of a favorto herself, and when she told Christine that she loved music verydearly, and rarely had an opportunity to hear it, the girl went at onceand played and sang for her, and then Mrs. Murray used the sameargument--that of giving a friend pleasure--with regard to Noel. Atfirst it was difficult and awkward, but before very long Christine andNoel were singing duets together, and music now became a delightful partof their evening's entertainment. How dull the evenings were when Noeldid not come!--for sometimes there were engagements from which he couldnot escape. Mrs. Murray missed him much herself and it pleased her tobe sure that Christine did also. Sometimes he would come late after adinner, and if it were only a brief half-hour that he spent with themit made the evening seem a success, instead of a failure. After a little while Mrs. Murray succeeded in inducing Christine totake walks with her along those quiet unfashionable streets, in thebracing air of the late autumn afternoons. She would return from theseexpeditions so refreshed, with such a charming color in the fair, sweetface to which peace and love and protecting companionship had given anexpression of new beauty, that Mrs. Murray would be half protesting atthe thought that the people that passed it, in the street, were deprivedof a sight of its loveliness by that close, thick veil, which it neverseemed to occur to Christine to lay aside. It seemed an instinct withher, and her good friend felt hurt to the very heart when she thoughtwhat the instinct had its foundation in. In proportion as the influence of these days and weeks brought peaceand calm to Christine, to Noel they brought an excited restlessness. He was under the spell of the strongest feeling that he had ever known. All the circumstances of his intercourse with Christine, the difficultself-repression to which he had compelled himself so long, and thesudden sense of her freedom which made vigilance harder still--all thesethings together brought about in him a state of excitement that kepthim continually on a strain. It was only in her presence that he wascalm, because it was there that he recognized most fully the absoluteneed of calmness and self-control. Away from her, he sometimes rushedinto rash resolves, as to a resolute manly sort of wooing which hefelt tremendously impelled to, and in which he felt a power in him tosucceed. He would even make deliberate plans, and imagine himself goingto the house and insisting on seeing Christine alone, and then histhoughts would fairly fly along, uttering themselves in excited wordsthat burned their way to Christine's heart and melted it. But when, in actuality, he would come to where she was, all these braveand manful purposes faded, like mist, before the commanding spell of herdeep and solemn calm. She seemed so tranquil in her assured sense of hissimple friendliness that he often thought she must have forgottenentirely, in the excitement that followed, that he had offered her hisheart and hand and name, or else that she was so convinced of the factthat it had been done in pity that she had never given it a secondthought. So perplexed, bewildered, overwrought did he become with all thesethoughts that he forced himself to make some excuse and stay away fromChristine. When at last he went again, it was late in the evening andhis time, he knew, would be short. It was three days now since he hadbeen, and his blood flowed quick with impatience. He had thought oflittle else as he sat through the long dinner, eating the dishes setbefore him while he talked with a certain preoccupation to the beautiful_débutante_ whom he had brought in, and who made herself her mostfascinating for him, Noel being just the sort of man to represent such agirl's ideal--older, graver, more finished in manner than herself, andpossessed of the still greater charm of being thoroughly initiated inall the mysteries of the great world, across whose threshold only shehad seen. She was exceedingly pretty, and Noel was too much an artistnot to be alive to it, but as he looked at the fair, unwritten page herface represented to him, he was seeing, in his mind's eye, that farlovelier face on which the spiritualizing, beautifying hand of sorrowhad been laid. He had not gone thus far on his journey of life withoutdeep suffering himself, and the heart that had suffered was the one towhich he felt his true kinship. At the close of the dinner the wholeparty adjourned to the opera, Noel alone excusing himself, at the doorof the _débutante's_ carriage, on the plea of an important engagement. The lovely bud looked vexed and disappointed, but Noel knew his placeat her side would be abundantly filled, and got himself away with allthe haste decorum permitted. When he rang at Mrs. Murray's door Harriet ushered him into the littledrawing-room where Christine was seated at the piano singing. Mrs. Murray was not present. Motioning the servant not to announce him hetook his position behind a screen, where he could see and hear withoutbeing seen. Christine had heard neither his ring nor his entrance, soshe was utterly unconscious of any presence but her own, and indeed mostprobably not of that, for there was a strange abandonment to sway of thesong as her voice, rich and full and deep, sang softly: "I am weary with rowing, with rowing, Let me drift adown with the stream. I am weary with rowing, with rowing, Let me lay me down and dream. " Noel knew the little song well, and in his fancy the full, patheticvoice gave it a sound and meaning that his longing heart desired to hearin it. The thrilling voice sang on, low and deep and full: "The stream in its flowing, its flowing, Shall bear us adown to the sea. I am weary with rowing, with rowing, I yield me to love and to thee. I can struggle no longer, no longer, Here in thine arms let me lie, In thine arms which are stronger, are stronger Than all on the earth, let me die. " The sweet voice trembled as the song came to an end, and Christine, witha swift, impulsive movement, put her elbows on the keys of the piano, making a harsh discord of sound, and dropped her face in her hands. Sheremained so, without moving, for several minutes, while Noel, thrillingin all his senses to the power of that subtly sweet song, kept alsoprofoundly still. He felt it was his only safety. If he had moved, itmust have been to clasp her in his arms. At last she rose to her feet and began to put the music in order. It wasa moment when life, for each of them, seemed very hard. And yet, to onewho looked and saw them so, it seemed as if the best that earth couldoffer might be theirs, and that they were made and fashioned to have andto enjoy it. The pretty room was a soft glow of firelight and lamplight mingled. Therich harmonies of dark color made by carpets, hangings and furniturewere lighted here and there by an infinite number of the charming littlethings that are the perfecting touches of a tasteful room. A bunch offreshly-gathered autumn leaves was massed under the light from theshaded lamp. Near by sat Christine. She had taken up a strip of gorgeousembroidery in her hands, and was bending above it and trying hard to puther stitches in with care. To-night there was a steady flush in hercheeks that made her look more beautiful than he had ever seen her. Headvanced a step or two, and stood, unseen, at a little distance fromher, making unconsciously a complement to the picture. He took a stepforward--and she heard the sound and lifted her head. He came nearer andhis voice was sweet and thrilling as he said her name: "Christine. " She raised her eyes and looked at him; but they dropped before hissteady gaze, and she did not answer. "Let me speak to you a little, dear Christine, " he went on, taking aseat near her. He had himself well in hand and was determined not toblunder. Christine sat opposite and drew her needle through and through, saying neither yes nor no. "I want to be very careful not to hurt you, "Noel went on, "but I have had it on my mind a long, long time to talk toyou about yourself. Do you intend to lead always, without change orvariation, the isolated, dull, restricted life you are leading now?" "Oh, don't speak to me of any change!" she said entreatingly. "You havebeen so good to me. Be good to me still. Let me stay here, as I am, inthis heaven of rest and peace. Mrs. Murray will keep me. She is nottired of me. She loves to have me, and it is my one idea of blessednessand comfort and rest. " Her voice was agitated almost to tears, and she had dropped her work andclasped her hands together with a piteousness of appeal. "No one will hinder you, Christine, " he said. "Mrs. Murray is madebetter and brighter and happier by your presence