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A DOZEN WAYS OF LOVE

by

L. DOUGALL

Author of 'Beggars All, ' 'The Zeitgeist, ' 'The Madonna of a Day, ' Etc. 

LondonAdam And Charles Black1897

TO

M. S. E. 

WITHOUT WHOSE AID, I THINK, MY BOOKS WOULD NEVER HAVE BEEN WRITTEN

CONTENTS

 PAGE I. YOUNG LOVE 1

 II. A MARRIAGE MADE IN HEAVEN 29

 III. THRIFT 57

 IV. A TAINT IN THE BLOOD 77

 V. 'HATH NOT A JEW EYES?' 127

 VI. A COMMERCIAL TRAVELLER 141

 VII. THE SYNDICATE BABY 169

VIII. WITCHCRAFT 195

 IX. THE GIRL WHO BELIEVED IN THE SAINTS 219

 X. THE PAUPER'S GOLDEN DAY 237

 XI. THE SOUL OF A MAN 251

 XII. A FREAK OF CUPID 293

I

YOUNG LOVE

It was after dark on a November evening. A young woman came down themain street of a small town in the south of Scotland. She was amaid-servant, about thirty years old; she had a pretty, though ratherstrong-featured, face, and yellow silken hair. When she came toward theend of the street she turned into a small draper's shop. A middle-agedwoman stood behind the counter folding her wares. 

'Can ye tell me the way to Mistress Macdonald's?' asked the maid. 

'Ye'll be a stranger. ' It was evident that every one in those parts knewthe house inquired for. 

The maid had a somewhat forward, familiar manner; she sat down to rest. 'What like is she?'

The shopkeeper bridled. 'Is it Mistress Macdonald?' There was reproof inthe voice. 'She is much respectet--none more so. It would be before youwere born that every one about here knew Mistress Macdonald. '

'Well, what family is there?' The maid had a sweet smile; her voice fellinto a cheerful coaxing tone, which had its effect. 

'Ye'll be the new servant they'll be looking for. Is it walking ye arefrom the station? Well, she had six children, had Mistress Macdonald. '

'What ages will they be?'

The woman knit her brows; the problem set her was too difficult. 'Icouldna tell ye just exactly. There's Miss Macdonald--she that's at homeyet; she'll be over fifty. '

'Oh!' The maid gave a cheerful note of interested understanding. 'It'llbe her perhaps that wrote to me; the mistress'll be an old lady. '

'She'll be nearer ninety than eighty, I'm thinking. ' There was amoment's pause, which the shop-woman filled with sighs. 'Ye'll be awarethat it's a sad house ye're going to. She's verra ill is MistressMacdonald. It's sorrow for us all, for she's been hale and had herfaculties. She'll no' be lasting long now, I'm thinking. '

'No, ' said the maid, with good-hearted pensiveness; 'it's not in thecourse of nature that she should. ' She rose as she spoke, as if itbehoved her to begin her new duties with alacrity, as there might notlong be occasion for them. She put another question before she went. 'And who will there be living in the house now?'

'There's just Miss Macdonald that lives with her mother; and there'sMistress Brown--she'll be coming up most of the days now, but she dinnalive there; and there's Ann Johnston, that's helping Miss Macdonald withthe nursing--she's been staying at the house for a year back. That's allthat there'll be of them besides the servants, except that there's Dr. Robert. His name is Macdonald, too, ye know; he's a nephew, and he's theminister o' the kirk here. He goes up every day to see how his aunt'sgetting on. I'm thinking he'll be up there now; it's about his time forgoing. '

The maid took the way pointed out to her. Soon she was walking up agravel path, between trim, old-fashioned laurel hedges. She stood at thedoor of a detached house. It was an ordinary middle-classdwelling--comfortable, commodious, ugly enough, except that stolidityand age did much to soften its ugliness. It had, above all, the air ofbeing a home--a hospitable open-armed look, as if children had run inand out of it for years, as if young men had gone out from it to see theworld and come back again to rest, as if young girls had fluttered aboutit, confiding their sports and their loves to its ivy-clad walls. Nowthere hung about it a silence and sobriety that were like the shadows ofcoming oblivion. The gas was turned low in the hall. The old-fashionedomnibus that came lumbering from the railway with a box for the new maidseemed to startle the place with its noise. 

In the large dining-room four people were sitting in dreary discussion. The gas-light flared upon heavy mahogany furniture, upon red moreencurtains and big silver trays and dishes. By the fire sat the twodaughters of the aged woman. They both had grey hair and wrinkled faces. The married daughter was stout and energetic; the spinster was thin, careworn and nervous. Two middle-aged men were listening to a complaintshe made; the one was Robert Macdonald the minister, the other was thefamily doctor. 

'It's no use Robina's telling me that I must coax my mother to eat, asif I hadn't tried that'--the voice became shrill--'I've begged her, andprayed her, and reasoned with her. '

'No, no, Miss Macdonald--no, no, ' said the doctor soothingly. 'You'vedone your best, we all understand that; it's Mistress Brown that'sthinking of the situation in a wrong light; it's needful to be plain andto say that Mistress Macdonald's mind is affected. '

Robina Brown interposed with indignation and authority. 

'My mother has always had her right mind; she's been losing her memory. All aged people lose their memories. '

The minister spoke with a meditative interest in a psychologicalphenomenon. 'Ay, she's been losing it backwards; she forgot who we werefirst, and remembered us all as little children; then she forgot us andyour father altogether. Latterly she's been living back in the days whenher father and mother were living at Kelsey Farm. It's strange to hearher talk. There's not, as far as I know, another being on this wideearth of all those that came and went to Kelsey Farm that is alive now. '

Miss Macdonald wiped her eyes; her voice shook as she spoke; thenervousness of fatigue and anxiety accentuated her grief. 'She wasasking me how much butter we made in the dairy to-day, and asking if thecurly cow had her calf, and what Jeanie Trim was doing. '

'Who was Jeanie Trim?' asked the minister. 

'How should I know? I suppose she was one of the Kelsey servants. '

'Curious, ' ejaculated the minister. 'This Jeanie will have grown old anddied, perhaps, forty years ago, and my aunt's speaking of her as if shewas a young thing at work in the next room!'

'And what did you say to Mistress Macdonald?' the doctor asked, with acheerful purpose in his tone. 

'I explained to her that her poor head was wandering. '

'Nay, now, but, Miss Macdonald, I'm thinking if I were you I would tellher that the curly cow had her calf. '

'I never'--tearfully--'told my mother a falsehood in my life, exceptwhen I was a very little girl, and then'--Miss Macdonald paused to wipeher eyes--'she spoke to me so beautifully out of the Bible about it. '

The married sister chimed in mournfully, 'How often have I heard mymother say that not one of her children had ever told her a lie!'

'Yes, yes, but----' There was a tone in the doctor's voice as if hewould like to have used a strong word, but he schooled himself. 

'It's curious the notion she has got of not eating, ' broke in theminister. 'I held the broth myself, but she would have none of it. '

In the next room the flames of a large fire were sending reflectionsover the polished surfaces of massive bedroom furniture. The wind blewagainst this side of the house and rattled the windows, as if angry tosee the picture of luxury and warmth within. It was a handsome statelyroom, and all that was in it dated back many a year. In a chintzarm-chair by the fireside its mistress sat--a very old lady, but therewas still dignity in her pose. Her hair, perfectly white, was stillplentiful; her eye had still something of brightness, and there was uponthe aged features the cast of thought and the habitual look ofintelligence. Beside her upon a small table were such accompaniments ofage as daughter and nurse deemed suitable--the large print Bible, thebig spectacles and caudle cup. The lady sat looking about her with aquick restless expression, like a prisoner alert to escape; she was tiedto her chair--not by cords--by the failure of muscular strength; butperhaps she did not know that. She eyed her attendant with brightfurtive glances, as if the meek sombre woman who sat sewing beside herwere her jailer. 

The party in the dining-room broke up their vain discussion, and camefor another visit of personal inspection. 

'Mother, this is the doctor come to see you. Do you not remember thedoctor?'

The old lady looked at all four of them brightly enough. 'I haena thepleasure of remembering who ye are, but perhaps it will return to me. 'There was restrained politeness in her manner. 

The doctor spoke. 'It's a very bad tale I'm hearing about you to-day, that you've begun to refuse your meat. A person of your experience, Mistress Macdonald, ought to know that we must eat to live. ' He had abasin of food in his hand. 'Now just to please me, Mistress Macdonald. '

The old dame answered with the air that a naughty child or a poutingmaiden might have had. 'I'll no eat it--tak' it away! I'll no eat it. Not for you, no--nor for my mither there'--she looked defiantly at hergrey-haired daughter--'no, nor for my father himself!'

'Not a mouthful has passed her lips to-day, ' moaned Miss Macdonald. Shewrung excited hands and stepped back a pace into the shadow; she felttoo modest to pose as her mother's mother before the curious eyes of thetwo men. 

The old lady appeared relieved when the spinster was out of her sight. 'I don't know ye, gentlemen, but perhaps now my mither's not here, ye'lltell me who it was that rang the door-bell a while since. '

The men hesitated. They were neither of them ready with inventions. 

She leaned towards the doctor, strangely excited. 'Was it Mr. Kinnaird?'she whispered. 

The doctor supposed her to be frightened. 'No, no, ' he said in cheerfultones; 'you're mistaken--it wasn't Kinnaird. '

She leaned back pettishly. 'Tak' away the broth; I'll no' tak' it!'

The discomfited four passed out of the room again. The women wereweeping; the men were shaking their heads. 

It was just then that the new servant passed into the sick-room, bearingcandles in her hands. 

'Jeanie, Jeanie Trim, ' whispered the old lady. The whisper had asprightly yet mysterious tone in it; the withered fingers were put outas if to twitch the passing skirt as the housemaid went by. 

The girl turned and bent a look--strong, helpful, and kindly--upon thisfine ruin of womanhood. The girl had wit 'Yes, ma'am?' she answeredblithely. 

'I'll speak with ye, Jeanie, when this woman goes away; it's her that mymither's put to spy on me. '

The nurse retired into the shadow of the wardrobe. 

'She's away now, ' said the maid. 

'Jeanie, is it Mr. Kinnaird?'

'Well, now, would you like it to be Mr. Kinnaird?' The maid spoke as wespeak to a familiar friend when we have joyful news. 

'Oh, Jeanie Trim, ye know well that I've longed sair for him to comeagain!'

The maid set down her candles, and knelt down by the old dame's knee, looking up with playful face. 

'Well, now, I'll tell ye something. He came to see ye this afternoon. '

'Did he, Jeanie?' The withered face became all wreathed with smiles; theold eyes danced with joy. 'What did ye say to him?'

'Oh, well, I just said'--hesitation--'I said he was to come back againto-morrow. '

'My father doesn't know that he's been here?' There was apprehension inthe whisper. 

'Not a soul knows but meself. '

'Ye didna tell him I'd been looking for him, Jeanie Trim?'

'Na, na, I made out that ye didna care whether he came or not. '

'But he wouldna be hurt in his mind, would he? I'd no like him to beaffronted. '

'It's no likely he was affronted when he said he'd come back to-morrow. '

The smile of satisfaction came again. 

'Did he carry his silver-knobbed cane and wear his green coat, Jeanie?'

'Ay, he wore his green coat, and he looked as handsome a man as ever Isaw in my life. '

The coals in the grate shot up a sudden brilliant flame that eclipsedthe soft light of the candles and set strange shadows quivering aboutthe huge bed and wardrobe and the dark rosewood tables. The winsomeyoung woman at her play, and the old dame living back in a tale that waslong since told, exchanged nods and smiles at the thought of thehandsome visitor in his green coat. The whisper of the aged voice cameblithely--

'Ay, he is that, Jeanie Trim; as handsome a man as ever trod!'

The maid rose, and passing out observed the discarded basin of broth. 

'What's this?' she said. 'Ye'll no be able to see Mr. Kinnaird to-morrowif ye don't take yer soup the night. '

'Gie it to me, Jeanie Trim; I thought he wasna coming again when I saidI wouldna. '

The nurse slipped out of the shadow of the wardrobe and went out to tellthat the soup was being eaten. 

'Kinnaird, ' repeated the minister meditatively. 'I never heard my auntspeak the name. '

'Kinnaird, ' repeated the daughters; and they too searched in theirmemories. 

'I can remember my grandfather and my grandmother--the married daughterspoke incredulously--'there was never a gentleman called Kinnaird thatany of the family had to do with. I'm sure of that, or I'd have as muchas heard the name. '

The minister shook his head, discounting the certainty. 

'Maybe John will remember the name; your father, and your grandfathertoo, had great talks with him when he was a lad. I'll write a line andask him. Poor William or Thomas might have known, if they had lived. '

William and Thomas, grey-haired men, respected fathers of families, hadalready been laid by the side of their father in the burying-ground. John lived in a distant country, counting himself too feeble now tocross the seas. The daughters, the younger members of this flock, werepassing into advanced years. The mother sat by her fireside, and smiledsoftly to herself as she watched the dancing flame, and thought that heryoung lover would return on the morrow. 

The days went on. 

'I cannot think it right to tamper with my mother in this false way. 'The spinster daughter spoke tearfully. 

'Would you rather see Mistress Macdonald die of starvation?' The doctorspoke sharply; he was tired of the protest. The doctor approved of thenew maid. 'She's a wise-like body, ' he said; 'let her have her way. '

'Don't you know us, mother?' the daughters would ask patiently, sadly, day by day. But she never knew them; she only mistook one or the otherof them at times for her own mother, of whom she stood in some awe. 

'Surely ye've not forgotten Ann Johnston, ma'am?' the nurse would ask, carefully tending her old mistress. 

The force of long habit had made the old lady patient and courteous, butno answering gleam came in her face. 

'Ye know who I am?' the new maid would cry in kindly triumph. 

'Oh, ay, I know you, Jeanie Trim. '

'And now, look, I brought you a fine cup of milk, warm from the byre. '

'Oh, I canna tak' it; I'm no thinking that I care about eating the day. '

'Well, but I want to tell ye'--with an air of mystery. 'Who d'ye think'sdownstairs? It's Mr. Kinnaird himself. '

'Did he come round by the yard to the dairy door?'

'That he did; and all to ask how ye were the day. '

The sparkle of the eye returned, and the smile that almost seemed todimple the wrinkled cheek. 

'And I hope ye offered him something to eat, Jeanie; it's a long ride hetakes. '

'Bread and cheese, and a cup of milk just like this. '

'What did he say? Did he like what ye gave him?'

'He said a sup of milk sudna cross his lips till you'd had a cupful thelike of his; so I brought it in to ye. You'd better make haste and takeit up. '

'Did he send ye wi' the cup, Jeanie Trim?'

'Ay, he did that; and not a bit nor sup will he tak till ye've drunk itall, every drop. '

With evident delight the cup was drained. 

'Ye told him I was ailing and couldna see him the day, Jeanie?'

'Maybe ye'll see him to-morrow. ' The maid stooped and folded the whiteshawl more carefully over the dame's breast, and smiled in protectivekindly fashion. She had a good heart and a womanly, motherly touch, although many a mistress had called her wilful and pert. 

There were times when the minister came and sat himself behind hisaunt's chair to watch and to listen. He was a meditative man, and wrotemany an essay upon modern theology, but here he found food formeditation of another sort. 

There was no being in the world that he reverenced as he had reverencedthis aged lady. In his childhood she had taught him to lisp the measuresof psalm and paraphrase; in his youth she had advised him with shrewdestwisdom; in his ministerial life she had been to him a friend, alwaysholding before him a greater spiritual height to be attained, andnow---- He thought upon his uncle as he had known him, a very reverentelder of the kirk, a man who had led a long and useful life, and to whomthis woman had rendered wifely devotion. He thought upon his cousins, inwhose lives their mother's life had seemed unalterably bound up. Hewould at times emerge from his corner, and, sitting down beside thelady, would take her well-worn Bible and read to her such passages as heknew were graven deep upon her heart by scenes of joy or sorrow, partingor meeting, or the very hours of birth or death, in the lives that hadbeen dearer to her than her own. He was not an emotional man, but yetthere was a ringing pathos in his voice as he read the rhythmic words. At such times she would sit as if voice and rhythm soothed her, or shewould bow her head solemnly at certain pauses, as if accustomed to agreeto the sentiment expressed. Heart and thought were not awake to him, norto the book he read, nor to the memories he tried to arouse. The fire ofthe lady's heart sprang up only for one word, that word a name, the nameof a man of whose very existence, it seemed, no trace was left in allthat country-side. 

The minister would retreat out of the lady's range of vision; and sogreat did his curiosity grow that he instigated the maid to ask certainquestions as she played at the game of the old love-story in hersprightly, pitying way. 

'Now I'll tell ye a thing that I want to know, ' said the maid, pouringtea in a cup. 'What's his given name? Will ye tell me that?'

'Is it Mr. Kinnaird ye mean?'

'It's Mr. Kinnaird's christened name that I'm speering for. '

'An' I canna tell ye that, for he never told it to me. It'd be no placeof mine to ask him before he chose to speak o' it himsel'. '

'Did ye never see a piece of paper that had his name on it, or a card, maybe?'

'I dinna mind that I have, Jeanie. He's a verra fine gentleman; it'sjust Mr. Kinnaird that he's called. '

'What for will ye no let me tell the master that he comes every day?'

'Ye must no tell my father, Jeanie Trim'--querulously. 'No, no; nor mymither. They'll maybe be telling him to bide away. '

'Why would they be telling him to bide away?'

'Tuts! How can I tell ye why, when I dinna ken mysel'? Why will ye fretme? I'll tak' no more tea. Tak' it away!'

'I tell ye he'll ask me if ye took it up. He's waiting now to hear thatye took a great big piece of bread tae it. He'll no eat the bread andcheese I've set before him till ye've eaten this every crumb. '

'Is that sae? Well, I maun eat it, for I wouldna have him wanting hismeat. '

The meal finished, the maid put on her most winsome smile. 

'Now and I'll tell ye what I'll do; I'll go back to Mr. Kinnaird, andI'll tell him ye sent yer _love_ tae him. '

'Ye'll no do sic a thing as that, Jeanie Trim!' All the dignity andauthority of her long womanhood returned in the impressive air withwhich she spoke. 'Ye'll no do sic a thing as that, Jeanie Trim! It's nofor young ladies to be sending sic messages to a gentleman, when hehasna so much as said the word "love. "'

Had he ever said the word 'love, ' this Kinnaird, whose memory was aliving presence in the chamber of slow death? The minister believed thathe had not. There was no annal in the family letters of his name, although other rejected suitors were mentioned freely. Had he told hislove by look or gesture, and left it unspoken, or had look and gesturebeen misunderstood, and the whole slight love-story been born where ithad died, in the heart of the maiden? 'Where it had died!'--it had notdied. Seventy years had passed, and the love-story was presentlyenacting itself, as all past and all future must for ever be enacting tobeings for whom time is not. Then, too, where was he who, by some means, whether of his own volition or not, had become so much a part of thepulsing life of a young girl that, when all else of life passed from herwith the weight of years, her heart still remained obedient to him?Where was he? Had his life gone out like the flame of a candle when itis blown? Or, if he was anywhere in the universe of living spirits, washe conscious of the power which he was wielding? Was it a triumph tohim to know that he had come, gay and debonair, in the bloom of hisyouth, into this long-existing sanctuary of home, and set aside, with awave of his hand, husband, children, and friends, dead and living?

Whatever might be the psychical aspects of the case, one thing wascertain, that the influence of Kinnaird--Kinnaird alone of all those whohad entered into relations with the lady--was useful at this time tocome between her and the distressing symptoms that would have resultedfrom the mania of self-starvation. For some months longer she lived incomfort and good cheer. This clear memory of her youth was oddlyinterwoven with the forgetful dulness of old age, like a golden threadin a black web, like a tiny flame on the hearth that shoots withintermittent brilliancy into darkness. She was always to see her loverupon the morrow; she never woke to the fact that 'to-day' lasted toolong, that a winter of morrows had slipped fruitless by. 

The interviews between Jeanie Trim and Kinnaird were not monotonous. Allelse was monotonous. December, January, February passed away. Themornings and the evenings brought no change outwardly in the sick-room, no change to the appearance of the fine old face and still statelyfigure, suggested no variety of thought or emotion to the lady'sdecaying faculties; but at the hours when she sat and contentedly atethe food that the maid brought her, her mental vision cleared as itfocused upon the thought of her heart's darling. It was she whosequestions suggested nearly all the variations in the game of imaginationwhich the young woman so aptly played. 

'Was he riding his black mare, Jeanie Trim?'

'I didna see the beast. He stood on his feet when he was tapping at thedoor. '

'Whisht! Ye could tell if he wore his boots and spurs, an' his drabwaistcoat, buttoned high?'

'Now that ye speak of it, those were the very things he wore. '

'It'd be the black mare he was riding, nae doubt; he'll have tied her tothe gate in the lane. ' Or again: 'Was it in the best parlour that ye sawhim the day? He'd be drinking tea wi' my mither. '

'That he was; and she smiling tae him over the dish of tea. '

'Ay, he looks fine and handsome, bowing to my mither in the bestparlour, Jeanie Trim. Did ye notice if he wore silk stockings?'

'Fine silk stockings he wore. '

'And his green coat?'

'As green and smart as a bottle when ye polish, it with a cloth. '

'Did ye notice the fine frills that he has to his shirt? I've tried tomake my father's shirts look as fine, but they never have the samelook. ' The hands of the old dame would work nervously, as if eager toget at the goffering-irons and try once more. 'An' he'd lay his hat onthe floor beside him; it's a way he has. Did my mither tell him that Iwas ailing? His eyes would be shining the while. Do ye notice how hiseyes shine, Jeanie?'

'Ay, do I; his eyes shine and his hair curls. '

'Ye're mistaken there, his hair doesna curl, Jeanie Trim--ye've no'obsairved rightly; his hair is brown and straight; it's his beard andwhiskers that curl. Eh! but they're bonny! There's a colour and shine inthe curl that minds me of the lights I can see in the old copper kettlewhen my mither has it scoured and hung up on the nail; but his hair isplain brown. '

'He's a graun' figure of a man!' cried the blithe maid, eversympathetic. 

'Tuts! What are ye saying, Jeanie! He's no' a great size at all; theshortest of my brithers is bigger than him! Ye might even ca' him a weeman; it's the spirit that he has wi' it that I like. '

Thus, by degrees, touch upon touch, the portrait of Kinnaird waspainted, and whatever misconceptions they might form of him werecorrected one by one. There was little incident depicted, yet thefigure of Kinnaird was never drawn passive, but always in action. 

'Did my father no' offer to send him home in the spring-cart? It's sairwet for him to be walking in the wind and the rain the day. ' Or: 'He hada fine bloom on his cheeks, I'll warrant, when he came in through thismorning's bluster of wind. ' Or again: 'He'll be riding to the hunt withmy father to-day; have they put their pink coats on, Jeanie Trim?'

The relations between Kinnaird and the father and mother appeared to beindefinite rather than unfriendly. There were times, it is true, when hecame round by the dairy and gave private messages to Jeanie Trim, but atother times he figured as one of the ordinary guests of a large andhospitable household. No special honour seemed to be paid him; there wasalways the apprehension in the love-sick girl's heart that such timelyattentions as the offer of proper refreshment or of the use of thespring-cart might be lacking. The parents were never in the daughter'sconfidence. She always feared their interference. There was no beginningto the story, no crisis, no culmination. 

'Now tell me when ye first saw Mr. Kinnaird?' asked the maid. 

But to this there was no answer. It had not been love at first sight, its small beginnings had left no impression; nor was there ever anymention of a change in the relation, or of a parting, only thatsuggestion of a long and weary waiting, given in the beginning of thisphase of memory, when she refused to touch her food, and said she was'sair longing' to see him again. 

The household at Kelsey Farm had flourished in the palmy days ofagriculture. Hunters had been kept and pink coats worn, and the mother, of kin with the neighbouring gentry, had kept her carriage to ride in. There had been many pleasures, no doubt, for the daughter of such ahouse, but only one pleasure remained fixed on her memory, the pleasureof seeing Kinnaird's eyes shining upon her. These days of the lady'syouth had happened at a time when religion, if strong, was a sombrething; and to those who held the pleasures of life in both hands, it waslittle more than a name and a rite. So it came to pass that no religioussentiment was stirred with the thought of this old joy and succeedingsorrow. 

The minister never failed to read some sacred texts when he sat besideher; and when he found himself alone with the old dame, he would kneeland pray aloud in such simple words as he thought she might understand. He did it more to ease his own heart because of the love he bore herthan because he supposed that it made any difference in the sight ofGod whether she heard him or not. He was past the prime of life, and hadfallen into pompous and ministerial habits of manner, but in his hearthe was always pondering to find what the realities of life might be; heseldom drew false conclusions, although to many a question he wascontent to find no answer. He wore a serious look--people seldom knewwhat was passing in his mind; the doctor began to think that he wasanxious for the safety of the old dame's soul. 

'I am not without hope of a lucid interval at the end, ' he said; 'thereis wonderful vitality yet, and it's little more than the power of memorythat is impaired. '

At this hope the daughters caught eagerly. They were plain women, narrowand dull, but their mother had been no ordinary woman; her power of lovehad created in them an affection for her which transcended ordinaryfilial affection. They had inherited from her such strong domesticfeelings that they felt her defection from all family ties for the sakeof the absent father and brothers, felt it with a poignancy which theuse and wont of those winter months did not seem to blunt. 

No sudden shock or fit came to bring about the end. Gradually the olddame's strength failed. There came an hour in the spring time--it wasthe midnight hour of an April night--when she lay upon her bed, sittingup high against white pillows, gasping for the last breaths that shewould ever draw. They had drawn aside the old-fashioned bed-curtains, sothat they hung like high dark pillars at the four posts. They had openedwide the windows, and the light spring wind blew through the room freshwith the dews of night. Outside, the moon was riding among her clouds;the night was white. The budding trees shook their twigs together in thegarden. Inside the room, firelight and lamplight, each flickering muchbecause of the wind, mingled with the moonlight, but did not whollyobscure its misty presence. They all stood there--the minister, thedoctor, the grey-haired daughters sobbing, looking and longing for oneglance of recognition, the nurse, and the new maid. 

They all knelt, while the minister said a prayer. 

'She's looking differently now, ' whispered the home-keeping daughter. She had drawn her handkerchief from her eyes, and was looking with awedsolicitude at her mother's face. 

'Yes, there's a change coming, ' said the married daughter; her largebosom heaved out the words with excited emotion. 

'Speak to her of my father--it will bring her mind back again, ' theyappealed to the minister, pushing him forward to do what they asked. 

The minister took the lady's hands in his, and spoke out clearly andstrongly in her ear; but he spoke not, at first, of husband or children, but of the Son of God. 

Memories that had lain asleep so long seemed slowly to awaken for onelast moment. 

'You know what I am saying, auntie?' The minister spoke strongly, as toone who was deaf. 

There was a smile on the handsome old face. 

'Ay, I know weel: "The Lord is my Shepherd; I shallna want . . . Though Iwalk through the valley o' the shadow of death. "'

'My uncle, and Thomas, and William have gone before you, auntie. '

'Ay'--with a satisfied smile--'they've gone before. '

'You know who I am?' he said again. 

She knew him, and took leave of him. She took leave of each of herdaughters, but in a calm, weak way, as one who had waded too far intothe river of death to be much concerned with the things of earth. 

The doctor pressed her hand, and the faithful nurse. The minister, feeling that justice should be done to one whose wit had brought greatrelief, bid the maid go forward. 

She was weeping, but she spoke in the free, caressing way that she hadused so long. 

'Ye know who I am, ma'am?'

The dying eyes looked her full in the face, but gave no recognition. 

'It's Jeanie Trim. '

'Na, na, I remember a Jeanie Trim long syne, but you're not JeanieTrim!'

The maid drew back discomfited. 

The minister began to repeat a psalm that she loved. The daughters saton the bedside, holding her hands. So they waited, and she seemed tofollow the meaning of the psalm as it went on, until suddenly----

She turned her head feebly towards a space by the bed where no onestood. She drew her aged hands from her daughters', and made as if tostretch them out to a new-comer. She smiled. 

'Mr. Kinnaird!' she murmured; then she died. 

'You might have thought that he was there himself, ' said the daughters, awestruck. 

And the minister said within himself, 'Who knows but that he wasthere?'

II

A MARRIAGE MADE IN HEAVEN

In the backwoods of Canada, about eighty miles north of Lake Ontario, there is a chain of three lakes, linked by the stream of a rapid river, which leads southward from the heart of a great forest. The last of thethree lakes is broad, and has but a slow current because of a huge damwhich the early Scottish settlers built across its mouth in order toform a basin to receive the lumber floated down from the lakes above. Hence this last lake is called Haven, which is also the name of thesettlement at the side of the dam. The worthy Scotsmen, having set up asawmill, built a church beside it, and by degrees a town and aschoolhouse. The wealth of the town came from the forest. The half-breedIndian lumber-men, toiling anxiously to bring their huge tree-trunksthrough the twisting rapids, connected all thoughts of rest and plentywith the peaceful Haven Lake and the town where they received theirwages; and, perhaps because they received their first ideas of religionat the same place, their tripping tongues to this day call it, not'Haven, ' but 'Heaven. '

The town throve apace in its early days, and no one in it throve betterthan Mr. Reid, who kept the general shop. He was a cheerful soul; and itwas owing more to his wife's efforts than his own that his fortune wasmade, for she kept more closely to the shop and had a sharper eye forthe pence. 

Mrs. Reid was not cheerful; she was rather of an acrid disposition. People said that there was only one subject on which the shopkeeper andhis wife agreed, that was as to the superiority of their daughter inbeauty, talent, and amiability, over all other young women far or near. In their broad Scotch fashion they called this daughter Eelan, and thetown knew her as 'Bonnie Eelan Reid'; everyone acknowledged her charms, although there might be some who would not acknowledge her preeminence. 

Mr. And Mrs. Reid carried their pride in their daughter to a greatextent, for they sent her to a boarding-school in the town of Coburgh, which was quite two days' journey to the south. When she came back fromthis educating process well grown, healthy, handsome, and, in theireyes, highly accomplished, the parents felt that there was no rank inthe Canadian world beyond their daughter's reach, if it should be herpleasure to attain it. 

'It wouldn't be anything out of the way even, ' chuckled the happy Mr. Reid, 'if our Eelan should marry the Governor-General. '

'Tuts, father, Governors!' said his wife scornfully, not because she hadany inherent objection to Governors as sons-in-law, but because sheusually cried down what her husband said. 

'The chief difficulty would be that they are usually married before theycome to this country--aren't they, father?' Eelan spoke with a twinklingsmile. She did not choose to explain to any one what she really thought;she had fancies of her own, this pretty backwoods maiden. 

'Well, well, there are lads enough in town, and I'll warrant she'll pickand choose, ' said the jolly father in a resigned tone. He was notparticular as to a Governor, after all. 

That conversation happened when Eelan first came home; but a year or twoafter, the family conferences took a more serious tone. She had learntto keep her father's books in the shop, and had become deft athousework; but there was no prospect of her settling in a house of herown; many of the best young men in the place had offered themselves aslovers and been refused. 