every day, and it wouldbe only the greatest grief to her to part with you. This is your sureand safe and certain home as long as she lives, unless, of your ownchoice, you should choose to change it. " Christine shook her head with a denial of the thought that was almostindignant. "Never, " she said, "oh, never, never! I only ask to stay here, as I am, until I die. " "Christine, " he said, and she could feel his strong gaze on her, throughher lowered lids, "try to be honest with your own heart. Listen to itsvoice and you will have to own you are not happy. " "Happy! How could I ever expect to be? It would be a shame to me even tothink of it. Oh, you do not know a woman's nature, or you could not talkto me of happiness. " "I know your woman's nature, Christine--well enough to reverence it andkneel to it, and I am not afraid to tell you you are outraging andwronging it, by shutting out happiness from your heart. What is there tohinder you from being happy? And oh, Christine, I know at least, thereis no happiness but love. " A silence, solemn and still as death, followed these fervent, low-tonedwords. He could see the fluttering of her breath, and the look of deep, affrighted pain upon her face made his heart quiver. "Christine, " he murmured in a voice grown softer and lower still, "trynot to be frightened or distressed. I cannot hold back my heart anylonger. I love you--dear and good and noble one. If you could only loveme a little, in return, I could make you so happy. I know I could, Christine, and as for me--why my life, if you refuse me your love, isworthless and wasted and dead. Oh, Christine, you are the very treasureof my heart, whether you will or no. Be my wife. You can make myhappiness, as surely as I, if you will let me, can make yours. " He would not venture to take her hand, but he held out his to her, saying in a voice that had sunk to a whisper: "Only put your hand in mine, Christine, in token that you will try tolove me a little, and I will wait for all the rest. " He had bent very close to her, and she felt his breath against her hairas his passionate whisper fell upon her ear. Her heart thrilled to it, but she got up stiffly to her feet, bending her body away from him andcovering her eyes, for a moment, with her hand. Noel, who had risen too, stepped backward instantly. He saw her lipscompressed convulsively as if in pain, and, for her sake, he thrust downinto his heart its great longing, and forced himself to think of heralone. It cut him like a knife to see that she drew away from him. "Don't shrink from me, Christine, " he said. "If it distresses you for meto speak I can be silent. I was obliged to tell you, but there it canstop. I have laid the offering of my love and life before you and thereit is for you to take or leave. Perhaps I have startled you. If you willonly think about it and try to get used to the idea--" But Christine had found her voice. "I cannot think of it!" she cried. "I utterly refuse to think of it. Oh, I am more miserable than ever I have been yet! If I am to make youunhappy--if I am to spoil your life--" "You have beautified and glorified and crowned it with love, Christine. I should have gone to my grave without it, if you had not given it tome. It is a godlike thing to feel what I feel for you. Come what mayI shall never be sorry for it. You have nothing to reproach yourselfwith. " Christine was very pale. She felt herself trembling as she sank into achair and clasped her hands about her knee. Noel too sat down, butfarther away from her than he had been before. "I entreat you not to be distressed--" he began, but she interruptedhim. "Oh, I feel--I cannot tell you what I feel, " she said. "Was ever a womanat once so honored and so shamed? How could I give to any man a ruinedlife like mine, and yet God knows how it is sweet to me to know you havethis feeling for me--to know that I may still arouse in such a heart asyours this highest, holiest, purest, best of all the heart can give. Oh, I pray God to let you feel and know the joy it is to me--and yet I'drather cut off my right hand than listen even to the thought of marryingyou. " Noel could not understand her. The look in her face completely baffledhim. "Christine, " he said, "there is but one thing to do. On one thing alonethe whole matter rests. Look at me. " His voice was resolute, though it was so gentle, and in obedience to itsbidding Christine raised her eyes to his. "Answer me this, Christine. Do you love me?" And looking straight into his eyes she answered: "No. " Noel rose from his seat and crossed over to the fire, where he stoodwith his back toward her. He did not see the passionate gesture withwhich she strained her clasped hands to her breast a moment and thenstretched them out toward him. In a second she withdrew them and letthem fall in her lap. Her heart reproached her for the falseness of hertongue, and this had been a passionate impulse of atonement to him forthe wrong that she had done. But stronger than her heart was the othervoice that told her to make her utmost effort to keep up the deceit, forin the moment that the knowledge came to her that her heart, for thefirst time, was possessed by a true and mighty love an instinct strongerthan that love itself compelled her to deny it--to give any answer, goany length, do anything sooner than make an admission by which she mightbe betrayed into doing a great and ineradicable wrong to the man sheloved. Yes, the man she loved! For one second's space she let the inwardflame leap up, and then she forced it back and smothered it down, withall the power that was in her. When Noel turned, his face was calm and he spoke, too, in a controlledand quiet voice. "We will not be the less friends for this, Christine, " he said; "thebest that is left to me is to be near you when I can. You will notforbid me this?" He saw that her eyes consented. To save her life she could not deny himthis--or deny herself. Which was it that she thought of first? "I think it best that Mrs. Murray should not know of it, " he said, andagain she consented without speaking. "I shall come as usual, " he went on, "and, Christine, never reproachyourself. Never dream but that it is more joy than I could ever have hadin any other way, only to come and see you and be near you and hear youspeak sometimes. Good-night, " he added, taking her cold, little hand ina gentle clasp. "It is the last time. You will see how faithful I willbe. But once for all--Christine, Christine, Christine!--let me tell youthat I love you with as great and true and strong a love as ever man hadfor woman. You seem to me a being between earth and Heaven--better thanmen and women here, and only a little below the angels. " She felt the hand that held hers loose its hold, the kind voice diedaway, a door far off shut to, and Christine, rousing herself, lookedabout her and found that she was alone. XIV. Two evenings later Noel called again, finding Mrs. Murray recoveredand able to join the group around the table as usual. There was noconsciousness expressed in the eyes of either Christine or himselfas they met. At first she was very grave and silent, but under theinfluence of his easy talk her manner became perfectly natural, and atthe close of the evening she found herself wondering if the excitingoccurrences of their last meeting could be reality. Noel read aloudmost of the evening an agreeable, unexciting book, and Christinethanked him from her heart that he did not ask, as usual, for music. As for Mrs. Murray, as the days went on she found herself continuallywondering that such a state of things could last. She was perfectly sureof Noel's feeling, and she thought its continued entire suppression verystrange. She was often tempted to make some excuse to leave them alone, but a fear of the consequences held her back, for she was absolutelyunable to calculate upon Christine. She had not the courage to lift afinger in the matter. Almost imperceptibly a change was coming over Christine, and by degreesMrs. Murray became aware of it. She grew more silent and fond of beingalone. She even went out now and took long, companionless walks, cominghome exhausted and preoccupied. "Poor girl!" thought her kind, oldfriend. "She is very unhappy, and for a little while, in her deliverancefrom a worse unhappiness, she had managed to forget it partly. " On one occasion Noel rather urgently pressed the matter of being allowedto bring his mother and sisters to call. He did so in the hope that timemight have somewhat modified Christine's feeling in the matter, but hefound it absolutely unchanged and was obliged to withdraw his request. As the days and weeks went by Noel became every day more restless andgloomy. He