'Oh! what's the use o' talking, father, ' cried Mrs. Reid; 'if the girlwon't, she won't, and that's all. --But I can tell _you_, Eelan Reid, that all your looks and your manners won't save you from being an oldmaid, if you turn your back on the men. '

'I wasn't talking, ' said Mr. Reid humbly; 'I was only saying to thelassie that I didn't want her to hurry; but I'd be right sorry when I'mgetting old not to have some notion where I was going to leave mymoney--it'll more than last out Eelan's day, if it's rightly taken careof. '

'But I can't marry unless I should fall in love, ' said Eelan wistfully. Her parents had a vague notion that this manner of expressing herselfwas in some way a proof of her high accomplishments. 

Life was by no means dull in the little town. There were picnics insummer, sleigh-drives in winter, dances, and what not; and Eelan was norecluse. Still, she loved the place better than the people, and therewas not a spot of ground in the neighbourhood that she did not know byheart. 

In summer, the sparkling water of the lake rippled under a burning sun, and the thousand tree-trunks left floating in it, held near to the edgeby the floating boom of logs, became hot and dry on the upper side, while the green water-moss caught them from beneath. It was great funfor the school children to scamper out daringly on these floating fieldsof lumber; and Eelan liked to go with them, and sometimes walk far outalone along the edge of the boom. She would listen to the birds singing, the children shouting, to the whir of the saws in the mill, and theplash of the river falling over the dam; and she would feel that it wasenough delight simply to live without distressing herself about marriageyet awhile. 

When winter came, Eelan was happier still. All the roughness anddarkness of the earth was lost in a downy ocean of snow. Where thewaterfall had been there was a fairy palace of icicles glancing in thesun, and smooth white roads were made across the frozen lake. Eelannever drew back dazzled from the glittering landscape; she was a childof the winter, and she loved its light. She would often harness herfather's horse to the old family sleigh and drive alone across the lake. She took her snow-shoes with her, and, leaving the horse at somefriendly farmhouse, she would tramp into the woods over the tracklesssnow. The girl would stand still and look up at the solemn pines andlisten, awed by their majestic movement and the desolate loveliness allaround. At such time, if the thought of marriage came, she did not putit aside with the light fancy that she wished still to remain free; shelonged, in the drear solitude, for some one to sympathise with her, someone who could explain the meaning of the wordless thoughts that welledup within her, the vague response of her heart to the mystery ofexternal beauty. Alas! among all her suitors there was not such afriend. 

There was no one else in the town who cared for country walks as Eelandid--at least, no one but the schoolmaster. She met him occasionally, walking far from home; he was a quaint, old-looking man, and she thoughthe had a face like an angel's. She might have wished sometimes to stopand speak to him, but when they met he always appeared to have his eyesresting on the distant horizon, and his mind seemed wrapped in somelearned reverie, to the oblivion of outward things. The schoolmasterlived in the schoolhouse on the bank of the curving river, a bit belowthe waterfall. He took up his abode there a few months before Eelan Reidcame home from school. He had come from somewhere nearer the centres ofeducation--had been imported, so to speak, for the special use of HavenSettlement, for the leading men of the place were a canny set and knewthe worth of books. His testimonials had told of a higher standard ofscholarship than was usual in such schools, and the keen Scots hadsnapped at the chance and engaged him without an interview; but when hearrived they had been grievously disappointed. He was a gentle, unsophisticated man, shy as a girl, and absent-minded withal. 

'Aweel, I'll not say but he'll do to put sums and writing into theyoungsters' heads and teach them to spout their poems; but he's not justwhat I call a _man_. ' This was the opinion which Macpherson, the portlyowner of the mill, had delivered to his friends. 

'There's something lacking, I'm thinking, ' said one; 'he's thirty-sixyears old, and to see him driving his cow afield, you'd say he wassixty, and him not sickly either. '

'I doubt he's getting far too high a salary, ' said Macpherson solemnly. 'To pass examinations is all very well; but he's not got the grit in himthat I'd like to see. '

So they had called a school committee meeting, and suggested to the newschoolmaster, as delicately as they could, that they were muchdisappointed with his general manner and appearance, but that, as he hadcome so far, they were graciously willing to keep him if he wouldconsent to take a lower salary than that first agreed on. At this theschoolmaster grew very red, and, with much stammering, he managed tomake a speech. He said that he liked the wildness and extreme beauty ofthe country, and the children appeared to him attractive; he did notwish to go away; and as to salary, he would take what they thought himworth. 

In this way they closed the bargain with him on terms quite satisfactoryto themselves. 

'But hoots, ' said the stout Macpherson as he ambled home from themeeting, 'I've only half a respect for a man that can't stand up forhimself;' and this sentiment was more or less echoed by them all. 

Happily, the schoolmaster did not desire society. The minister's wifeasked him to tea occasionally; and he confided to her that, up to thattime, he had always lived with his mother, and that it was because ofher death that he had left his old home, where sad memories were toogreat a strain upon him, and come farther west. No one else took muchnotice of him, partly because he took no notice of them. At the ladies'sewing meeting the doctor's wife looked round the room with an injuredair and asked: 'How is it possible to ask a gentleman to tea when youknow that he'll meet you in the street next morning and won't rememberwho you are?'

'A lady who respected herself couldn't do it, ' replied Mrs. Reidpositively; and then in an undertone she remarked to herself, 'Thegaby!'

Miss Ann Blakely pursed her lips and craned her thin neck over her work. 'As to that I don't know, Mrs. Reid; no one could visit the school, as Ihave done, and fail to observe that the youth of the town are moreobedient than formerly. In my opinion, a gentleman who can command therespect of the growing masculine mind----' She finished the sentenceonly by an expressive wave of her head. 

'There is much truth in Miss Blakely's remark, ' said a timid littlemother of six sons. 

People married early, as a general thing, in Haven Settlement, and MissBlakely, having been accidentally overlooked, had, before he came, indulged in some soft imaginations of her own with regard to the newschoolmaster; like others, she was disappointed in him; but she had notyet decided 'whether, ' to use her own phrase, 'he would not, after all, be better than none. ' She poised this question in her mind with a nicebalancing of reasons for and against for about three years, and the manwho was thus the object of her interest continued to live peacefully, ignorant alike of hostile criticism and tender speculation. 

It was a terrible day for the schoolmaster when the honest widow wholived with him as housekeeper was called by the death of adaughter-in-law to go and keep the house of her son in another town. Shecould only tell of her intention two weeks before it was necessary toleave; and very earnestly did the schoolmaster consult with her in theinterval as to what he could possibly do to supply her place, forservants in Haven Settlement were rare luxuries. 

'I don't know, I'm sure, sir, what you can do, ' said Mrs. Simshopelessly. 'The girls in these parts are far too proud to be hired towork in a house. Why, the best folks in town mostly does their ownwork; there's Mrs. Reid, so rich, just has a woman to do the charing;and Eelan--that's the beauty, you know--makes the pies and keeps thehouse spick-and-span. But you couldn't keep your own house clean, couldyou, sir?--let alone the meals; and you wouldn't live long if you hadn't_them_. '

As the days wore on, the schoolmaster became more urgent in his appealsfor advice, but he did not get encouragement to expect to find a servantof any sort, for the widow was too sincere to suggest hope when she feltnone, and the difficulty was not an easy one to solve. She made variousinquiries among her friends. It was suggested that the master should goto 'the boarding-house, ' which was a large barn-like structure, in whichbusiness men who did not happen to have families slept in uncomfortablerooms and dined at a noisy table. Mrs. Sims reported this suggestionfaithfully, and added: 'But it's my belief it would kill you outright. '

The schoolmaster looked at his books and the trim arrangements of hisneat house, and negatived the proposition with more decision than he hadever shown before. 

After a while, Mrs. Sims received another idea of quite a differentnature; but she did not report this so hastily--it required morefinesse. It was entrusted to her care with many injunctions to be'tactful, ' and it was suggested that if there was a mess made of it, itwould be her fault. The idea was nothing less than that it would benecessary for the master to marry; and it was the gaunt Miss Ann Blakelyherself who confided to his present housekeeper that she should have noobjections to become his bride, provided he wrote her a pretty enough, humble sort of letter that she could show to her friends. 

'For, mind you, I'd not go cheap to the like of him, ' she said, raisingan admonishing finger, as she took leave of her friend: 'I'd ratherremain single, far. '

'I think he could write the letter, ' replied Mrs. Sims; 'leastways, ifhe can't do that, I don't know what he can do, poor man. '

Having been solemnly enjoined to be careful, Mrs. Sims thought so longover what she was to say before she said it, that she made herself quitenervous, and when she began, she forgot the half. Over her sewing in thesitting-room one evening she commenced the subject with a flusteredlittle run of words. 'I'm sure such an amiable man as you are, sir, almost three years I've been in this house and never had a word fromyou, not one word'--it is to be remarked that the widow did not intendto assert that the schoolmaster had been mute--'and you are nice in allyour ways, too; if I do say it, quite the gentleman. '

'Oh!' said the schoolmaster, in a tone of surprise, not because he hadheard what she said, but because he was surprised that she should beginto talk to him when he was correcting his books. 

'And not a servant to be had far or near, ' she went on with agitatedvolubility; 'and as for another like myself, of course that's too muchto be hoped for. ' She did not say this out of conceit, but merely asrepresenting the actual state of affairs. 

The schoolmaster began to look frightened. He was not a matter-of-factperson, but, as long as a man is a man, the prospect of being leftaltogether without his meals must be appalling. 

'So, why you shouldn't get married, I don't know. ' She added this intremulous excitement, speaking in an argumentative way, as if she hadled him by an ordered process of thought to an inevitable conclusion. 

'Oh!' exclaimed the schoolmaster in surprise again, this time because he_had_ heard what was said. 

The worst was over now; and Mrs. Sims, having once suggested thedesperate idea of the necessity of marriage, could proceed more calmly. She found, however, that she had to explain the notion at length beforehe could at all grasp it, and then she was obliged to urge its necessityfor some time before he was willing to consider it. He became agitatedin his turn, and, rising, walked up and down the room, his arms foldedand an absent look in his eyes, as though he were thinking of thingsfarther off. 

'I do not mind telling you, for I believe you are a motherly woman, Mrs. Sims, that it is not the first time that the thought of marriage hascrossed my mind' (with solemn hesitation). 'I _have_ thought of itbefore; but I have always been hindered from giving it seriousconsideration from the belief that no woman would be willing to--ah--tomarry me. '

'Well, of course there's some truth in that, sir, ' said his faithfulfriend, reluctantly obliged by her conscience to say what she thought. 

'Just so, Mrs. Sims, ' said the schoolmaster with a patient sigh; 'andtherefore, perhaps it will be unnecessary to discuss the subjectfurther. '

'Still, there's no accounting for tastes; there might be some found thatwould. '

'It would not be necessary to find more than one, ' said he, with a quietsmile. 

'No, that's true, sir, which makes the matter rather easier. It's alwaysbeen my belief that while there is life there is hope. '

'True, true, ' he replied; and then he indulged in a long fit of musing, which she more than suspected had little to do with the immediatebearing of the subject on his present case. It was necessary to rousehim, for there was no time to be lost. 

'Of course I don't say that there's many that would have you; there'sgirls enough--but laws! they'd all make game of you if you were to goa-courting to them, and, I take it, courting's not the sort of thingyou're cleverest at. '

'True, ' said the schoolmaster again, and again he sighed. 

'But now, a good sensible woman, like Miss Blakely, as would keep youand your house clean and tidy, not to speak of cooking--I make bold tosay you couldn't do better than to get such a one, if she might be sominded. '

'Who is Miss Blakely?' he asked wonderingly. 

'It's her that visits the school so often; you've seen her time andagain. '

'I recollect, ' he said; 'but I have not spoken much with her. '

'That's just what I said, ' she observed triumphantly. 'You'd be no moreup to courting than cows are up to running races. Now, as to MissBlakely, not being as young as some, nor to say good-looking, she mightnot stand on the ceremony of much courting; if you just wrote her oneletter, asking her quite modest, and putting in a few remarks aboutflowers and that sort of thing, as you could do so well, being clever atwriting, I give it as my opinion it's not unlikely she'd take you out ofhand; not every one would, of course, but she has a kind heart, has MissBlakely. '

'Kind is she?' said he, with a tone of interest; 'and sweet-tempered?'

Mrs. Sims said more in favour of the scheme; it required that she shouldsay much, for the schoolmaster was not to be easily persuaded. She had, however, three strong arguments in its favour, which she reiteratedagain and again, with more and more assurance of certitude as she warmedto the subject. The first point was, that if he did not marry, he musteither starve at home or go to the boarding-house, and at the latterplace she assured him again, as she had done at first, he would probablysoon die. Her second point was, that no one else would be willing tomarry him except Miss Blakely; and her third--although in this mattershe expressed herself with some mysterious caution--that Miss Blakelywould marry him if asked. Mrs. Sims bridled her head, spoke in lowertones than was her wont, and said that she had the secret of MissBlakely's partiality from good authority. She sighed; and he heard hermurmur over her sewing that the heart was always young. In fact, withoutsaying it in so many words, she gave her listener to understand clearlythat Miss Blakely had conceived a very lively affection for him. Andthis last, if she had but known it, was the only argument that carriedweight, for the schoolmaster could have faced either the prospect ofstarvation or a lingering death in the rude noise of a boarding-house;but he was tender-hearted, and, moreover, he had a beautiful soul, andsupposed all women to be like his mother, whom he had loved with all hisstrength. 

'You'd better make haste, sir, ' said Mrs. Sims, 'for I must leave onThursday, and now it's Saturday night. There's not overmuch time foreverything--although, indeed, Mrs. Graham, that goes out charing, mightcome in and make you your meals for a week, though it will cost you halfa quarter's salary, charing is that expensive in these parts. '

The schoolmaster proceeded to think over the matter--that is to say, heproceeded to muse over it; by which process he did not face the facts asthey were--did not become better acquainted with the real Miss Blakely, but made some sort of progress in another way, for he conjured up anideal Miss Blakely, gentle and good, cheerful, with intellectual tasteslike his own, a person who, like himself, had not fared very happily inthe world until now, and for whom his love and protection would make aparadise. It did occur to him, occasionally, that the picture he wasdrawing might not be quite correct, and at those times he would seekMrs. Sims, and ask a few questions of this oracle by way of adjustinghis own ideas to the truth. Poor Mrs. Sims, between her extreme honestyand her desire to see the schoolmaster, whom she really loved, assuredof future comfort, had much ado to be 'tactful' and say the rightthing. She naturally regarded comfort as pertaining solely to the outerman, and fully believed that this marriage was the best step he couldtake; so her answers, when they could not be satisfactory, were vague. 

'How can you doubt, sir, that you'll be much happier with a wife to cookyour meals regular, and no more bother about changements all your life?I'm sure if I were you, sir, I wouldn't hesitate between the joys ofmatrimony and single life. '

'Perhaps not, Mrs. Sims; but I, being I, do hesitate. It is a veryimportant step to take, just because, as you say, there will be no morechange. '

'And it's just you that have been telling me that the very thing youdislike most in this world is change. And there are other advantages, too, in having kith and kin, for it's lonesome without when you're old;and just think how beautiful for a wife to weep over you when you'rea-dying--and she'll do all that, Miss Blakely will, sir; I'm sure, asher friend, I can answer for it. '

'The wills above be done, ' murmured the schoolmaster, 'but I would faindie a dry death. '

Time pressed; the schoolmaster procrastinated; the very evening beforethe widow's departure had arrived, and yet nothing was done. Then ithappened, as is frequently the case when the mind is balancing betweentwo opinions, that a very small circumstance determined him to write theall-important note. The circumstance was none other than his having aconvenient opportunity of sending it; for to him, as to many otherunpractical minds, the small difficulties in the way of any action hadas great a deterring power as more important considerations. MissBlakely happened to live on the other side of the town, and though themaster walked much farther than that himself every day, he felt that inthis case it would hardly be dignified to be his own messenger. 

It was early in the evening, and the master's window was open to thesoft spring air that came in full of the freshness of young leaves andthe joyous splash of the flooded river. Two of his schoolboys wereloitering under the window, wishing to speak to him, yet too bashful; hegot up and sat on the window-sill, smiled at them, and they smiled back. They had a tale to tell; but, as it was of a somewhat delicate natureand hard to explain, he had to listen very patiently. They had adollar--a brown and green paper dollar--which they gave him with an airof solemn importance. They said that they and some of their comrades hadbeen a long way from home gathering saxifrage, and that they had met oneof the young ladies of the town. She had her arms full of flowers, andher pocket quite full of moss, so full that she had had to take herpurse and handkerchief out and hold them in her hand with the flowersbecause the moss was wet. When she came upon them, they were trying toget some saxifrage that was on a ledge of rock; they could only climbhalf-way up the rock, and were none of them tall enough to reach it; soshe put down all her flowers and things and climbed up and got it forthem; but in the meantime one of them opened the purse and took out thedollar. She never found it out, and went away. 

'Not either of you?' said the schoolmaster. 

'No, sir; one of the other fellows did it. But he's sorry, and wants togive it back; so we said that we would tell you, and perhaps you wouldgive it to her. '

'Why couldn't you go and give it to her, just as you have given it tome?'

'Because we knew you'd b'lieve us that it was just the way we said; andher folks, you know, might think we'd done it when we said we hadn't. Or, mother said, if you didn't want to be troubled, perhaps you'd justwrite a line to say how it was, and we'll go and leave it at the houseafter dark and come away quick. '

The master had no objection to this; so he brought the boys in and gotout his best note-paper--he was fastidious about some things--and wrotea note beginning 'Dear Madam, ' telling in a few lines that the money hadbeen stolen and restored. 

'What is the lady's name?' he asked, taking up the envelope. 

'It was Eelan Reid, sir; Mr. Reid's daughter that keeps the shop. '

So the schoolmaster wrote 'Miss Eelan Reid' in a fair round hand, andthen he paused for a moment. He was making up his mind to theall-decisive action. 

'Perhaps you can wait for another note and take that for me at the sametime, ' he said. He gave them some picture papers to look at. Then hewrote the note of such moment to himself, beginning, as before, 'DearMadam, ' and doing his best to follow the many instructions which thefaithful Mrs. Sims had given him. It was a curious specimen ofliterature, in which a truly elegant mind and warm heart were veiled, but not hidden, by an embarrassed attempt at conventional phrases--aletter that most women would laugh at, and that the best women wouldreverence. He addressed that envelope too, and sealed the notes and sentaway the boys. 

There was no sleep for the schoolmaster that night. With folded arms hepaced his room in restless misery. Now that the die was cast, the idealMiss Blakely faded from his mind; he felt instinctively that she wasmythical. He saw clearly that he had forfeited the best possibilities oflife for the sake of temporary convenience, that he had sold hisbirthright for a mess of pottage. 

The long night passed at length, as all nights pass. The sun rose overpurple hills to glow upon the spring-stirred forest and to send goldenshafts deep down into the clear heart of lake and stream. The fallenbeauty of past woodland summers had tinged the water till it glowed likenut-brown wine; so brown it was that the pools of the river, where itswirled and rushed past the schoolhouse bend, seemed to greet the sunwith the soft dark glances of fawn-eyed water-sprites. The glorious sky, the tender colours of the budding wood, the very dandelions on theuntrimmed bank, contrived their hues to accord and rejoice with thelaughing water, and the birds swelled out its song. In the rapture ofspring and of morning there was no echo of grief; for the unswerving lawof nature, moving through the years, had set each thing in its righthome. It is only the perplexed soul that is forced to choose its own wayand suffer from the choice, and the song of our life is but set to theaccompaniment of a sad creed if we may not trust that, above our humanwills, there is a Power able to overrule the mistakes of true hearts, tolead the blind by unseen paths, and save the simple from their ownsimplicity. 

Very early in the morning the schoolmaster, haggard and worn, slippedout of his own door to refresh himself in the sunlight that gleamed downupon his bit of green through the budding willow trees that grew by theriver-side. He stood awhile under the bending boughs, watching the fullstream as it tossed its spray into the lap of the flower-fringed shore. He looked, as he stood there, like a ghost of the preceding night, caught against his will and embraced by the joyous morning. Just then hehad a vision. 

A girl came towards him across the grass and stood a few paces distant. The slender willow twigs, with their hanging catkins and tiny goldenleaves, made a sort of veil between them. She was very beautiful, atleast so the schoolmaster thought; perhaps she was the personificationof the morning, perhaps she was a wood-nymph--it did not matter much; hefelt, in his excitement and exhaustion, that her beauty and grace werenot real, but only an hallucination of moving sun and shade. She tookthe swaying willow-twigs in her pretty hands and looked through them athim and stroked the downy flowers. 

'Why did you send me that letter?' she said at last, with a touch ofseverity in her voice. 

'The letter, ' he stammered, wondering what she could mean. 

He remembered, with a sort of dull return of consciousness, that he_was_ guilty of having sent a letter--terribly guilty in his ownestimation--but it was sent to Miss Blakely, and this was not MissBlakely. That one letter had so completely absorbed all his mind that hehad quite forgotten any others that he might have written in the courseof his whole life. 

'Do not be angry with me, ' he said imploringly. He had but one idea, that was, to keep this radiant dream of beauty with him as long aspossible. 

'I'm not angry; I am not angry at all--indeed'--and here she looked downat the twigs in her hand and began pulling the young leaves ratherroughly--'I am not sure but that I am rather pleased. I have so oftenmet you in the woods, you know; only I didn't know that you had evernoticed me. '

'I never did, ' said the schoolmaster; but happily his nervous lips gavebut indistinct utterance to the words, and his tone was pathetic. Shethought he had only made some further pleading. 

'I--I--I like you very much, ' she said. 'I suppose, of course, everybodywill be very much surprised, and mother may not be pleased, you know, just at first; but she's good and dear, mother is, in spite of what shesays; and father will be glad about anything that pleases me. '

He did not understand what she said; but he felt distressed at themoment to notice that she was twisting the tender willow leaves, albeithe saw that she only did so because, in her embarrassment, her fingersworked unconsciously. He came forward and took her hands gently, todisentangle them from the twigs. She let them lie in his, and looked upin his face and smiled. 

'I will try to be a good wife, and manage all the common things, and nottease you to be like other men, if you will sometimes read your books tome and explain to me what life means, and why it is so beautiful, andwhy things are as they are. '

'I'm afraid I don't understand these matters myself very well, ' he said;'but we can talk about them together. '

While he held her hands, she drooped her head till it touched hisshoulder. 

He had kissed no one since his mother died, and the great joy that tookpossession of his heart brought, by its stimulus, a sudden knowledge ofwhat had really happened to his mind. In a marvellously tender way, fora man who could not go a-courting, he put his hand under the pretty chinand looked down wonderingly, reverently, at the serious upturned face. 'And this is bonnie Eelan Reid?'

Then Eelan, thinking that he was teasing her gently for being so easilywon when she had gained the reputation of being so proud, cast down hereyes and blushed. 

So they were married, and lived happily, very happily, although they hadtheir sorrows, as others have. The schoolmaster was man enough to keepthe knowledge of his blunder a secret between himself and God. 

As for Miss Blakely, she never quite understood who had stolen thedollar, or when, or where; but she was glad to get it back. She neverforgave Mrs. Sims for having managed her trust so ill, although thewidow declared, with tears in her eyes, that she had done her best. 

'He would have taken in the knowingest person, he would indeed, AnnBlakely; and, to my notion, a straightforward woman like you is wellquit of a man who, while he looked so innocent, could act so deep. '

III

THRIFT

The end of March had come. The firm Canadian snow roads had suddenlychanged their surface and become a chain of miniature rivers, lakesinterspersed by islands of ice, and half-frozen bogs. 

A young priest had started out of the city of Montreal to walk to thesuburb of Point St. Charles. He was in great haste, so he kilted up hislong black petticoats and hopped and skipped at a good pace. The hardproblems of life had not as yet assailed him; he had that set of theshoulders that belongs to a good conscience and an easy mind; his facewas rosy-cheeked and serene. 

Behind him lay the hill-side city, with its grey towers and spires andsnow-clad mountain. All along his way budding maple trees swayed theirbranches overhead; on the twigs of some there was the scarlet moss ofopening flowers, some were tipped with red buds and some were grey. TheMarch wind was surging through them; the March clouds were flying abovethem, --light grey clouds with no rain in them, --veil above veil of mist, and each filmy web travelling at a different pace. The road began as astreet, crossed railway tracks and a canal, ran between fields, andagain entered between houses. The houses were of brick or stone, poorand ugly; the snow in the fields was sodden with water; the road----

'I wish that the holy prophet Elijah would come to this Jordan with hismantle, ' thought the priest to himself. 

This was a pious thought, and he splashed and waded alongconscientiously. He had been sent on an errand, and had to return todischarge a more important duty in the same afternoon. 

The suburb consisted chiefly of workmen's houses and factories, butthere were some ambitious-looking terraces. The priest stopped at abrick dwelling of fair size. It had an aspect of flauntingrespectability; lintel and casements were shining with varnish; cheapstarched curtains decked every window. When the priest had rung a bellwhich jingled inside, the door was opened by a young woman. She was nota servant, her dress was fur-belowed and her hair was most elaboratelyarranged. She was, moreover, evidently Protestant; she held the door andsurveyed the visitor with an air that was meant to show easyindependence of manner, but was, in fact, insolent. 

The priest had a slip of paper in his hand and referred to it. 'Mrs. O'Brien?' he asked. 

'I'm not Mrs. O'Brien, ' said the young woman, looking at something whichinterested her in the street. 

A shrill voice belonging, as it seemed, to a middle-aged woman, madeitself heard. 'Louisy, if it's a Cath'lic priest, take him right in toyour gran'ma; it's him she's expecting. '

A moment's stare of surprise and contempt, and the young woman led theway through a gay and cheaply furnished parlour, past the door of a bestbedroom which stood open to shew the frills on the pillows, into a roomin the back wing. She opened the door with a jerk and stared again asthe priest passed her. She was a handsome girl; the young priest did notlike to be despised; within his heart he sighed and said a short prayerfor patience. 

He entered a room that did not share the attempt at elegance of thefront part of the house; plain as a cottage kitchen, it was warm andcomfortable withal. The large bed with patchwork quilt stood in acorner; in the middle was an iron stove in which logs crackled andsparkled. The air was hot and dry, but the priest, being accustomed tothe atmosphere of stoves, took no notice, in fact, he noticed nothingbut the room's one inmate, who from the first moment compelled his wholeattention. 

In a wooden arm-chair, dressed in a black petticoat and a scarletbedgown, sat a strong old woman. Weakness was there as well as strength, certainly, for she could not leave her chair, and the palsy ofexcitement was shaking her head, but the one idea conveyed by everywrinkle of the aged face and hands, by every line of the bowed figure, was strength. One brown toil-worn hand held the head of a thickwalking-stick which she rested on the floor well in front of her, as ifshe were about to rise and walk forward. Her brown face--nose and chinstrongly defined--was stretched forward as the visitor entered; hereyes, black and commanding, carried with them something of thatauthoritative spell that is commonly attributed to a commanding mind. Great physical size or power this woman apparently had never had, butshe looked the very embodiment of a superior strength. 

'Shut the door! shut the door behind ye!' These were the first wordsthat the youthful confessor heard, and then, as he advanced, 'You'reyoung, ' she said, peering into his face. Without a moment's intermissionfurther orders were given him: 'Be seated; be seated! Take a chair bythe fire and put up your wet feet. It is from Father M'Leod of St. Patrick's Church that ye've come?'

The young man, whose boots were well soaked with ice-water, was not lothto put them up on the edge of the stove. It was not at all his idea of apriestly visit to a woman who had represented herself as dying, but itis a large part of wisdom to take things as they come until it isnecessary to interfere. 

'You wrote, I think, to Father M'Leod, saying that as the priests ofthis parish are French and you speak English----'

Some current of excitement hustled her soul into the midst of what shehad to say. 

''Twas Father Maloney, him that had St. Patrick's before Father M'Leod, who married me; so I just thought before I died I'd let one of ye know athing concerning that marriage that I've never told to mortal soul. Sitye still and keep your feet to the fire; there's no need for a young manlike you to be taking your death with the wet because I've a thing tosay to ye. '

'You are not a Catholic now, ' said he, raising his eyebrows withintelligence as he glanced at a Bible and hymn-book that lay on thefloor beside her. 

He was not unaccustomed to meeting perverts; it was impossible to haveany strong emotion about so frequent an occurrence. He had had a longwalk and the hot air of the room made him somewhat sleepy; if it had notbeen for the fever and excitement of her mind he might not have pickedup more than the main facts of all she said. As it was, his attentionwandered for some minutes from the words that came from her palsiedlips. It did not wander from her; he was thinking who she might be, andwhether she was really about to die or not, and whether he had notbetter ask Father M'Leod to come and see her himself. This last thoughtindicated that she impressed him as a person of more importance andinterest than had been supposed when he had been sent to hear herconfession. 

All this time, fired by a resolution to tell a tale for the first andlast time, the old woman, steadying as much as she might her shakinghead, and leaning forward to look at the priest with bleared yetflashing eyes, was pouring out words whose articulation was oftenindistinct. Her hand upon her staff was constantly moving, as if shewere about to rise and walk; her body seemed about to spring forwardwith the impulse of her thoughts, the very folds of the scarlet bedgownwere instinct with excitement. 

The priest's attention returned to her words. 

'Yes, marry and marry and marry--that's what you priests in my youngdays were for ever preaching to us poor folk. It was our duty tomultiply and fill the new land with good Cath'lics. Father Maloney, thatwas his doctrine, and me a young girl just come out from the old countrywith my parents, and six children younger than me. Hadn't I had enoughof young children to nurse, and me wanting to begin life in a new placerespectable, and get up a bit in the world? Oh, yes! but Father Maloneyhe was on the look-out for a wife for Terry O'Brien. He was a widow manwith five little helpless things, and drunk most of the time was Terry, and with no spirit in him to do better. Oh! but what did that matter toFather Maloney when it was the good of the Church he was looking for, wanting O'Brien's family looked after? O'Brien was a good, kind fellow, so Father Maloney said, and you'll never hear me say a word againstthat. So Father Maloney got round my mother and my father and me, andmarried me to O'Brien, and the first year I had a baby, and the secondyear I had another, so on and so on, and there's not a soul in thisworld can say but that I did well by the five that were in the housewhen I came to it. 

'Oh! "house"!---- d'ye think it was one house he kept over our heads?No, but we moved from one room to another, not paying the rent. Well, and what sort of a training could the children get? Father Maloney hetalked fine about bringing them up for the Church. Did he come in andwash them when I was a-bed? Did he put clothes on their backs? No, andfine and angry he was when I told him that that was what he ought tohave done! Oh! but Father Maloney and I went at it up and down many aday, for when I was wore out with the anger inside me, I'd go and tellhim what I thought of the marriage he'd made, and in a passion he'd getat a poor thing like me teaching him duty. 

'Not that I ever was more than half sorry for the marriage myself, because of O'Brien's children, poor things, that he had before I came tothem. Likely young ones they were too, and handsome, what would theyhave done if I hadn't been there to put them out of the way when O'Brienwas drunk, and knocking them round, or to put a bit of stuff together tokeep them from nakedness?