was unhappy if he stayed away from Christine, and yet to bein her presence merely as a friendly visitor was often galling anddepressing to an almost intolerable degree. He scarcely ever saw heralone for a moment, and he had a certain conviction that while Mrs. Murray did some gentle plotting to leave them _tête-à-tête_ Christinemanaged ingeniously to thwart her plans. About this time he was compelled to go away for a week on a businessexpedition, and so, for more than that space of time, he had not calledat Mrs. Murray's. When he rang the door-bell on the evening of hisreturn Harriet, who answered it, left him to find his way alone to thepretty sitting-room, warm and lighted and empty, as he thought. The nextinstant, however, his heart gave a bound, as he saw at its opposite endChristine, tall and slight and young and beautiful, standing, with herback turned, before a table against the wall, on which a large engravingrested. It was heavily framed and he knew he had never seen it there before. The fact was Mrs. Murray, who had a very romantic heart, had seen it ina shop-window and impulsively bought it, and it had just been sent home. Noel, stepping with the utmost caution over the thick carpet, came nearenough to look at the picture over Christine's shoulder. He knew itwell. It was Frederick Leighton's "Wedded. " As the man and woman stood before it each was under the spell of thatbeautiful representation of abandonment to love--the deep and holywedded love which is the God-given right of every man and woman wholives and feels. Christine was utterly unconscious of his nearness as she bent towardit eagerly. He could see by the movement of her throat and shouldersthat her breaths were coming thick and fast and her heart was beatinghard. As for him the fact that he was near to her was the supremeconsciousness of that moment to him, and all the meaning of thisconsciousness was in his voice, as he whispered her name: "Christine!" She started and turned. His eyes caught hers and held them. For a momentshe found it impossible to release them from his compelling gaze. Shewas under the spell of the picture still. It had broken down thehabitual barriers of restraint and self-control, and sent an exultantgleam into her heart, which her face reflected. "Christine!" he said again in that thrilling whisper. The sound of his voice recalled her. That strange, exalted look gaveplace to another, which was as if a withering blight had crossed herface, and she turned and looked at Noel. He met that look of desolationand anguish with firm, unflinching eyes. "I love you, " he whispered low, but clear. "Then spare me, " she whispered back. "Once more, Christine, " he said. They kept their places, a few feetapart, and neither moved a muscle except for the slight motion of theirlips, from which the faint sounds came forth like ghostly whispers. "Once more, Christine--answer me this. Do you love me?" And again she answered: "No. " The tone in which she said it was strong and steady in spite of itslowness, and the eyes confirmed it. The suspense was over. With that strange recollectedness which humanbeings often have in the sharpest crises of their lives Noel suppressedthe great sigh that had risen from his heart, and let the breath of itgo forth from his parted lips, with careful pains to make no sound. It was a relief to both that at this moment Mrs. Murray came into theroom. They turned abruptly from the picture, and in the cordial greetingwhich the hostess bestowed upon her guest the moment's ordeal wassuccessfully passed. Not, however, without the watchful eyes of Mrs. Murray having seen much, and conjectured far more. Whether her impulsein buying the picture had done good or harm she was puzzled todetermine. XV. Noel, during the sleepless hours of the night which followed, looked thewhole situation in the face and made his resolutions, strong and fast, for the future of Christine and himself. His love for her, which she hadnot forbidden and could not forbid, must be enough for him henceforth, and because all his soul desired her love in return she should not, forthat reason, be deprived of his friendship. When he thought of lovingany other woman, and being loved by her in return, and contrasted itwith the mere right to love Christine and be near her, forever unloved, he felt himself rich beyond telling. That evening, determined to put into effect at once this new resolutionand conveying some hint of it to Christine, he went to Mrs. Murray's. He rang the bell and entered the house with a strong sense ofself-possession, which was only a very little disturbed when the maidagain ushered him into the little drawing-room where he found Christinealone. He could see that his coming was utterly unexpected. The lamp, by whichshe usually sat at work, was not lighted, and the gas in the hall castonly a dim light upon her here, but the fire lent its aid in lighting upthe figure. She was lying on the lounge before the fire as he came in, but she rose to her feet at once, saying, in a voice whose slight ringof agitation disturbed a little farther yet his self-poised calm: "Mrs. Murray has gone to see a neighbor whose daughter is very ill. Theyhave just moved to the house and have no friends near, and she went tosee what she could do. She will be back very soon. She did not think youwould come to-night. " Noel heard the little strained sound in her voice, and fancied he sawalso about her eyes a faint trace of recent tears; but the light wasturned low and she stood with her back to it, as if to screen herselffrom his gaze. A great wave of tenderness possessed his heart. He feltsure he could trust himself to be tender and no more, as he said gently: "Christine, have you been crying--here all alone in the darkness, withno one to comfort and help you to bear? The thought of it wrings myheart. " "Oh, it is nothing, " she said, her voice, in spite of her, choking up. "I sometimes get nervous--I am not used to being alone. It is over now. I will get the lamp--" But he stopped her. He made one step toward her and took both her handsin his. "Wait, " he said, in a controlled and quiet tone. In the silence thatfollowed the word they could hear the little clock on the mantel tickingmonotonously. Noel was trying hard, as they stood thus alone in thestillness and half-darkness, to gather up his suddenly-weakened forces, so that he might tell her, in the hope of giving her comfort, of theresolute purpose he had entered into. But in the moment which he gavehimself to make this rally a sudden influence came over him from thecontact of the cold hands he held in his. At first it was a subtle, faint, indefinite sensation, as of something strange and wonderfuland far away, but coming nearer. The very breath of his soul seemedsuspended, to listen and look as he waited. The clock ticked on, andthey stood there motionless as statues. Suddenly a short, low sighescaped Christine, and he felt her cold hands tremble. The swiftconsciousness that ran through Noel was like living ecstasy injected inhis veins. He drew her two hands upward and crushed them against hisbreast. "Christine, " he said, "you love me. " She met his ardent, agitated gaze with direct, unflinching eyes. "Yes, " she said distinctly, "I love you, " but with the exertion of allher power she shook herself free from his grasp, and sprang away fromhim to the farthest limit of the little room. "Stop, " she said, waving him back with her hand. "I have owned thetruth, but I must speak to you--" As well might Christine have tried to parley with a coming storm ofwind. The chained spirit within Noel had been set free by the words, "Yes, I love you, " that Christine had spoken, and his passionate lovemust have its way. He followed her across the room, and with a gentleforce, against which she was as helpless as a child, he compelled her tocome into his arms, to put down her head against his shoulder and torest on his her bounding heart. He held her so in a close, restrictivepressure, against which she soon ceased to struggle, but lay there stilland unresisting. "Now, " he said gently, speaking the low word softly and clearly in herear, "now, speak, and I will listen. " "I love you, " she said brokenly. Their full hearts throbbed together as he answered: "That is enough. " "It is all--the utmost, " she went on. "I can never marry you. When youloose me from your arms to-night it will be forever. Hold me close alittle longer while I tell you. " Her voice was faint and uncertain; her frame was trembling; he couldfeel the whole weight of her body upon him, as he held her against hisexultant heart, while the power that had come into him gave him astrength so mighty that he supported the sweet burden as if its weightwere nothing. "Go on, " he murmured gently, in a secure and quiet tone, "I amlistening. " "I only want to tell you, if I can, how much I love you. I want you toknow it all, that the torment of having it unsaid may leave me. " Of her own will she raised her arms and put them about his neck, layingdown her face on one of them, so that her lips were close against hisear. "At the first, " she said, "I liked and admired you because I saw youwere good and noble. Then I trusted you, and made your truth my anchorin the awful seas of trouble I was tossed in. Then I came to reverenceand almost worship you for the highness that is in you, and then, oh, then after my baby died and my other dreadful sorrow came, against mywill, in spite of hard fighting and struggling and trying, I went a stephigher yet and loved you, with a love that takes in all the rest--thatis admiration, and trust, and reverence, and love in one. Oh, " she saidwith a great sigh, "but it is all in vain! I cannot tell you--I cannot!I say the utmost, and it seems pale and poor and miserably weak. You donot understand the love you have called into being in my poor, brokenheart. I thought I should have the comfort of feeling I had told you. Ifeel only that I have failed! Oh, before we part, I want you to knowhow I love you--how the stress of it is bursting my heart--how themightiness of it seems to expand my soul until it touches Heaven. Oh, if I could only ease my heart of its great weight of love by findingwords to tell you. " He put his lips close to her ear. "One kiss, " he said softly, and then turned them to meet hers. Christine gave him the kiss, and it was as he had said. The stress uponher heart was loosened. She felt that she had told him all. "You are mine, " he said, in a calm, low voice of controlled exultation, although, even as he said it, he loosed her from his arms and sufferedher to move away from him and sink into a chair. He came and sat downopposite her, repeating the words he had spoken. "No, " she said, "I am my own! I am the stronger to be so, now that thewhole truth is known to you. Mr. Noel, I have only to tell you good-by. To-night must be the very last of it. " "Mr. Noel!" he threw the words back to her, with a little scornfullaugh. "You can never call me that again, without feeling it thehollowest pretence! I tell you you are mine!" The assured, determined calm of his tones and looks began to frightenher. She saw the struggle before her assuming proportions that made herfear for herself--not for the strength of her resolve, but for her powerto carry it out. She could only repeat, as if to fortify herself: "I will never marry you. " "Why?" he asked. "Because--ah, because I love you too much. Be merciful, and let thatthought plead for me. " "It is for the same reason that I will never give you up. It is no useto oppose me now, Christine. You are mine and I am yours. " "But if you know that you make me suffer--" "I know, too, that I can comfort you. I know I can make you happy, beyond your highest dreams. I know I can take you away from everyassociation of sadness, far off to beautiful foreign countries where noone will know us for anything but what we are--what alone we shall behenceforth, a man and woman who love each other and who have been unitedin the holy bond of marriage, which God has blessed--just a husband andwife, Christine--get used to the dear names and thought--with whoseright to love each other no one will have anything to do. If the idea ofthe past disturbs you we will get rid of it by going where we have nopast, where no one will ever have heard of us before. As for ourselves, Christine, I can give you my honor that there is nothing in the past ofeither of us that disturbs me for one pulse-beat, and I'll engage tomake you forget all that it pains you to remember. Why, it is a simplething to do. We send for a clergyman, and here in this room, with Mrs. Murray and Eliza and Harriet for witnesses, we are married to-morrowmorning! In the afternoon we sail for Europe, to begin our long life ofhappiness together. You know whether I could make you happy or not, Christine. You know whether your heart longs to go with me--just assurely as I know that my one possible chance of happiness is in gettingyour consent to be my wife. " "I cannot!" she said, "I cannot! We must think of others besideourselves. If you are willing to sacrifice yourself, think of yourmother and sisters!" "Sacrifice myself! I sacrifice myself only if I give you up. You mustfeel the falseness of such a use of the word. As for my mother andsisters, I ask you to test that matter. Agree to marry me and I promisethat they will come to our wedding, and my mother will call youdaughter, and my sisters will call you sister, and they will open theirhearts to you and love you. " "Because your will is all-powerful with them, " she said. "Yes, partly because they trust and believe in me, and will sanctionwhat I do; and also because--in spite of a good deal of surfaceconventionality and worldliness--they are right-minded, true-hearted, good women, who will only need to know your whole history, as I know it, and to realize my love for you, as I can make them realize it, to feelthat our marriage is the right and true and only issue of it all. " Christine felt herself terribly shaken. She did not dare to look at Noellest her eyes might betray her, and she would not for anything have himto know how she was weakened in her resolve by what he had said of hismother and sisters. The conviction with which he spoke had carried itsown force to her mind, and she suddenly found the strongest weapon withwhich she had fought her fight shattered in her hands. He saw that shewas weakening, but he would not take advantage of it. She was so whiteand tremulous; her breath came forth so quick and short; the drawn linesabout her mouth were so piteous that he felt she must be spared. "I will not press you now, Christine, " he said; "take time to thinkabout it. Let me come again to-morrow morning. I will leave you now andyou must try to rest. Talk freely to Mrs. Murray. Ask her what you mustdo. Remember that I consent to wait, only because I am so determined. Listen to me one moment. I swear before Heaven I will never give you up. You gave yourself to me in that kiss, and you are mine. " "Yes, " she said, as if that struggle were over with her now, "I amyours. I know it. Even if we part forever I am always yours. I willtell you what I will do. Your mother shall know everything and she shalldecide. " He was at once afraid and glad, and Christine saw it. "I must see your mother, " she began. "I will see her for you. I will tell her everything and you shall seeshe will be for us. But if she should not, I warn you, Christine, I willnot give you up for any one alive. " "Listen to me, " said Christine calmly. "This is what you must do. Youmust go to your mother and tell her there is some one that you love. Tell her as fully and freely as you choose. Convince her of the truthand strength of it as thoroughly as you can, and tell her that womanloves you in return, but has refused to marry you, for reasons which, if she would like to hear them, that woman herself will lay before her. I cannot let you do it for me, " she went on earnestly. "I know youwould wish to spare me this, but only a woman's tongue could tell thatstory of misery, and only a woman's heart could understand it. You thinkshe will love me for my misfortunes, as you have done in your great, generous heart. I do not dare to think it, but I will put it to thetest. You must promise me to tell her nothing except just what I havetold you. Do you promise this?" "I promise it, upon my honor; but remember, if my mother should decideagainst me, I do not give you up. " "No, but I will give you up. " "Christine!" he cried. "And yet you say you love me!" "Oh, yes, I say I love you--and you know whether it is true. " She stood in front of him and looked him firmly in the face, but thelook of her clear eyes was so full of crowding, overwhelming sorrow thatlove, for a while, seemed to have taken flight. In vain he tried to put his hopeful spirit into her. She only shook herhead and showed him a face of deep, unhoping sorrow. "If your mother consents to see me, appoint an hour to-morrow morningand let me know. I will take a carriage and go alone--" "I will come for you. I will bring my mother's carriage--" "No, I must go alone, and I prefer to go in a hired carriage. You mustsee that no one else is present--neither of your sisters. It is to yourmother only that I can say what I have to say. " "Everything shall be as you wish. But, Christine, don't be hurt if youfind my mother's manner