'"Well, " said Father Maloney to me, "why isn't it to O'Brien that youspeak with your scolding tongue?" Faix! and what good was it to spake toO'Brien, I'd like to know? Did you ever try to cut water with a knife, or to hurt a feather-bed by striking at it with your fist? A nicegood-natured man was Terry O'Brien--I'll never say that he wasn'tthat, --except when he was drunk, which was most of the time--but he'd nomore backbone to him than a worm. That was the sort of husband FatherMaloney married me to. 

'The children kept a-coming till we'd nine of them, that's with the fiveI found ready to hand; and the elder ones getting up and needing to beset out in the world, and what prospect was there for them? What couldI do for them? Me always with an infant in my arms! Yet 'twas me and noother that gave them the bit and sup they had, for I went out to work;but how could I save anything to fit decent clothes on them, and itwasn't much work I could do, what with the babies always coming, andsick and ailing they were half the time. The Sisters would come from theconvent to give me charity. 'Twas precious little they gave, andlectured me too for not being more submiss'! And I didn't want theircharity; I wanted to get up in the world. I'd wanted that before I wasmarried, and now I wanted it for the children. Likely girls the twoeldest were, and the boy just beginning to go the way of his father. '

She came to a sudden stop and breathed hard; the strong old face wasstill stretched out to the priest in her eagerness; the staff wasswaying to and fro beneath the tremulous hand. She had poured out herwords so quickly that there was in his chest a feeling of answeringbreathlessness, yet he still sat regarding her placidly with theserenity of healthy youth. 

She did not give him long rest. 'What did I see around me?' shedemanded. 'I saw people that had begun life no better than myselfgetting up and getting up, having a shop maybe, or sending theirchildren to the "Model" School to learn to be teachers, or getting theminto this business or that, and mine with never so much as knowing howto read, for they hadn't the shoes to put on----

'And I had it in me to better them and myself. I knew I'd be strong ifit wasn't for the babies, and I knew, too, that I'd do a kinder thingfor each child I had, to strangle it at it's birth than to bring it onto know nothing and be nothing but a poor wretched thing like TerryO'Brien himself----'

At the word 'strangle' the young priest took his feet from the ledge infront of the fire and changed his easy attitude, sitting up straight andlooking more serious. 

'It's not that I blamed O'Brien over much, he'd just had the same sortof bringing up himself and his father before him, and when he was sobera very nice man he was; it was spiritiness he lacked; but if he'd hadmore spiritiness he'd have been a wickeder man, for what is there togive a man sense in a rearing like that? If he'd been a wickeder man I'dhave had more fear to do with him the thing I did. But he was just agood sort of creature without sense enough to keep steady, or to knowwhat the children were wanting; not a notion he hadn't but that they'dgot all they needed, and I had it in me to better them. Will ye dare tosay that I hadn't?

'After Terry O'Brien went I had them all set out in the world, marriedor put to work with the best, and they've got ahead. All but O'Brien'seldest son, every one of them have got ahead of things. I couldn't putthe spirit into _him_ as I could into the littler ones and into thegirls. Well, but he's the only black sheep of the seven, for two of themdied. All that's living but him are doing well, doing well' (she noddedher head in triumph), 'and their children doing better than them, asought to be. Some of them ladies and gentlemen, real quality. Oh! yeneedn't think I don't know the difference' (some thought expressed inhis face had evidently made its way with speed to her brain)--'mydaughter that lives here is all well enough, and her girl handsome andable to make her way, but I tell you there's some of my grandchildrenthat's as much above her in the world as she is above poor TerryO'Brien--young people that speak soft when they come to see their poorold grannie and read books, oh! I know the difference; oh! I know verywell--not but what my daughter here is well-to-do, and there's not oneof them all but has a respect for me. ' She nodded again triumphantly, and her eyes flashed. 'They know, they know very well how I set them outin the world. And they come back for advice to me, old as I am, and seethat I want for nothing. I've been a _good_ mother to them, and a goodmother makes good children and grandchildren too. '

There was another pause in which she breathed hard; the priest graspedthe point of the story; he asked--

'What became of O'Brien?'

'I drowned him. '

The priest stood up in a rigid and clerical attitude. 

'I tell ye I drowned him. ' She had changed her attitude to suit his; andwith the supreme excitement of telling what she had never told, thereseemed to come to her the power to sit erect. Her eagerness was not thatof self-vindication; it was the feverish exaltation with which old ageglories over bygone achievement. 

'I'd never have thought of it if it hadn't been O'Brien himself that putit into my head. But the children had a dog, 'twas little enough theyhad to play with, and the beast was useful in his way too, for he couldmind the baby at times; but he took to ailing--like enough it was fromwant of food, and I was for nursing him up a bit and bringing him round, but O'Brien said that he'd put him into the canal. 'Twas one Sunday thathe was at home sober--for when he was drunk I could handle him so thathe couldn't do much harm. So says I, "And why is he to be put in thecanal?"

'Says he, "Because he's doing no good here. "

'So says I, "Let the poor beast live, for he does no harm. "

'Then says he, "But it's harm he does taking the children's meat andtheir place by the fire. "

'And says I, "Are ye not afraid to hurry an innocent creature into thenext world?" for the dog had that sense he was like one of the childrento me. 

'Then said Terry O'Brien, for he had a wit of his own, "And if he's aninnocent creature he'll fare well where he goes. "

'Then said I, "He's done his sins, like the rest of us, no doubt. "

'Then says he, "The sooner he's put where he can do no more the better. "

'So with that he put a string round the poor thing's neck and took himaway to where there was holes in the ice of the canal, just as there isto-day, for it was the same season of the year, and the children allcried; and thinks I to myself, "If it was the dog that was going to puttheir father into the water they would cry less. " For he had a peevishtemper in drink, which was most of the time. 

'So then, I knew what I would do. 'Twas for the sake of the childrenthat were crying about me that I did it, and I looked up to the sky andI said to God and the holy saints that for Terry O'Brien and hischildren 'twas the best deed I could do; and the words that we saidabout the poor beast rang in my head, for they fitted to O'Brienhimself, every one of them. 

'So you see it was just the time when the ice was still thick on thewater, six inches thick maybe, but where anything had happened to breakit the edges were melting into large holes. And the next night when itwas late and dark I went and waited outside the tavern, the way O'Brienwould be coming home. 

'He was just in that state that he could walk, but he hadn't the senseof a child, and we came by the canal, for there's a road along it allwinter long, but there were places where if you went off the road youfell in, and there were placards up saying to take care. But TerryO'Brien hadn't the sense to remember them. I led him to the edge of ahole, and then I came on without him. He was too drunk to feel the painof the gasping. So I went home. 

'There wasn't a creature lived near for a mile then, and in the morningI gave out that I was afraid he'd got drowned, so they broke the ice andtook him up. And there was just one person that grieved for TerryO'Brien. Many's the day I grieved for him, for I was accustomed to havehim about me, and I missed him like, and I said in my heart, "Terry, wherever ye may be, I have done the best deed for you and your children, for if you were innocent you have gone to a better place, and if it weresin to live as you did, the less of it you have on your soul the betterfor you; and as for the children, poor lambs, I can give them a startin the world now I am rid of you!" That's what I said in my heart toO'Brien at first--when I grieved for him; and then the years passed, andI worked too hard to be thinking of him. 

'And now, when I sit here facing the death for myself, I can look out ofmy windows there back and see the canal, and I say to Terry again, as ifI was coming face to face with him, that I did the best deed I could dofor him and his. I broke with the Cath'lic Church long ago, for Icouldn't go to confess; and many's the year that I never thought ofreligion. But now that I am going to die I try to read the books mydaughter's minister gives me, and I look to God and say that I've sinson my soul, but the drowning of O'Brien, as far as I know right fromwrong, isn't one of them. '

The young priest had an idea that the occasion demanded some strong formof speech. 'Woman, ' he said, 'what have you told me this for?'

The strength of her excitement was subsiding. In its wane theafflictions of her age seemed to be let loose upon her again. Her wordscame more thickly, her gaunt frame trembled the more, but not for onemoment did her eye flinch before his youthful severity. 

'I hear that you priests are at it yet. "Marry and marry and marry, "that's what ye teach the poor folks that will do your bidding, "inorder that the new country may be filled with Cath'lics, " and I thoughtbefore I died I'd just let ye know how one such marriage turned; and ashe didn't come himself you may go home and tell Father M'Leod that, Godhelping me, I have told you the truth. '

The next day an elderly priest approached the door of the same house. His hair was grey, his shoulders bent, his face was furrowed with thosebenign lines which tell that the pain which has graven them is thatsympathy which accepts as its own the sorrows of others. Father M'Leodhad come far because he had a word to say, a word of pity and ofsympathy, which he hoped might yet touch an impenitent heart, a wordthat he felt was due from the Church he represented to this wanderingsoul, whether repentance should be the result or not. 

When he rang the bell it was not the young girl but her mother whoanswered the door; her face, which spoke of ordinary comfort and goodcheer, bore marks of recent tears. 

'Do you know, ' asked the Father curiously, 'what statement it was thatyour mother communicated to my friend who was here yesterday?'

'No, sir, I do not. '

'Your mother was yesterday in her usual health and sound mind?' heinterrogated gently. 

'She was indeed, sir, ' and she wiped a tear. 

'I would like to see your mother, ' persisted he. 

'She had a stroke in the night, sir; she's lying easy now, but she knowsno one, and the doctor says she'll never hear or see or speak again. '

The old man sighed deeply. 

'If I may make so bold, sir, will you tell me what business it was mymother had with the young man yesterday or with yourself?'

'It is not well that I should tell you, ' he replied, and he wentaway. 

IV

A TAINT IN THE BLOOD

CHAPTER I

The curate was walking on the cliffs with his lady-love. All the sky wasgrey, and all the sea was grey. The soft March wind blew over the rockyshore; it could not rustle the bright green weed that hung wet from theboulders, but it set all the tufts of grass upon the cliffs nodding tothe song of the ebbing tide. The lady was the vicar's daughter; her namewas Violetta. 

'Let us stand still here, ' said the curate, 'for there is something Imust say to you to-day. ' So they stood still and looked at the sea. 

'Violetta, ' said the curate, 'you cannot be ignorant that I have longloved you. Last night I took courage and told your father of my hope anddesire that you should become my wife. He told me what I did not know, that you have already tasted the joy of love and the sorrow of itsdisappointment. I can only ask you now if this former love has made itimpossible that you should love again. '

'No, ' she answered; 'for although I loved and sorrowed then with all thestrength of a child's heart, still it was only as a child, and that ispast. '

'Will you be my wife?' said the curate. 

'I cannot choose but say "yes, " I love you so much. '

Then they turned and went back along the cliffs, and the curate was veryhappy. 'But tell me, ' he said, 'about this other man that loved you. '

'His name was Herbert. He was the squire's son. He loved me and I lovedhim, but afterwards we found that his mother had been mad----' Violettapaused and turned her sweet blue eyes upon the sea. 

'So you could not marry?' said the curate. 

'No, ' said Violetta, casting her eyes downward, 'because the taint ofmadness is a terrible thing. ' She shuddered and blushed. 

'And you loved him?'

'Dearly, dearly, ' said Violetta, clasping her hands. 'But madness in theblood is too terrible; it is like the inheritance of a curse. '

'He went away?' said the curate. 

'Yes, Herbert went away; and he died. He loved me so much that hedied. '

'I do not wonder at that, ' said the curate, 'for you are very lovely, Violetta. '

They walked home hand in hand, and when they had said good-bye under thebeech trees that grew by the vicarage gate, the curate went down thestreet of the little town. The shop-keepers were at their doorsbreathing the mild spring air. The fishermen had hung their nets to dryin the market-place near the quay. The western cloud was turningcrimson, and the steep roofs and grey church-tower absorbed in sombrecolours the tender light. The curate was going home to his lodgings, buthe bethought him of his tea, and turned into the pastry-cook's by theway. 

'Have you any muffins, Mrs. Yeander?' he asked. 

'No, sir, ' said the portly wife of the baker, in a sad tone, 'they'reall over. '

'Crumpets?' said he. 

'Past and gone, sir, ' said the woman with a sigh. She had a coarselypoetical cast of mind, and commonly spoke of the sale of her goods asone might speak of the passing of summer flowers. The curate was turningaway. 

'I would make bold, sir, ' said the woman, 'to ask if you've heard thatwe've let our second-floor front for a while. It's a great thing for us, sir, as you know, to 'ave it let, not that you'll approve the person as'as took it. '

'Oh!' said the curate, 'how is that?'

'He's the new Jewish rabbi, sir, being as they've opened the place oftheir heathenish worship again. It's been shut this two year, for wantof a Hebrew to read the language. '

'Oh, no, Mrs. Yeander; you're quite mistaken in calling the Jewsheathens. '

'The meeting-place is down by the end of the street, sir--a squarishsort of house. It's not been open in your time; likely you'll not knowit. The new rabbi's been reading a couple of weeks to them. They do sayit's awful queer. '

'Oh, indeed!' said the curate; 'what are their hours of service?'

'Well, to say the truth, sir, they'll soon be at it now, for it's Fridayat sunset they've some antics or other in the place. The rabbi's justgone with his book. '

'I think I'll look them up, and see what they're at, ' said he, goingout. 

He was a thin, hard-working man. His whole soul was possessed by hisgreat love for Violetta, but even the gladness of its success could notturn him from his work. When the day was over he would indulge inbrooding on his joy; until then the need of the world pressed. Hestepped out again into the evening glow. The wind had grown stronger, and he bent his head forward and walked against it towards the west. Hefelt a sudden sympathy for this stranger who had come to minister in hisown way to the few scattered children of the Jews who were in the town. He knew the unjust sentiment with which he would be surrounded as by anatmosphere. The curate was broad in his views. 'All nations and allpeople, ' thought he, 'lust for an excuse to deem their neighbour lessworthy than themselves, that they may oppress him. This is theselfishness which is the cause of all sin and is the devil. ' When he gotto this point in his thoughts he came to a sudden stand and looked up. 'But, thank God, ' he said to himself, 'the True Life is still in theworld, and as we resist the evil we not only triumph ourselves, but makethe triumph of our children sure. ' So reasoned the curate; he was arather fanatical fellow. 

The people near gave him 'good-day' when they saw him stop. All up anddown the street the children played with shrill noises and patteringfeet. The sunset cloud was brighter, and the dark peaked roofs of tileand thatch and slate, as if compelled to take some notice of the fire, threw back the red where, here and there, some glint of moisture gavereflection to the coloured light. He had come near the end of the town, and, where the houses opened, the red sky was fretted with dark twigsand branches of elm trees which grew on the grassy slope of the cliff. The elm trees were in the squire's park, and the curate looked at themsadly and thought of Herbert who had died. 

Up a little lane at the end of the street he found the entrance to a lowsquare hall. There was a small ante-room to the place of service, and inthis a dull-looking man was seated polishing a candlestick. He was acrossing-sweeper by trade and a friend of the curate. 

'Well, Issachar; so you've got your synagogue open again!'

The man Issachar made some sound meant for a response, but notintelligible. 

'How many Jews will there be in the town?'

'Twenty that are heads of families, and two grown youths, ' saidIssachar. 

'That's enough to keep up a service, for some of them will be rich?'

'Some are very rich, ' said Issachar, wrinkling his face withsatisfaction when he said the words. 

'Then how is it you don't always keep up the service?'

But Issachar had no explanation to give. He polished his candlestick themore vigorously, and related at some length what he knew of the presentreader, which was, in fact, nothing, except that he was a foreigner andhad only offered to read while he was visiting the town. 

'I have come for the service, ' said the curate. 

'Better not, ' said Issachar; 'it's short to-night, and there'll not bemany. '

The curate answered by opening the inner door and entering. There weresome high pews up and down the sides of the room. There was a curtain atthe farther end and a reading desk in the centre, both of which wereenclosed in a railing ornamented by brass knobs, and in which were sethigh posts supporting gas-lamps, nine in all, which were lit, either forheat or ceremony, and turned down to a subdued light. The evening lightentered through the domed roof. Hebrew texts which the curate could notdecipher were painted on the dark walls. He took off his hat reverentlyand sat down. There was no one there. He felt very much surprised atfinding himself alone. To his impressible nervous nature it seemed thathe had suddenly entered a place far removed in time and space from theevery-day life with which he was so familiar. He sat a long time; it wascold, and the evening light grew dim, and yet no one came. Issacharentered now and then, and made brief remarks about sundry things as hegave additional polish to the knobs on the railing, but he always wentout again. 

At length a side door opened and the reader came in from his vestry. Hehad apparently waited in hope of a congregation, but now came in toperform his duty without their aid. Perhaps he was not so muchdisappointed as the curate was. It would have been very difficult totell from looking at him what his emotions were. He was a stout largeman with a coarse brown beard. There was little to be seen of his facebut the hair upon it, and one gathered the suggestion, although it washard to know from what, that the man and his beard were not as clean asmight be. He wore a black gown and an ordinary high silk hat, althoughpushed much farther back on his head than an Englishman would have wornit. He walked heavily and clumsily inside the railing, and stood beforethe desk, slowly turning over backward the leaves of the great book. Then suddenly he began to chant in the Hebrew tongue. His voice fellmellow and sweet upon the silence, filling it with drowsy sound, as thesoft music of a humble-bee will suddenly fill the silence of a woodlandglade. There was no thought, only feeling, conveyed by the sound. 

Issachar had gone out, and the Anglican priest sat erect, gazing at theJew through the fading light, his attention painfully strained by thesense of loneliness and surprise. From mere habit he supposed the chantto be an introduction to a varied service, but no change came. On and onand on went the strange music, like a potent incantation, the big Jewswaying his body slightly with the rhythm, and at long intervals camethe whisper of paper with the turning of the leaf. 

The curate gazed and wondered until he forgot himself. Then he triedwith an effort to recall who he was, and where he was, and all thedetails of the busy field of labour he had left just outside the door. He wished that the walls of the square room were not so thick, that somesound from the town might come in and mingle with the chant. He strainedhis ear in vain to catch a word of the Hebrew which might beintelligible to him. He wondered much what sort of a man this Jew mightbe, actuated by what motives, impelled by what impulses to his lonelytask. All the sorrow of a hope deferred through ages, and a long torturepatiently borne, seemed gathered in the cadence; but the man--surely theman was no refined embodiment of the high sentiment of his psalm! Andstill the soft rich voice chanted the unknown language, and the daylightgrew more dim. 

The curate was conscious that again he tried to remember who he was, andwhere; and then the surroundings of the humble synagogue fell away, andhe himself was standing looking at a jewel. It was a purple stone, oval-shaped and polished, perhaps about as large as the drop of dewwhich could hang in a harebell's heart. The stone was the colour of aharebell, and there was a ray of light in it, as if in the process ofits formation the jewel had caught sight of a star, and imprisoned thetiny reflection for ever within itself. The curate moved his head fromside to side to see if the ray within the stone would remain still, butit did not, turning itself to meet his eye as if the tiny star had alife and a light of its own. Then he looked at the setting, for thestone was set in steel. A zigzag-barred steel frame held it fast, andoutside the zigzag bars there was a smooth ring, with some words cutupon it in Hebrew. The characters were very small; he knew, rather thansaw, that they were Hebrew; but he did not know what they meant. Allthis time he had been stooping down, looking at this thing as if it layvery near the ground. Then suddenly he noticed upon what it was lying. There was a steel chain fastened to it, and the chain was around theneck of a woman who lay upon the earth; the jewel was upon her breast. But how white and cold the breast was! Surely there was no life in it. And he observed with horror that the garments which had fallen back wereoozing with water, and that the hair was wet. He hardly saw the face;for a moment he thought he saw it, and that it was the face of a Jewess, young and beautiful, but the vision passed from him. The chant hadceased, and the rabbi was kissing his book. 

Very solemnly the Jew bowed himself three times and kissed the book, and then in the twilight of the nine dim lamps he stumbled out and shutthe door, without giving a glance to his one listener. 

As for the young Christian priest, he was panic-stricken. When oursenses themselves deceive us we are cut off from our cheerful belief inthe reality of material things, or forced to face the unpleasant factthat we hold no stable relationship to them. He rushed out into thestreet. Issachar was at the entrance as he passed, and he fancied he sawthe face of the reader peeping at him from the vestry window, but hecrushed his hat hard down on his head and strode away, courting thebluster of the wind, striving by the energy of action to cast off thetrance that seemed to enslave him. 

When he reached his own door he found the baker's wife sitting on thedoorstep. It was quite dusk; perhaps that was the reason he did notrecognise her at first. 

'La, sir, I found them two muffins lying unbeknown in the corner of theshelf, so I brought them round, thinking you mightn't 'ave 'ad yourtea. '

'Muffins?' said the curate, as if he were not quite sure what muffinsmight be. Then he began to wonder if he was really losing his wits, andhe plunged into talk with the woman, saying anything and everything toconvince himself that he was not asleep or mad. 'Do you know, Mrs. Yeander, that I am going to be married?'

'Well, I am sure, sir, ' said she, curtseying and smiling. 'It's a greatcompliment to me to hear it from your own lips; not that it'sunexpected. Miss Violetta's a sweet saint, just like her ma, she is, an'her ma's a saint if there ever was one. Mr. Higgs, the verger, says thatto see her pray that length of time on her knees after the service isover in church is a touching sight. '

'But I don't think Miss Violetta is like her mother, ' said the curate. 

'Well no, sir; now that you mention it, perhaps she's not--at least, notin looks. But lor' sir, she's wonderful like her ma when it comes topaying a bill, not but what they're to be respected for keeping a heyeon the purse. I often tell Yeander that if we were a bit more saving, like the vicar's lady, we'd lay by a bit for our old age. '

'Yes, Mrs. Yeander, yes; that would be an excellent plan, ' said thecurate, fumbling with his latch-key in the door. 'Suppose you come inand make my tea for me, Mrs. Yeander. I'm all alone to-night. '

'I bethought I might do that, sir, when I came along. Yeander was in theshop, and I said, Mrs. Jones having gone to see her son, that you'd 'aveno one, so I just says to Yeander, "I'll step round, an' if I'm askedI'll make tea. "'

The curate lit his lamp and poked his fire, and the portly woman beganto toast his muffins. The flame lit up the placid wrinkles of her faceas she knelt before it:

'But I don't think Miss Violetta is in the least like her mother, ' saidhe again. 

'Lor' sir, don't you? Well, you ought to know best. They do say what'sbred in the bone comes out in the flesh; but it'll be none the worse foryou if she looks sharp after the spending. You're not much given tosaving. '

The curate walked nervously up and down his small room. 

'Make the tea strong to-night, ' he said. 

'Mr. Higgs, the verger, do hate the vicar's lady, sir--he do, and nomistake--but he says anybody could see with 'alf a heye that she was areal saint. The subscriptions she puts down to missions and churchrestorings--it's quite wonderful. '

The curate ran his hand wearily through his hair. He felt called upon tosay something. 'I have the highest respect for Mrs. Moore, ' he began. 'Iknow her to be a most devoted helpmeet to the vicar, and a truly goodwoman. At the same time'--he coughed--'at the same time, I should wishto say distinctly that after being niggardly in her domestic affairs, which is unfortunately the case, I do not think it adds to her stock ofChristian virtues to give the money thus saved to church work. '

The curate cleared his throat. It was because he was flying from himselfthat he had let the woman talk until this speech of his had been madenecessary; but at all times his humble friends in this town were wellnigh irrepressible in their talk. This woman was in full tide now. 

'They do say, sir, there's a difference between honest saving and greed. Mr. Higgs said to Yeander one day, says he, "Mrs. Moore's folks far backmade their money by sharp trading, and greed's in the family, and it'sthe worst sort of greed, for it grasps both at 'eaven and earth, both atthis life and the 'eavenly. And, " says he, "no one could doubt that thelady's that way constituted that she couldn't cut a loaf of bread in'alf without giving herself the largest share, even if it were the breadof life. "'

'My good Mrs. Yeander----' began the curate in stern rebuke. 

'Oh, no, sir, Mr. Higgs don't mean no harm. He only gets that riled atMrs. Moore sometimes that he kind of lets off to Yeander and me. '

'And I don't think, Mrs. Yeander, ' said the curate, for the third time, 'that Miss Violetta is at all like her mother. '

'She's young yet, sir, ' said the woman. Then she went away, leaving thecurate to interpret her last remark as he chose. 

CHAPTER II

About a week after that there was a fine dinner given at the vicarage towelcome the curate into the family. The old squire was invited, but herefused to come. Violetta's mamma wrote and asked some of her relativesto come down from town. 'Our chosen son-in-law is not rich, ' she wrote, 'but he comes of an old family, and that is a great thing. Dear Violettawill, of course, inherit my own fortune, which will be ample for them, and his good connections, with God's blessing, will complete theirhappiness. ' So they came down. There was the vicar's brother, who was abarrister, and his wife. Then there were two sisters of Mrs. Moore, whowere both very rich. One was an old maid, and one was married to adean--she brought her husband. 'You see, ' said Violetta's mamma to thecurate, 'our relatives are all either law or clergy. '

There were very grand preparations made for the dinner, and Mrs. Higgs, the wife of the verger, came to the curate's rooms the day before andtook away his best clothes, that she might see they were well brushedfor the occasion. She did up his collar and wristbands herself, andgave them a fine gloss. Higgs brought them back just in time for thedinner. 

'It's just about five years since they had such a turn-out at thevicarage, ' said Higgs in a crisp little voice. 'Miss Violetta wasnineteen then; she'll be twenty-four now. '

'Yes, ' said the curate absently; 'what was up then?'

''Twas a dinner much of a muchness to this. Mrs. Higgs, she was justreminding me of it. But that was in honour of Mr. Herbert, of the 'All. You'll 'ave heard of him?'

'Oh, yes, ' said the curate, 'all that was very sad. '

'The more so, ' said Higgs briskly, 'that when it was broke hoff, Mr. Herbert died of love. He went to some foreign countries and took up withlow company, and there he died. Squire hasn't held his head up straightsince that day. '

'All that was before I came, ' said the curate very gravely, for he didnot know exactly what to say. 

'Lor' bless you, sir, ' said Higgs, 'I was in no way blaming you. There'sno blame attaching to any, that I know; squire's wife was as mad as ahare. Miss Violetta, she cried her pretty eyes nigh out for Mr. Herbert;it's time she'd another. '

The curate went to the dinner, and it was a very fine affair indeed. Violetta wore a silk gown and looked charming. She does not look a dayolder than she did when I saw her five years ago, ' said the dean to thecurate, meaning to be very polite, but the curate did not smile at thecompliment. 

'How fine your flowers are!' said the maiden aunt to Violetta. 'Wheredid you get them, my dear?'

'The squire sent them to me, ' said Violetta, with a droop of her eyelidswhich made her look more charming than ever. Then they had dinner, andafter dinner Violetta gave them some music. It was sacred music, forMrs. Moore did not care for anything else. 

When the song was over Mrs. Moore said to the curate, 'It has been mywish to give dear Violetta a little gift as a slight remembrance of thishappy occasion, and I thought that something of my own would be morevaluable than----' Here the mother's voice broke with very naturalemotion, and she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes. 'You must excuseme, ' she murmured, 'she is such a dear--such a very dear girl, and sheis our only child. '

'Indeed, I can well understand, ' said he, with earnest sympathy. 

'Such a dear--such a very dear girl, ' murmured Mrs. Moore again. Thenshe rose and embraced Violetta and wept, and the aunts all shed tears, and the vicar coughed. Violetta's own blue eyes over-flowed with verypretty tears. 

The curate felt very uncomfortable indeed, and said again that he quiteunderstood, and that it was quite natural. The dean and the barristerboth said what they ought. The dean remarked that these dear parentsought not to sorrow at losing a daughter, but rejoice at finding a son. The barrister pointed out that as the bride was only expected to moveinto the next house but one after her marriage, all talk of parting wasreally quite absurd. The vicar did not say anything; he rarely did whenhis wife was present. Then Mrs. Moore became more composed, and put aring on her daughter's finger. The curate did not see the ring at themoment. He was leaning against the mantel-shelf, feeling very muchovercome by the responsibility of his new happiness. 

'Oh, mamma, how lovely!' cried Violetta. 'How perfectly beautiful!'

'A star-amethyst!' said the barrister in a tone of surprise. 

'Is it a star-amethyst indeed?' said the dean, looking over theshoulders of the group with his double eye-glass. 'I am not aware that Iever saw one before; they are a very rare and beautiful sort of gem. '

'Where did you get it, sister Matilda?' asked the maiden aunt. 

Now, although Mrs. Moore was in a most gracious humour, she never likedbeing asked questions at any time. 'I am surprised that you should askme that, Eliza. I have had it for many years. '

'But you must have got it somewhere at the beginning of the years, 'persisted Eliza, who was of a more lively disposition. 

Mrs. Moore gave her a severe glance for the frivolous tone of heranswer. 'I was just about to explain that this stone has been lying foryears among the jewellery which poor uncle Ford bequeathed to me. Ithought it a pity that such a beautiful stone should lie unnoticed anylonger. '

'Oh, a great pity!' they all cried. 

'I should not have supposed that poor dear uncle Ford possessed such arare thing, ' said the wife of the dean. 

'It is very curious you never mentioned it before, ' said Eliza. 

But Eliza was not in favour. 

'Not at all, ' said Mrs. Moore; 'I take very little interest in suchthings. Life is too short to allow our attention to be diverted fromserious things by mere ornaments. '

'That is very true, ' said the dean. 

Violetta broke through the little circle to show her lover the ring. 'Look, ' she said, holding up her pretty hand. 'Isn't it lovely? Isn'tmamma very kind?'

The curate turned his eyes from the fire with an effort. He had beenlistening to all they said in a state of dreamy surprise. He did notwish to look at the stone, and the moment he saw it he perceived it waswhat he had seen before. It was not exactly the same shade of purple, but it appeared to him that he had seen it before by daylight, and nowthe lamps were lit. It was the same shape and size, and the tinyinterior star was the same. He moved his head from side to side to seeif the ray moved to meet his eye, and he found that it did so. He lookedat Violetta. How beautiful she was in her white gown, with her littlehand uplifted to display the shining stone, and her face upturned tohis! The soft warm curve of the delicate breast and throat, the red lipsthat seemed to breathe pure kisses and holy words, the tender eyesshining like the jewel, dewy with the sacred tears she had beenshedding, and the yellow hair, smooth, glossy, brushed saintly-wise oneither side of the nunlike brow--all this he looked at, and his sensesgrew confused. The sad rise and fall of the Hebrew chant was in his earsagain; the bright room and the people were not there, but the chantseemed in some strange way to rise up in folds of darkness and surroundVioletta like a frame; and everything else was dark and filled with themusic, except Violetta, who stood there white and shining, holding upthe ring for him to look at; and at her feet lay that other woman, wetand dead, with the same stone in the steel chain at her throat. 'Isn'tit lovely? Isn't mamma very kind?' Violetta was saying. 

'My dear, I think he is ill, ' said the vicar. 

They took him by the arm, putting him on a chair, and fetched water anda glass of wine. He heard them talking together. 