difficult, at first. She has had a great deal oftrouble, and it has made her manner a little hard--" "Ah, " she said, "I can understand that. " "But it is only her manner, " Noel went on, "her heart is kind and true. " "Don't try to encourage me. I am not afraid. If she has known the faceof sorrow that is the best passport between us. Perhaps she willunderstand me. " "Promise me this, Christine--that whatever happens, you will see meto-morrow evening--and see me alone. " "I promise, but it may be to say good-by. " He repressed the defiant protest of his heart, secure in his strongresolve. "Good-night, Christine, " he said. "Good-night, " she answered. Her eyes seemed to look at him through agreat cloud of sorrow, and her voice was like the speaking of a woman ina dream. There was a great and availing force in the mood that held her. Noel knew she wished to be alone and that she had need of the repose ofsolitude. So he only clasped her hand an instant, in a strong, assuringpressure, and was gone. Exhausted, worn out, spent with sorrow, Christine retired at once to herroom, and went wearily to bed, wondering what the next day would bring. She soon fell into a deep sleep, and slept heavily till morning, wakingwith a confused mingling of memory and expectancy in which joy and painwere inseparably united. XVI. Noel's note came early. It announced that his mother would be ready toreceive her visitor any time after eleven. It was full of the strongestassurances of love and constancy, and Christine knew it was meant tocomfort and support her in her approaching ordeal. She felt so strong tomeet this, however, that even Mrs. Murray's earnest protest that harmwould come of the visit failed to intimidate her, and she turned a deafear to all her good friend's entreaties to her to give it up. Mrs. Murray's advice was for the immediate marriage and departure for Europe, but Christine's mind was made up, and could not be shaken. She was feeling strangely calm as she drove along through a part of thegreat city she had never ever seen before, where there were none butsplendid houses, with glimpses, through richly-curtained windows, ofluxurious interiors, and where all the people who passed her, whetheron foot or in handsome carriages, had an air of ease and comfort andluxury that made her feel herself still more an alien. She did notregret her resolution, but she felt quite hopeless of its result. Itwould make matters simpler for her, at all events. When the carriage stopped she got out with a strange feeling ofunreality, closed the door behind her, careful to see that it caught, spoke to the driver quietly and told him to wait, and then walked up thesteps and rang the bell. During the moment she stood there a boy camealong and threw a small printed paper at her feet. It was anadvertisement of a new soap, and she was reading it mechanically whenthe door was opened by a tall man-servant who stood against thebackground of a stately hall, whose rich furnishings were revealed bythe softened light that came through the stained glass windows. Christine was closely veiled, and coming out of the sunshine it allseemed obscure and dim. She asked if Mrs. Noel was at home, and when theman said yes, and ushered her in she desired him to say to Mrs. Noelthat the lady with whom she had an appointment was come. Then she sat down in the great drawing-room and waited. The silence wasintense. She seemed to have shrunk to a very small size as she sat inthe midst of all this high-pitched, broad-proportioned stateliness. Asher eyes grew accustomed to the darkness the objects about her seemedto come out, one by one--beautiful pictures, graceful statues, richdraperies and delicate, fine ornaments of many kinds. A carriage rolledby outside, one of the horses slipping on the thin coat of ice withwhich the shady side of the street was covered. The driver jerked him upsharply, with a smothered exclamation, and went on. As the sound ofwheels died away she could hear a street band far off, playing a popularair. Then that too ceased and the silence without was as profound as thesilence within. Christine felt precisely as if she were dreaming. Itseemed to her hours that she had waited here, though she knew it wasonly a very few minutes, before the servant returned. Mrs. Noelrequested that she would be kind enough to come up-stairs, he said. Christine followed him silently up the great staircase, and was usheredinto a room near its head. She heard the door closed behind her, and sawa small, slight figure, dressed in black, standing opposite to her. "Good-morning. Excuse my asking you to come up-stairs, " a clear, refinedvoice began; but suddenly it broke off, and perfect silence followed, and the eyes of the two women met. Christine was very pale, and thosebeautiful eyes of hers had dark rings around them, but they weremarvellously clear and true, and, above all, they were eloquent withsorrow. The elder woman advanced to her and took her hand. "Oh, my child, how you must have suffered!" she said. "Ah, you know what it is. You have suffered, too. We shall understandeach other better for that. " "My dear, I seem to understand it all. Don't be unhappy. You need haveno fear of me. If you love my son as he loves you, you have my consent. I will not ask to know anything. " "You must know. I have come to tell you. You will probably change yourmind when you have heard. " The elder woman, who was pale and delicate, and yet in spite of all thisbore some resemblance to her strong young son, now led her tallcompanion to a seat, and sitting down in front of her, said kindly: "Take off your hat and gloves, my dear. Try to feel at home with me. Ilove my son too dearly to go against him in the most earnest desire ofhis life. He has told me nothing, except that you love each other, andthat there is something which you consider an obstacle to your marriage, but which he utterly refuses to accept as such. Tell me about it, dear, and let me set your mind at rest. " Christine took off her gloves, because they were a constraint to her, and now, as she gave her two bare hands into those of Mrs. Noel, shesaid calmly: "You think it is some little thing--that lack of fortune or a differencein social position is the obstacle. I would not be here now if it wereno more than that--for I do love him!" The last words broke from her as if involuntarily, and the impulse thatmade her utter them sent the swift tears to her eyes. But she forcedthem back, and they had no successors. "And he loves you, too--oh, how he loves you! I wonder if you know. " "Yes, I know--I know it all. He has shown and proved, as well as toldme. We love each other with a complete and perfect love. Even if I haveto give him up nothing can take that away. " "My dear, you need not give him up. I asked my son one question only:'Is her honor free from stain?'" "And what was his answer?" "'Absolutely and utterly. She is as stainless as an angel. ' Those werehis very words. " "God bless him for them! God forever bless him!" said Christine. "Iknow, in his eyes, it is so. " "In his eyes!" repeated Mrs. Noel. "Is there any doubt that it would beso in any eyes?" "Yes, " said Christine, "there is great doubt. " It was well for her that she had not hoped too much--well that she hadkept continually in mind the awful value of the revelation she had cometo make. If she had been sanguine and confident the look that now cameover the face of Noel's mother would have been a harder thing to bear. But Christine was all prepared for it. It wounded, but it did notsurprise nor disturb her perfect calm. There was a distinct change inthe tone with which Mrs. Noel now said: "If you have been unfortunate, poor girl, and have been led into troublewithout fault of your own, as may possibly be, no one could pity youmore than I. I can imagine such a case, and I could not look at you andthink any evil of you. But if you know the world at all, you must knowthat these things--let a woman be utterly free from fault herself--carrytheir inexorable consequences. " "I know the world but little, " said Christine, "and yet I know that. " "Then, my dear child, you cannot wonder that the woman so unfortunatelysituated is thought to be debarred from honorable marriage. " "I do not wonder when I meet with this judgment in the world or inyou. I only wondered when I found in your son a being too high forit--a being to whom right is right and pureness is pureness, as it isto God. You will remember, madame, that it was your son who claimedthat I was not debarred from honorable marriage, and not I. Oh, I havesuffered--you were right. No wonder that the sign of it is branded on myforehead for all the world to see. I have suffered in a way as