'I daresay it has been too much for him, ' said the dean. 'Joy is oftenas hard to bear as grief. '

'He is such a fellow for work, ' said the vicar, 'I never knew any onelike him. '

The curate sat up quite straight. 'Did any of you ever see an amethystlike this set in steel?'

'In steel? What an odd idea!' said the maiden aunt. 

'He is not quite himself yet, ' said the dean in a low voice, tapping heron the shoulder. 

'I think it would be very inappropriate, indeed very wrong, to set avaluable stone in any of the baser metals, ' said Mrs. Moore. She spokeas if the idea were a personal affront to herself, but then she had animmense notion of her own importance, and always looked upon allwrong-doing as a personal grievance. 

'Whatever made you think of it?' asked Violetta. 

'I daresay it was rather absurd, ' said the curate meekly. 

'By no means, ' said the barrister; 'the idea of making jewelleryexclusively of gold is modern and crude. In earlier times many beautifularticles of personal ornamentation were made of brass and even of iron. '

'Mamma, ' said Violetta, 'I remember one day seeing a curious old thingin the bottom of your dressing-case. It looked as if it might be made ofsteel. It was a very curious old thing--chain, and a pendant with someinscription round it. '

'Did you?' said Mrs. Moore. 'I have several old trinkets. I do not knowto which you refer. '

She bade Violetta ring for tea. 'I am sure you will be the better for acup of tea, ' she said, turning to the curate. 

'I am quite well, ' he replied. 'I think, if you will excuse me, I willwalk home at once; the air will do me good. '

But they would not hear of his walking home. They made him drink tea andsit out the evening with them. Violetta gave them some more music; andthey all made themselves exceedingly agreeable. When the evening wasover they sent the curate home in the carriage. 

CHAPTER III

The night was frosty, calm, and clear, and quite light, for the Marchmoon was just about to rise from the eastern sea. 

When the carriage set him down at his own door the curate had no mind togo in. He waited till the sound of the horse's feet had died away, andthen he walked back down the empty street. The town was asleep; hisfootsteps echoed sharply from roofs and walls. 

He was not given to morbid fancies or hallucinations, and he wasextremely annoyed at what had taken place. Twice in the last eight dayshe had been the subject of a waking dream, and now he was confrontedwith what seemed an odd counterpart of his vision in actual fact. It wasno doubt a mere coincidence, but it was a very disagreeable one. Ofcourse if he saw the old trinket described by Violetta, the chances werethat it would be quite different from the setting of the stone which thedead woman wore; but even if the two were exactly the same, whatdifference could it make? A dream is nothing, and that which appears ina dream is nothing. The coincidence had no meaning. 

He turned by the side of the church down the lane which led to thelittle quay. The tide was halfway up the dark weed, and thefishing-boats were drawn near to the quay, ready for the cruise at dawn;their dark furled sails were bowing and curtseying to one another withall ceremony, like ghosts at a stately ball. To the east and south laythe sea, vacant, except that on the eastern verge stood a palace ofcloud, the portals of which were luminous with the light from within, and now they were thrown open with a golden flash, and yellow rays shotforth into the upper heavens, spreading a clear green light through thedeep midnight of the sky where the other worlds wandered. Then theyellow moon came from her palace, wrapping herself at first with amantle of golden mist, as if--Godiva-like--she shrank from loosening hergarments; but the need of the darkling earth pressed upon her, and shedropped her covering and rode forth in nakedness. 

Everything was more lovely now, for there was light to see theloveliness. The bluff wind that came from the bosom of the sea seemedonly to tell of a vast silence and a world asleep. The rocky shore, withits thin line of white breakers, stretched round to the west. About amile away there was a rugged headland, with some crags at its feet, which had been broken off and rolled down into the sea by the FrostDemon of bygone years. The smallest was farthest out, and wedged behindit and sheltered by it was the black hulk of a wrecked vessel. Thisoutermost rock lay so that it broke the waves as they came against thewreck, and each was thrown high in a white jet and curl of spray, andfell with a low sob back into the darkness of the sea. 

The curate turned and walked toward the headland on the cliff path wherehe had walked a week before with Violetta. The cliffs were completelydesolate, except for some donkeys browsing here and there, their brownhair silvered by the frost. There was a superstition in the town thatthe place was haunted on moonlight nights by the spirit of a woman whohad perished in the wreck. It had been a French vessel, wrecked fiveyears before, and all on board were drowned--six men and one woman, thewife of the skipper. They had all been buried in one grave in the littlecemetery that was on the top of the headland; and it was easy to see howthe superstition of the haunting came about, for as the curate watchedthe spray on the rock near the wreck rise up in the moonlight and fallback into the sea, he could almost make himself believe that he saw init the supple form of a woman with uplifted hands, praying heaven forrescue. 

The wind was pretty rough when he got to the head of land, and he walkedup among the graves to find a place where he might be sheltered and yethave advantage of the view. He knew that close by the edge of thecliff, over the grave of the shipwrecked people, stood a marble cross, large enough to shelter a man somewhat if he leaned against it. Uponthis cross was a long inscription giving a touching account of thewreck, and stating that it was erected by Matilda Moore, wife of thevicar, out of grief for the sad occurrence, and with an earnest prayerfor the unknown bereaved ones. 

The curate was rather fond of reading this inscription, as we all areapt to be fond of going over words which, although perfectly familiar tous, still leave some space for curiosity concerning their author andorigin, and he was wondering idly as he walked whether there would belight enough from the moon to read them now. The wind came, like themoonlight, from the south-east, and he walked round by the western sideof the graveyard in order to come up the knoll on which the cross stoodby the sheltered side. Everything around him was intensely bleak andwhite, for the moon, having left the horizon, had lost her golden light, and the colouring of the night had toned down to white and purple. Patches of wild white cloud were scudding across the pallid purple skybeneath the stars, and there was a silver causeway across the purplesea. The purple was not unlike that of an amethyst. The cliffs slopedback to the town; the boats and peaked roofs and church tower were seenby the sharp outline of their masses of light and shade. The streetlamps were not lit in the town because of the moon, and only in two orthree places there was the warm glow of a casement fringed with the raysof a midnight candle. To the left of the cliffs, close to the town, werethe trees of the squire's park and the roof of the Hall. Perhaps it wasbecause the curate was looking at these things, as he walked among thegraves, that he did not look at the monument towards which he was makingway, until he came within half a dozen yards of it; then he suddenly sawthat there was another man leaning against it, half hid in the shadow. He stopped at once and stood looking. 

The man had thrown his arms backward over the arms of the cross, and wasleaning, half hanging, upon it; the young priest was inexpressiblyshocked and startled by the attitude. He knew that none of the humblerinhabitants of the town would venture near such a place at such a time, nor could he think of any one else who was likely to be there. Besides, although he could not see the stranger distinctly, he himself wasstanding in full moonlight, and yet the man in the shadow of the crossmade no sign of seeing him. At that moment he would gladly have gonehome without asking further question, but that would have looked as ifhe were afraid. 

He tried a chance remark. 'It is a fine night, ' he said, as lightly asmight be. 

'Yes, ' said the other, and moved his arms from the arms of the cross. Itwas only one word, but the curate recognised the soft voice at once. Itwas the Jewish rabbi. 

'I was at one of your services the other day, ' he said, advancingnearer. 

'Yes. '

'I felt sorry your people did not turn out better. '

There was no answer. 

'It is a very cold wind, ' said the curate. 'I hardly know why I came outso far. '

'Shall I tell you?' asked the Jew softly. He spoke good English, butvery slowly, and with some foreign accent. 

'Certainly, if you can. '

'I desired very much to see you. '

'But you did not tell me, so that could not be the reason. Your willcould not influence my mind. I assure you I came of my own free will; itwould be terrible if one man should be at the mercy of another'scaprice. '

'Be it so; let us call it chance then. I desired that you should come, and you came. '

'But you do not think that you have a power over other men like that?'

'I do not know; I find that with some men such correspondence betweenmy will and their thoughts and actions is not rare; but I could notprove that it is not chance. It makes no difference to me whether it bechance or not. I have been thinking of you very much, desiring your aid, and twice you have come to me--as you say--of your own free will. '

'If you have such a power, you may be responsible for a verydisagreeable dream I had in your synagogue the other day. '

'What was the dream?'

'Nay, if you created it you should be able to tell me what it was. '

'I have no idea what it was; if I influenced your imagination I did sounconsciously. '

There was about this Jew such a complete gentleness and repose, suchearnestness without eagerness, such self-confidence withoutself-assertion, that the curate's heart warmed to him instinctively. 

'I believe you are an honest Christian, ' said the Jew very simply. 

'I hope honest Christians are not rare. '

'I think a wholly honest man is very rare, because to see what is honestit is necessary to look at things without self-interest or desire. '

'I am certainly not such a man. The most I can say is that I try to bemore honest every day. '

'That is very well said, ' said the Jew. 'If you had believed in yourown honesty, I should have doubted it. ' Then, in a very simple and quietway, he told the curate a strange story. 

He said that he lived in Antwerp. They were five in one family--theparents, a sister and brother, and himself. His father and brother didbusiness with the English ships, but he was a teacher and reader in thesynagogue. There had been in their family a very sacred heirloom in theform of an amulet or charm. Their forefathers had believed that it camefrom Jerusalem before their nation lost the holy city; but he himselfdid not think that this could be true; he only knew that it was ancient, and possessed very valuable properties as a talisman to those who knewhow to use it. About five years before, his sister, who was beautifuland wayward, had loved and married a French sea-captain. The fathercursed his daughter, but the mother could not let her go from them underthe fear of this curse, and she hung the amulet about her neck as asafeguard. Alas for such safeguard! in a few weeks the captain's shipwas wrecked, and all on her were drowned. He said that it was that sameship which lay near them, a wreck among the waves, and his sister layburied beneath their feet. 

The family did not hear of the wreck till some time after the burial, and then they knew for the first time what their mother had done withthe amulet. His brother came over at once to this town to seek it, butin vain. The people said they had not seen the necklace; that it hadcertainly not been buried with the girl. The people seemed simple andhonest; the brother was a shrewd man, and he believed that they spokethe truth. He returned home, in distress; they could not tell what tothink, for they knew their sister would not have dared to take off thenecklace, and the chain was too strong to be broken by the violence ofthe waves. 

Some months after they heard that there was a young Englishman dying inAntwerp who came from this town. The name of the town was graven ontheir hearts, and they went to see him. He was a mere boy, a pretty boy, and when they asked him about the wreck he became excited in hisweakness and fever, and told them all the story of it as he had seen itwith his own eyes. 

It was an October afternoon. A storm had been lowering and partiallybreaking over the town for three days, and that day there was a glare ofmurky light from the cloud that made the common people think that theend of the world was come. When the ship struck, the fisher-people ranout of the town to the shore nearest her, and this boy would have runout with them and been among the foremost but that a very pious andcharitable lady of the place had besought him to take her with him. There was a great rain and wind, and it was with difficulty that he ledthe lady out and helped her down to the shore. By that time the wreckhad been dashed to pieces, and the fishermen were bringing in the deadbodies of the crew. There was a woman among them, and when they broughther body in, they did not lay it with the bodies of the sailors, butcarried it respectfully and laid it close to the lady who stood in theshelter of some rocks. The wet clothes had fallen back from herbreast--the boy remembered it well, for it had been his first sight ofdeath, and his heart was touched by the girl's youth and beauty. He hadnot seen her again, for he had gone to help with the boats, and thefishermen's wives had run at the lady's bidding and brought coverings towrap her in. 

The Jewish father then told the dying man about the amulet. He saidthat, to the best of his memory, some such thing had been about the neckof the dead girl, but that he was certain that none of the fisher-peoplewould have been bad enough to steal from the dead. They entreated him tothink well what he said, and to consider again if there was no doubtfulcharacter there who might have had the opportunity and the baseness tocommit the crime. At that the dying man fell into profound thought, andwhen he looked at them again the fever-flush had mounted to his face, and there was a light in his eyes. He told them that if there was anyone upon the shore that day who would have done such a thing it was thevery rich and pious lady that he himself had taken to the wreck. She hadbeen alone with the body when she sent the other women for wrappings. They thought that perhaps his mind was wandering, and left him, promising to return next day; but when they came again he was dead. 

'I have learned since I came here, ' said the Jew, 'that he was the sonof the old man who lives in the great house down there among the trees. '

They both looked down at the park. The leafless elms stood up like giantfeathers in the white mist of the moonbeams, and the chimney-stacks ofthe house threw a deep shadow on the shining roof. 

'But we felt, ' said the Jew, 'that even if the judgment of the dying boywere a true one, and this lady had committed the crime, we still had noevidence against her, and that whoever was wicked enough to steal wouldcertainly deny the act, and conceal that which was stolen. Hopeless asit seemed to wait, doing nothing, our only chance of redress would belost by making any inquiry which might frighten her. We sent a messageto the goldsmith in London who mends her jewels, asking him to watch forthis necklace, and so we waited. At last we heard news. An amethystwhich we do not doubt is ours came to the goldsmith to be put in aring; but there was no necklace with it. I came here to see if I coulddo something, but I have been here for some time and can devise no plan. If she still possess the other part, to speak would be to cause itsdestruction, and how can I find out without asking if she still has byher the thing that would prove her crime? Do not be angry with me when Itell you this. Remember it was not I who presumed to suspect the wife ofyour priest, but the English boy, who knew her well. '

'Yes, ' said the curate, 'I shall remember that. ' He had grown tired ofstanding in the wind, and had sat down on the frosty grass below thecross. The blast was very cold, and he crouched down to avoid it, hugging his knees with his hands. 

'You are about to be united to the family, ' said the Jew; 'perhaps youhave seen the stone. Will you, for the sake of that justice which we allhope for, try to find out for me if the other part of the amulet stillexists? I will give you a drawing of it, and if you find it as Idescribe, you will know that my tale is true. Remember this--that wehave no wish to make the wrong public or punish the wrong-doer. We onlywant to obtain our property. '

'Have you got a drawing of it now?'

'Yes, I have it here. '

The curate rose up and took the paper. He lit a match, and held itstiny red flame in the shelter of the stone. The paper was soiled anduntidily folded, but the drawing was clear. It took but a glance tosatisfy him that what he had seen in his dream was but the reflection inhis own thought of the idea in the Jew's mind. He did not stop to askany explanation of the fact; the fact itself pressed too hard upon him. While the match was still burning he mechanically noticed the Jew'sface, as it leaned over the paper near his own--not a handsome face, butgentle and noble in its expression. Then the match went out; it droppedfrom his hand, a tiny spark, into the grass, and for a momentilluminated the blades among which it fell. 

CHAPTER IV

The two men walked back over the bleak cliffs together, and for thegreater part of the way in silence; at last the curate spoke. He toldthe Jew quite truly that he believed the vicar's wife had his jewel, andthat he supposed she must have come by it according to his worstsuspicions. 'But, ' he added, 'I believe she is a good woman. '

The other looked at him in simple surprise. 'That is very curious, ' hesaid. 

'Let us not try to find out her secret by prying; let us go to herto-morrow, and tell her openly what we think. You fear that she willdeny her action; I have no such fear; and if she does not stand ourtest, I give you my word for it, you shall not be the loser. '

'I have put my case in your hands, ' said the Jew. 'I will do as yousay. '

They turned into the sleeping town; but when they reached the place ofparting the curate put his hand on the Jew's arm and said, 'I should nothave your forbearance. If some one unconnected with myself had wrongedme so, at the same time making profession of religion, I should thinkshe deserved both disgrace and punishment. '

'And that she shall have, but not from us, ' he replied. 'The sin willsurely be visited on her and on her children. '

'Surely not on the children, ' said the curate. 'You cannot believe that. It would be unjust. '

'You have seen but little of the world if you do not know that such isthe law. The vagabond who sins from circumstances may have in him themaking of a saint, and his children may be saints; but with those whosin in spite of the good around them it is not so. For them and fortheir children is the curse. '

'God cannot punish the innocent for the guilty, ' said the priestpassionately. 