farbeyond the worst pain you have ever known as that pain of yours has beenfrom pleasure. You have known death in its most awful form when it tookfrom you your dearest ones, but I have known death too. My little baby, who was like the very core of my heart, round which the heartstringstwisted, and the clinging flesh was wrapped, was torn away from me bydeath, and it was pain and anguish unspeakable--but I have known asuffering compared to which that agony was joy. There can be worsethings to bear than the death of your heart's dearest treasure--at leastI know it may be so with women. And it was because you were a woman, with a woman's possibilities of pain, that I wanted to come to you--totell you all, and let you say whether I am a fit wife for your son. " Ah, poor Christine! She felt, as she spoke those words, the silent, still, impalpable recoil in her companion's heart. She knew the poorwoman was trying to be kind and merciful and sympathetic, but she alsoknew that what she had just said had rendered Noel's mother the foe andopposer of this marriage, instead of its friend. "Go on, tell me all, " his mother said, and that subtle change of voiceand manner was distincter still to the acute consciousness ofChristine's suffering soul. "I will be your friend whatever happens, andI honor you for the spirit in which you look upon this thing. I willspeak out boldly, though you know I dislike to give you pain. But tellme this: Do you think yourself a fit wife for my son?" Christine raised her head and answered with a very noble look of pride: "I do. " Her companion seemed to be surprised, and a faint shade of disapprovalcrossed her face. "I know it, " said Christine. "I know he did not say too much when hespoke those blessed words to you and said I was stainless. God saw myheart through everything and He knows that it is so, but the worldthinks otherwise. The world, and his own family, perhaps, would thinkyour son lowered and dishonored by marrying me, and I never couldconsent to go among the people who could think it; so, if he marriedme, he would not only have to bear this odium, but to give up too, forever, his home and relatives, and friends and country, and it was forthese reasons I refused to marry him--not for an instant because I feltmyself unworthy. " It was plain that these earnest words had moved her companion deeply, and that she felt a desire to hear more. "Tell me the whole story, " she said. "This you have promised to do, andyou have made me eager to hear it. Remember how little I have been told. I do not even know your name. " With the full gaze of her sorrowful eyes upon the elder woman's face, she said quietly: "My name is Christine. " There was an infinite proud calm in her voice, and in the same tone shewent on: "I bore throughout my childhood and my young girl days another name thatseems in no sense to belong to me now. That child and girl, ChristineVerrone, is not in any way myself. It seems only a sweet memory of adear young creature, nearer akin to the birds, and the winds, and theflowers than to me. I cannot feel I ought to take her name, and passmyself for her. For three years I bore another name, but it is one myvery lips refuse to utter now, and I never had a right to it. The onename that I feel is really mine is just Christine--the name that wasgiven to the little baby, on whose forehead the sign of the cross wasmade soon after she came into this sad world, to taste of its most awfulsorrow and to grow into the woman that I am. I have always loved it, because, in sound, it seemed to bring me near to Christ--the dear Christwho has never forsaken me since I have borne His sign, who has beenthrough all my loving, dear Brother, knowing and understanding all andgrieving that I had to suffer so. He is with me still. He will stay withme if I have to give up earthly love and all that can make life happy. Iknow He has let it all happen to me, and that it must be for my good. Iknow I am as pure in His eyes as when I was that little baby, baptizedin His name, bearing the humanity He bore. You may decide my earthlyhappiness as you choose. I am not comfortless. I know now the extent ofHis perfect power to comfort, since I find that He can support methrough the supreme trial of giving up the man I love. It is in ourdarkest hour He comes closest, " she said, as if in a sort of ecstasy. "He is here right with me now, strengthening and blessing me. I can feelHis hands on my head. They actually press and touch me. " The fervor of her voice, the exaltation of her look, and the extremerealism of the words she used were indescribably awing and agitating toher companion, to whom such evidences in connection with religiousfeeling were utterly unprecedented. She saw that the source of this deepemotion was utter despair of earthly happiness, as, in truth, it was. From the moment that Christine had noted the change in her companion, which had followed her partial confession, she felt that her doom wassealed, and it was under the influence of this conviction that she hadspoken. She felt anxious now to finish the interview and get away, thatshe might look her sorrow in the face, without the feeling of strangeeyes upon her, and that she might gather strength for her parting withthe man she loved. Her last words had been followed by a thrilling silence which the otherfelt herself powerless to break. It was Christine who spoke. "I promised your son that I would tell you the history of my life, " shesaid. "I can give it to you very briefly. I was as innocent andunknowing as a little child when I was taken from the convent where Iwas educated, and married by my father to a man I scarcely knew. Isuppose I was a burden to my father and he wanted to get rid of me. Hetold me that the whole of my mother's little fortune had been spent onmy education, and that he had no home to take me to, and that I mustmarry. The young man he chose for me was good-looking and kind, thoughhe did not speak my language, and I knew almost nothing of his. Myfather did everything. He assured me this man adored me and would doeverything to make me happy--would always take care of me and give me abeautiful home in his land beyond the sea. I was ignorant of marriage asa baby. It was easy to get up a girlish fancy for the young man thuspresented to my childish imagination, and I consented willingly. I had alot of charming clothes ordered for my trousseau, and I was as delightedas a child. In this way I was married--" "Ah, you were really married!" interrupted her companion, the cloud onher face beginning to clear away. Christine saw it with a tinge ofbitterness in her gentle heart. "No, " she said, almost coldly, "I was not really married. I thought so, and for three years I struggled through pain and woe and horror to do myduty to the man to whom I believed myself bound by the holy andindissoluble tie of marriage. I was ignorant, but somehow I had imbibedfrom every source ever opened to me a deep sense of the sacredness andeternity of that bond. So I fought and struggled on, feeling that truthto that obligation was my one anchor in a sea of trouble. I thought whenI came here I could tell you some of the things I felt and endured, butI cannot. There would be no use. The bare fact is enough for a woman'sheart. When my child came I fixed my whole soul's devotion on him. Hewas always delicate and feeble, but I loved him as, perhaps, a strongand healthy child could not have been loved. His father never noticedhim at all, except to show that he thought him a burden. That was thefinal touch of complete alienation. Love--or what I had once called bythat name--was gone long ago. We had become extremely poor--every centof the principal had been spent in the most reckless way--oh, I can'ttell you all that. Your son will tell you if you ask him. I think a sortof mental lack was at the back of it. I must hurry; I can't bear to goover it all now. I met your son on the steamer coming over, and he waskind to me then, suspecting, perhaps, how things were tending. Longafter I met him again, accidentally, and he found out how wretched andpoor I was, with my baby ill, and in need almost of the necessaries oflife. He gave me sittings at his studio, then, and paid me forthem--larger sums, I suppose, than they were worth. At any rate, he anda good doctor and an old servant helped me through my trouble when mybaby died and was buried. Then--oh, I am almost done with it now, thankGod!" she said, with a great sobbing breath--"it came to your son'sknowledge, professionally, that another woman claimed the man I supposedto be my husband, and he was about to be tried for--" she hesitatedbefore the word, and could not utter it. "Then--it was months ago--hetook me to Mrs. Murray, who took care of me through all the misery andwretchedness of those first weeks, and afterward got me work to do thatI might make my own living. There I have been, in my sad peace andsafety, ever since--a broken-hearted, wretched, nameless woman, and assuch your son loved me. I returned his love with all the fire andstrength of an utterly unexpended force. I had never loved before. Inever felt the power of that love so mighty as now, in this moment thatI give him up. " "You shall not give him up! I know it all now, and, in spite ofeverything, I tell you you shall not. Christine, listen, I give myconsent. I declare to you that you honor him supremely when you agreeto marry him. My child, if you had had a mother all this would nothave come to you. I rejoice to take you for my daughter. Look at me, Christine, and try to feel that you have a mother at last. " It was almost too much for the strained nerves of the girl. She couldhave borne denial calmly, seeing that she was ready for it, but thegreat rush of joy that surged into her heart at these unexpected wordsconfused and agitated her. A strong voice spoke to her words of comfortand cheer, and loving arms embraced her. Sweet mother-kisses werepressed upon her cheeks and eyes, and she was gently reassured andcalmed and strengthened. Her mind was still a little dazed, however, andshe did not quite know how it was that she found herself now standingalone, near the middle of the room. The door opened. Some one entered and closed it softly. She felt thatit was Noel. He paused an instant near the threshold, and she turnedher head and looked at him. He held out his arms. They moved towardeach other, and she was folded in a close embrace. They remained so, absolutely still. Her heart was beating in full, thick throbs againsthis, which kept time to it. Her closed eyes were against his throat, andshe would not move so much as an eyelash. She gave herself up utterly tothis ecstasy of content. "Don't move, " she whispered. She was afraid this perfect moment would bespoiled; a kiss, even, would have done it. But he seemed to understand, and except to tighten slightly the pressure of his arms he keptprofoundly still. She could hear his low, uneven breathing and thefaint, regular ticking of his watch. They seemed enclosed in a silencevast as space, and sweeter than thought could fathom. A great ocean ofcontentment flowed about them, stretching into infinity. Neither couldhave thought of anything to wish for. They seemed in absolute possessionof all joy. A sound--the striking of a clock--broke the spell of silence. They moveda little apart, and so looked long into each other's eyes. Then Noelbent toward the face upraised to his, and their lips met. There were tears in Christine's eyes as she sank back from that kiss, but her happiness was complete, absolute, supreme. God had given to themboth his richest gift of pleasure after pain. Some Books Worth While "Some men borrow books; some men steal books; and others beg presentation copies from the author"--_Her Majesty the King. _ BOSTON 1901 CONTENTS II The New Literary Review III Outdoors IV Wellesley Stories V The Son of a Tory VI A Beautiful Alien VII Her Majesty the King VIII Irish Mist and Sunshine IX Four Days of God X When Half-Gods Go XI The Anvil XII The Wings of the Morning XIII The Lyric Library XIV An Alphabetical List of Books The New Literary Review _A Monthly News Journal of Belles Lettres. _ Single copies 10 cents. By the year $1. 00 The publishers wish to make no large promises, but they believe _The NewLiterary Review_ will be found to be as interesting a literary newsjournal as any American periodical of the kind. The department of notes and comment under the title of _VariousAppraisements_ the Editor will endeavor to make particularly inclusiveand entertaining. The _Reviews of New Books_ while for the most part necessarily briefwill be written with the object of giving a concise, impartial andcareful summary of the books under discussion. In addition to these _Notes and Reviews_ there will be manycontributions of _Essays_, _Poetry_, and _Fiction_. The object of the Editor and Publishers is to present a programme whichwithout undue pretensions, will prove to be both well proportioned andof considerable entertainment. OUTDOORS _A BOOK OF THE WOODS, FIELDS AND MARSHLAND_ _BY ERNEST McGAFFEY_ 8vo. About 300 pp. Frontispiece in photogravure. $1. 50 _THE CONTENTS_ 1. The Marshes in April 17. Down the St. Joe River 2. Plover Shooting 18. Brook-trout Fishing 3. The Melancholy Crane 19. A Masque of the Seasons 4. Fishing for Big-mouth 20. Wood-chucks Bass 21. Frog-hunting 5. Flight of Common Birds 22. The Crow's Wing 6. Fishing for Crappie 23. Prairie Chicken Shooting 7. In the Haunts of the Loon 24. A Fox in the Meramec 8. Blue-bills and Decoys Valley 9. Walking as a Fine Art 25. Fall Jack-snipe Shooting 10. Fishing for Bull-heads 26. In Dim October 11. Along a Country Road 27. Ruffed Grouse 12. Wood-cock Shooting 28. In Prairie Lands 13. Under the Green-wood 29. Hunting with Ferrets Tree 30. The Bare, Brown Fields 14. Pan-fishing 31. Quail Shooting 15. A Northern Nightingale 32. In Winter Woods 16. Squirrel Shooting [_Ready in May_ Wellesley Stories _BY GRACE LOUISE COOK_ 12mo. 340 pp. $1. 50 _The Stories_ _Clorinda_ _Submerged_ _President Jefferson_ _A Lyrical Interlude_ _The Trial of Professor _Sir Toby's Career_ Lamont_ _Initiated Into Love_ _The Verdict_ These Wellesley stories give a truthful picture of Wellesley studentlife that will appeal strongly to its alumnæ, greatly interestpreparatory students, and should receive the hearty approval of itsunder-graduates; and also, as is sometimes not the case, they are worthyof a reading outside of college circles, for they meet the requirementsof a good "short story" of whatever theme. Wellesley traditions, customs, and spirit pervade the book, eitherdescribed at some length or indicated by a masterly allusion. All kindsof girls are depicted, as all kinds of girls go to college--girls poorand rich, clever, dull, and commonplace, refined and unrefined, theunsubstantial and the dilettante, and those with genuine talent, and thelife among them seems very real, for nothing is forced or strained inthe stories. The trial scene in Professor Lamont is one of the cleverestbits of writing in any recent book of short stories, and it is a truepicture of the way in which college girls embrace every opportunity forgenuine fun. The last story in the book is one of the best college lovestories ever written. The dialogue is spirited, the diction graceful, and a literary style is well sustained throughout. --_The N. Y. TimesSaturday Review. _ [_Ready_ The Son of a Tory _A ROMANCE OF THE MOHAWK VALLEY BY CLINTON SCOLLARD_ Frontispiece. 12mo. 307 pp. Cloth. Ornamental. $1. 50 The Son of a Tory is one Wilton Aubrey by name, who narrates hisexciting experiences during the summer of 1777. .. . The first glimpse given of this Wilton Aubrey, also gives the news ofthe planned invasion by Barry St. Leger and his army from the north, with the hope by all his followers that every Whig should be forced tobecome a loyal subject to the king. .. . At heart Aubrey was a true Whigbut a promise to his mother and his father's impaired health made itstern duty, not to oppose his father, and to join a small Tory company, which made a daring escape from their home, the Flatts, to Oswego tojoin St. Leger. From this point one is introduced to countless importantpersonages and in a skillful way the characteristics of each isportrayed. The hero's flight to the Whigs is most entertaining reading, and then we meet with Aubrey many more men, who have made glorioushistory for Americans. Is it all war? By no means; Margaret is a girl welove with Wilton Aubrey, and revel in the descriptions of his periloustrips to see his beloved, for who can help liking bravery in love aswell as in war. In the closing pages episode follows episode in rapidsuccession, and the reader is carried to the end all too soon. .. . It isa book, which if all the qualities that make a good book are taken intoconsideration, ought to prove more of a success than some recent novelswhich have gained a world-wide reputation. --_Clinton Advertiser. _ "His Indians are the real thing and his hero is true blue. "--_N. Y. Journal. _ [_Second edition ready_ A Beautiful Alien _A NOVEL BY JULIA MAGRUDER_ Frontispiece. 12mo. Cloth, ornamental. $1. 25. This delightful novel is gradually winning its way into popular favor asthe most interesting and attractive piece of work Miss Magruder has everdone. It certainly merits all its success and commendation for never hasshe drawn a more lovable heroine or a more manly hero, and withcharacters like these no story could be otherwise than thoroughlycharming. It is the story of a young and beautiful "Alien" cruellymislead by an unworthy father and a scoundrel of an American, whofinally succeeds in securing the love and happiness for which she soardently longs and so well deserves. The plot is well thought out, theinterest is wonderfully well sustained, and the charm of the story isirresistible. [_Third edition ready_ There are several laughs on every page. --_N. Y. Times Saturday Review. _ Her Majesty the King _A ROMANCE OF THE HAREM BY JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE_ With 16 full page pictures, and an elaborate cover design in manycolors. 12mo. $1. 25. As Mr. Roche modestly says in his _Forewarning_, "This volume, containing the surprising adventures of the good Kayenna and themarvellous wisdom of Shacabac, the wayfarer, needeth no apology. Itsmerits are as many as its words. " And the reviewers have heartily agreed that "there are several laughs onevery page. " Published over two years ago, _Her Majesty the King_ is more popularto-day than at any time since its publication. It is plainly not only abook to read but to recommend to your friends. "The wittiest book of the year. "--_Boston Journal. _ [_Fifth edition ready_ Irish Mist and Sunshine _A BOOK OF BALLADS BY REV. JAMES B. DOLLARD_ (Sliav-na-mon) With an introduction by William O'Brien, M. P. Small quarto. $1. 50 This is a book of ringing Irish ballads that will stir the heart ofevery lover of true poetry. "Here and there a verse may be as franklyunadorned as the peasant cabins themselves in their homely cloaks ofthatch, but every line rings true to life and home and with the tone, asheartmoving as the Angelus which holds Millet's peasants in its spell, "from Mr. O'Brien's introduction. "Father Dollard's ballads have all the fire and dash of Kipling's, witha firmer poetic grasp, " says Mr. Nathan Haskell Dole. [_Ready in May_ Four Days of God _BY HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD_ With about 90 illustrations. Bound in white and gold and purple Small 4 to $1. 00 It is quite impossible to describe adequately the surpassing charm ofthis book. We can say simply that it will appeal to every lover ofnature who sees in her manifold beauties the living glories of the workof God. No one can write more beautiful or sparkling prose than Mrs. Spoffordand never has she been so absolutely charming as in _Four Days of God_. The book has about 90 illustrations by Miss A. C. Tomlinson which catchthe spirit of the text to perfection and with the harmonious print andpaper and binding make the book a little gem. [_Ready in September_ When Half-Gods Go _A NOVEL BY JULIA MAGRUDER_ Frontispiece in photogravure. 12mo. 330 pp. $1. 50 A new novel by Miss Magruder is always sure of its welcome and _WhenHalf-Gods Go_ will find for her even a wider audience than she hashitherto enjoyed. It is a fascinating story of social and musical lifein New York, full of human interest and those happy touches MissMagruder can do so well. The title is from Emerson's lines "Whenhalf-gods go the gods arrive. " In addition to its charm as a story thepublishers think this book will be presented in the handsomest dressever bestowed upon a novel. The fascinating frontispiece is reproducedin photogravure, the book is printed throughout in two colors, the textbeing enclosed in remarkably well done decorations, and the coverdesign, in colors, is at once delicate and effective. [_Ready in September_ THE ANVIL _A NOVEL BY R. V. RISLEY_ 12 mo. Cloth. About 300 pp. $1. 50 In _The Anvil_ Mr. Risley has produced a novel which for conception, dramatic power, and sheer strength of characterization will stand headand shoulders above the ordinarily well done novel of the day. In it forthe first time Mr. Risley "finds himself" and strikes the strong, clearnote he will sound, with ever increasing strength, in the literaturethat lives. It is a novel that will make people _think_. [_Ready in September_ The Wings of the Morning _KENTUCKY STORIES BY ELEANOR TALBOT KINKEAD_ 12 mo. About 300 pp. $1. 50. This volume by a writer who has already achieved considerabledistinction as a delineator of Kentucky life contains ten stories all ofwhich are notable for their originality of conception and delicacy oftreatment. The stories are: _The Wings of the Morning_, _The Sifting of JohnWitherspoon_, _The Piggins_, _Penelope's Suitors_, _My Young Miss_, _APseudo Madonna_, _A Point of Honor_, _Mrs. Vail_, _The Pine Tree and thePalm_, _A Glooming Peace_. [_Ready in October_ The Lyric Library A series of little books of verse in which it is the publishers' aim toinclude the best work of the representative poets of America. Thevolumes are in size a small 16 mo. , handsomely printed and bound in fullflexible leather, stamped in gold. The price is $1. 25 each. POEMS OF THE TOWN by Ernest McGaffey. "For terse English, for picturesque and appropriate imagery, for keenand faithful portraiture Mr. McGaffey has no superior. And there will bemany to say that this book entitles him to recognition as theinterpreter of his age. "--_Chicago Inter-Ocean. _ SONG SURF by Cale Young Rice. "A volume of unusual proportion, artistic workmanship, lyricinspiration; an absence of so much as a trace of morbid feeling, afelicitous and poetic choice of subjects and intuitive good taste raisethe writer at once above the ranks of the versifier. "--_The Arrowhead. _ ONE DAY AND ANOTHER by Madison Cawein. [_Ready in May_ FOR THINKING HEARTS by John Vance Cheney. [_Ready in May_ IN THE HARBOR OF HOPE by Mary E. Blake. [_Ready in June_ OTHERS IN PREPARATION. Alphabetical List of Books by Authors Barry, John D. JULIA MARLOWE. _A Biography. _ Illustrated. 12mo. 75 cents. _New Edition in preparation_ Blake, Mary Elizabeth IN THE HARBOR OF HOPE. See _Lyric Library_. Brown, Charles Hovey MOSES. _A Dramatic Poem. _ 16mo. _Flexible leather. _ $1. 25. Campbell, Floy CAMP ARCADY. _A Story for Girls. _ 16mo. Illustrated. Cloth. 75 cents. Cawein, Madison ONE DAY AND ANOTHER. See _Lyric Library_. Cheney, John Vance FOR THINKING HEARTS. See _Lyric Library_. Cook, Grace Louise WELLESLEY STORIES. 12 mo. 330 pp. $1. 50. Crane, Walter THE SIRENS THREE. Illustrated. 4to. Cloth. $1. 25 Dollard, James B. IRISH MIST AND SUNSHINE. 12mo. Cloth. $1. 50. Emerson, Edwin, Jr. PEPYS'S GHOST. Narrow 16mo. Boards. $1. 25. Gallaher, Grace M. VASSAR STORIES. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth. $1. 25 [_New edition in preparation_ Guthrie, James AN ALBUM OF DRAWINGS. 4to. $2. 50 net. Housman, Laurence SPIKENARD. 4to. Decorative boards. $1. 50. ILLUSTRATED DITTIES OF THE OLDEN TIME. 4to. Decorative boards. 75 cents. Irving, Henry THE THEATRE AND THE STATE. _An Address. _ Photogravure portrait. 12mo. Cloth. 75 cents. King, Dorothy VERSES. 12mo. Vellum wrappers. $1. 00 net. Kinkead, Eleanor Talbot THE WINGS OF THE MORNING. _Kentucky Stories. _ 12mo. $1. 50. McGaffey, Ernest OUTDOORS. 8vo. 300 pp. $1. 50. POEMS OF THE TOWN. See _Lyric Library_. Magruder, Julia WHEN HALF-GODS GO. _A Novel. _ $1. 50. A BEAUTIFUL ALIEN. _A Novel. _ $1. 25. McFall, Haldane THE HOUSE OF THE SORCERER. _A Novel. _ 12mo. Cloth. $1. 25. Men des, Catulle THE FAIRY SPINNING WHEEL. Illustrated. 4to. Cloth. $1. 50. Miller, Marion Mills THE SICILIAN IDYLS OF THEOCRITUS. 16mo. Flexible leather. $1. 25. Nissen, Hartvig RATIONAL HOME GYMNASTICS. Illustrated. 16mo. Cloth. 50 cents. Pollard, Percival CAPE OF STORMS. _A Novel. _ Illustrated. $1. 25. Pyle, Howard THE PRICE OF BLOOD. _An Extravaganza. _ Illustrated in colors. 4to. Decorative boards. $1. 25. Reed, Helen Leah MISS THEODORA. _A West End Story. _ Illustrated 16mo. Cloth. $1. 00. Reed, Verner Z ADOBELAND STORIES. _Stories of the Southwest. _ 12mo. Cloth. $1. 00. Rice, Cale Young SONG-SURF. See _Lyric Library_. $1. 25. Risley, R. V. THE SLEDGE. _A Novel. _ 12mo. $1. 50. THE ANVIL. _A Novel. _ $1. 50. Roche, James Jeffrey HER MAJESTY THE KING. _A Romance of the Harem. _ Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth. $1. 25. THE VASE AND OTHER BRIC-A-BRAC. _A Volume of Verse. _ 12mo. Cloth. $1. 00. Scollard, Clinton THE SON OF A TORY. _An Historical Romance. _ $1. 50. Spofford, Harriet Prescott FOUR DAYS OF GOD. Illustrated. 4to. $1. 00. OLD MADAME AND OTHER STORIES. 12 mo. Cloth. $1. 25. Thompson, Vance FRENCH PORTRAITS. _Appreciations of the Writers of Young France. _ Illustrated. 8vo. Cloth. $2. 50. _Richard G Badger & Company (Incorporated) Publishers Boston_ TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: Minor changes have been made to correct typsetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words andintent.