'Surely not; for that is the punishment--that they are not innocent. Thechildren of the proud are proud; the children of the cruel, cruel; andthe children of the dishonest are dishonest, unto the third and fourthgeneration. Fight against it as they may, they cannot see the differencebetween right and wrong; they can only, by struggling, come _nearer_ tothe light. Do you call this unjust of God? Is it unjust that thechildren of the mad are mad, and the children of the virtuous virtuous. '

'You take from us responsibility if we inherit sin. '

'Nay, I increase responsibility. If we inherit obliquity of conscience, we are the more responsible for acting not as seems right in our owneyes, the more bound to restrain and instruct ourselves, for by thisdoctrine is laid upon us the responsibility of our children andchildren's children, that they may be better, not worse, than we. '

All night long the curate paced up and down his room. The dawn came andhe saw the fishermen hurry away to the boats at the quay. The sunrisecame with its dull transient light upon the rain cloud. When the morningadvanced he went for the Jew, and they walked down the street in thedriving rain. The wet paving-stones and roofs reflected the grey lightof the clouds which hurried overhead. The ruddy-twigged beech trees atthe vicarage gate were shaken and buffeted by the storm. The two menshook their dripping hats as they entered the house. They were receivedin a private parlour, which was filled with objects of art and devotion. Very blandly did the good wife of the vicar greet them, yet withbusiness-like condescension. 

The Jew, in a few very simple words, told the story of his sister'sdeath and the loss of the amulet. He told the peculiar value of theamulet, and added, 'I have reason, madam, to believe that it has comeinto your possession. If so, and if you have it still by you, I entreatthat you will give it to me at once, for to you it can only be a prettytrinket, and to us it is like a household god. '

She looked at the Jew with evident emotion. 'I cannot tell you how itgrieves me to hear you speak as if you attributed to any inanimateobject the saving power which belongs to God alone, ' she said. 'Thinkfor a moment, only think, how dishonouring such a superstition is to theCreator. '

'Madam!' said the Jew in utmost surprise. 

'Consider how wrong such a superstition is, ' she said. 'What virtue canthere be in a stone, or a piece of metal, or an inscription? None. Theyare as dead and powerless as the idols of the heathen; and to put thefaith in any such thing that we ought to put in God's providence, is todishonour Him. It grieves me to think that you, or any other intelligentman, could believe in such a superstition. '

'Madam, ' said the Jew again, 'these things are as we think of them. Youthink one way and I another. '

'But you think wrongly. I would have you see your error, and turn fromit. Can you believe in the Christian faith and yet----'

'I am a Jew, ' he said. 

'A Jew!' she exclaimed. She began to preach against that error also;entering into a long argument in a dull dogmatic way, but with anearnestness which held the two men irresolute with wonder and surprise. 

'It would seem, madam, ' said the Jew, after she had talked much, 'thatyou desire greatly to set an erring world to rights again. '

'And should we not all desire that?' she asked, unconscious of theirony. 'For what else are we placed in the world but to pass on toothers the light that God has entrusted to us?'

'I verily believe, madam, ' said he seriously, 'that you think exactlywhat you say, and that you desire greatly to do me good. But, puttingthese questions aside, will you tell me if you have this ornament whichI venerate?'

'Yes, I have it. '

'You took it from the breast of my sister when she lay dead upon yourshore?'

'I unfastened it from her neck, and have kept it with the greatestcare. It was an ornament which was quite unsuitable to your sister'sstation in life. I could not have allowed any of our poor women to seesuch a valuable stone on the neck of a girl like themselves in station;it would have given them false ideas, and I am careful to teach themsimplicity in dress. In England we do not approve of people of yourclass wearing jewellery. '

The curate put his arms on the table and bowed his head on his hands. 

'Be that as it may, ' said the Jew, rising, 'I will thank you if you willgive me my property now and let me go. '

'I cannot give it to you. ' She was a little flustered in her manner, butnot much. 'It would be against my conscience to give you what you woulduse profanely. Providence has placed it in my care, and I am responsiblefor its use. If I gave it to you it would be tempting you to sin. '

He sat down again and looked at her with wonder in his soft brown eyes. 'You have had the stone taken out, ' he said, 'and set in a ring. '

'Yes, and I have given it to my daughter, so that it is no longer mineto return to you. You must be aware that the marble cross stone I set upover your sister's grave cost me much more than the value of this stone. I am very much surprised that you should ask me to give it back. Surelyany real feeling of gratitude for what I did for her would prompt you tobe glad that you have something to give me in return. ' She paused, thenharped again upon the other string. 'But under any circumstances I couldnot feel justified in giving you anything that you would put to a baduse. '

'That you have stolen my property does not make it yours to withhold, whatever may be your sentiments concerning it. '

'"Stolen!" I do not understand you when you use such a word. Do youthink it possible that I should steal? I took the chain from yoursister's neck with the highest motives. Do not use such a word as"stolen" in speaking to me. '

'Truly, madam, ' he said, 'you could almost persuade me that you are inthe right, and that I insult you. '

She looked at him stolidly, although evidently not without some inwardapprehension. It was a piteous sight--the poor distorted reasoningfaculty grovelling as a slave to the selfish will. 

'I cannot give you back the amethyst, ' she said, 'for I have given itaway; but if you will promise me never again to regard it as having anyvalue as an amulet or talisman, I will give you the necklace, and I willpay you something to have another stone put in. '

The curate looked up. 'Get him the necklace and Violetta's ring, ' hesaid, 'and we will go. '

A man had arisen within the curate who was stronger than hisself-control. They might have argued with her for ever: he frightenedher into compliance. He took her by the arm and turned her to the door. 

'There is not a man, woman or child in this town, ' he said, 'who shallnot hear of this affair if you delay another moment to get him the chainand the ring. It is due to his charity if the matter is concealed then. '

When she was gone the Jew was disposed to make remarks. 'I trulybelieve, ' he said, 'that it is as you say, that this woman is veryvirtuous in the sight of her own conscience. '

A servant brought them a packet. The Jew opened it, taking out the chainand the ring reverently and putting them in his breast. Then they wentout into the wind and the rain. 

The Jew went to his native city, and the curate accompanied him as faras London. There he said good-bye to him as to a friend. He did notreturn at once to his parish, but found a substitute to do his workthere, and went inland for a month, seeking by change and relaxation toattain to the true judgment of calm pulses and quiet nerves. It was inApril and in Lent that he returned. 

Higgs, the irrepressible, received him with joy. 'It's you that are thegood sight for sore eyes, ' he said. 'Not but what we've been 'aving anuncommon peaceful time for Lent. The vicar's lady she's took bad andtook to bed. '

The curate reproved the wicked Higgs, but he inquired after the healthof the invalid. 

'I hope Mrs. Moore is not very ill?'

'Bless you, no, sir; she's 'ale and 'earty. Cook says she's sure she'vefell out with some one. That's her way; she takes to bed when she'vefell out with any one. It makes them repent of their sins. '

A soft grey mist lay over land and sea. The church and vicarage weregrey and wet. The beeches at the vicarage gate had broken forth in amyriad buds of silver green, and all the buds were tipped with water, and the grey stems were stained and streaked. The yew trees in thechurchyard were bedewed with tiny drops. At the little gate that ledfrom the vicarage into the churchyard, between the yew trees and thebeeches, the curate waited for Violetta, after evensong. She came out ofthe old grey porch and down the path between the graves and the yewtrees with her prayer-book in her hand. She looked like an Easter lilythat holds itself in bud till the sadness of Lent is past, so pure, somodest, such a perfect thing from the hand of God. 

She stopped and started when she saw her lover, and then greeted himwith a little smile, but blent with some reproachful dignity. 

'I am glad you have come at last, for I have been wanting to speak toyou. Poor mamma has been very poorly and ill. It has grieved her verymuch indeed that you should have so misunderstood her motives, andtreated her so rudely. Mamma takes things like that most deeply toheart. '

'She told you why I treated her rudely?'

'Yes, she told me, but she did not tell papa anything about it; it wouldonly vex papa and do no good. Mamma told me to tell you that she hadmade up her mind to forgive you, and to say no more about it, althoughshe was deeply grieved that you should have so misunderstood her. '

'Yes, ' said the curate vaguely, for he did not know what else to say. 

'Of course, as to the necklace, it may be a matter of opinion as towhether mamma judged rightly or not; but no one who knows her coulddoubt that her one desire was to do what was right. It is quite truewhat she says: that the stone was most unsuitable to the station ofthose people; every one says that the man was a very common andvulgar-looking person; and of course to regard such a thing withsuperstitious veneration is a very great sin, from which she saved themas long as she kept it. Mamma says of course she knew she ran the riskof being misunderstood in acting as she did, but she thought it her dutyto run that risk if by that means she could save anything that God hadentrusted to her keeping from being misused. You know what mamma is;there is nothing she would not do if she thought it right. '

'Yes, ' he said again, as though simply admitting that he had heard whatshe said. 

'So I think we had better not say anything more about it. I know youwill see that it is wisest to say nothing to papa or any one else. People think so differently about such things that it would only causeneedless argument, and give poor mamma more pain when she has alreadysuffered so much. '

'You may trust me. I will never mention the matter to your father, or toany one else. No one shall ever hear of it through me. '

'I was sure that you would see that it is wisest not to; I told mammaso. When she is better, and you have shown her that you regret havingmisunderstood her, we shall all be very happy again. ' She held up herpretty face for a kiss. 

No one could see them except the chattering starlings in the churchtower, for they stood in the soft mist between the dewy yew trees andthe red-budding hedge by the vicarage lawn. The beech trees stretchedout their graceful twigs above them, the starlings talked to one anotherrather sadly, and far off through the stillness of the mist came thesound of the tide on the shore. The curate was very pale and grave. Histall frame trembled like a sick woman's as he stooped to give Violettathat kiss. He took her hands in his for a moment, and then he claspedher in his arms, lifting her from the grass and embracing her in apassion of tenderness and love. Then he put her from him. 

'Violetta, it is amiable of you, and loyal, to excuse and defend yourmother, but tell me--tell me, as you speak before God, that you do notthink as you have spoken. You are a woman now, with a soul of your own;tell me you know that to take this necklace and to keep it secretly wasa terrible sin. '

'Indeed'--with candour--'I do not think anything of the sort. I think itis wicked of you to slander mamma in that way. And if you want to knowwhat I think'--with temper now--'I think it was most unkind of you togive away my ring. After it had been given to me on such an occasion, too, it was priceless to us, but we could easily have paid that vulgarman all it was worth to him. '

'I will not argue with you. I perceive now that that would do no good. 'There was a heart-broken tone in his voice that frightened Violetta. 'Iwill--I will only say----'

'What?' she asked. The thin sharp sound in her voice was a note ofalarm. 

'I will not marry you, ' moaned the curate. 

'Not marry me!' she exclaimed in astonishment. 

'I love you. I shall always love you. No other woman shall ever be mywife; but I will never marry you; and I shall go away and leave you freeto forget me. '

'But why? What have I done?' she asked, her breath catching her tones. 

'You have done nothing, my poor, poor girl; but--oh, my darling, I wouldgladly die if by dying I could open your eyes to see the simpleintegrity of unselfishness!'

'It is very absurd for you to speak of unselfishness at the very momentwhen you are selfishly giving me so much pain, ' she cried, defiant. 

He bent his head and covered his face with his hands. 

She stood and looked at him, her cheeks flushed and her breast heavingwith a great anger. 

'Good-bye, Violetta, ' he said, and turned slowly away. 

'I never heard of anything so dishonourable, ' she cried. 

And that was what the world said; the curate was in disgrace withsociety for the rest of his life. 

V

'HATH NOT A JEW EYES?'

Mr. Saintou the hairdresser was a Frenchman, therefore his Englishneighbours regarded him with suspicion. He was also exceedingly stout, and his stoutness had come upon him at an unbecomingly early age, sothat he had long been the object of his neighbours' merriment. When tothese facts it is added that, although a keen and prosperous businessman, he had attained the age of fifty without making any effort tomarry, enough will have been said to show why he was disliked. 

Why was he not married? Were English women not good enough for him? Thepretty milliner across the street had been heard to remark in hispresence that she should never refuse a man simply because he was aforeigner. Or if he did not want an English wife, why did he not importone from Paris with his perfumes? No, there was no reason for hisbehaviour, and Mr. Saintou was the object of his neighbours' aversion. 

Neighbours are often wrong in their estimates. In the heart of thisshrewd and stout French hairdresser there lay the rare capacity for onesupreme and lasting affection. Mr. Saintou's love story was in the past, and it had come about in this way. 

One day when the hairdresser was still a young man, not long after hehad first settled in Albert Street, the door of his shop opened, and ayoung woman came in. Her figure was short and broad, and she was lame, walking with a crutch. Her face and features were large and peculiarlyfrank in expression; upon her head was a very large hat. When she spoke, it was with a loud staccato voice; her words fell after one another likehailstones in a storm, there was no breathing space between them. 

'I want Mr. Saintou. '

'What may I have the pleasure of showing madame?'

'Good gracious, I told you I wanted to be shown Mr. Saintou. Are you Mr. Saintou? None of your assistants for me; I want my hair cut. '

The hairdresser laid his hand upon his heart, as though to point out hisown identity. He bowed, and as even at that age he was very stout, theeffort of the bow caused his small eyes to shut and open themselvesagain. There was nothing staccato about the manner of the hairdresser, he had carefully cultivated that address which he supposed would be mostsoothing to those who submitted themselves to his operations. 

'Very well, ' said the little lady, apparently satisfied with theidentification, 'I want my hair cut. It is like a sheaf of corn. It islike a court train. It is like seven horses' manes tied together, ifthey were red. It is like a comet's tail. '

It is probable that the hairdresser only took in that part of thisspeech upon which he was in the habit of concentrating his attention, and that the force of the similes which followed one another likeelectric shocks escaped him altogether. He was about to show the newcustomer into the ladies' room, where his staid and elderly sister wasaccustomed to officiate, but she drew back with decision. 

'No, not at all; I have come to have my hair cut by Mr. Saintou, and Iwant to have it done in the room with the long row of chairs where thelong row of men get shaved every morning. I told my sister I should sitthere. You have no men in at this time of day, have you, Mr. Saintou?Now I shall sit here in the middle chair, and you shall wash my hair. Myfather is the baker round the corner. He makes good bread; do you washpeople's hair as well? Will you squirt water on it with that funny tube?Will you put it in my eyes? Now, I am up on the chair. Don't put thesoap in my eyes, Mr. Saintou. '

Saintou was not a man easily surprised. 'Permit me, mademoiselle, wouldit not be better to remove the hat? Mon Dieu! Holy Mary, what hair!' Foras the Eastern women carry their burdens on the crown of the head toease the weight, so, when the large hat was off, it appeared that thebaker's daughter carried her hair. 

'Like the hair of a woman on a hair-restorer bottle, if it were red, 'remarked the girl in answer to the exclamation. 

'No, mademoiselle, no, it is not red. Mon Dieu! it is not red. HolyMary! it is the colour of the sun. Mon Dieu, what hair!' As he untwinedthe masses, it fell over the long bib, over the high chair, down till itswept the floor, in one unbroken flood of light. 

'Wash it, and cut it, and let me go home to make my father's dinner, 'said the quick voice with decision. 'My father is the baker round thecorner, and he takes his dinner at two. '

'Is it that mademoiselle desires the ends cut?' asked the hairdresser, resuming his professional manner. 

'Which ends?'

'Which ends?' he exclaimed, baffled. 'Mon Dieu! these ends, ' and helifted a handful of the hair on the floor and held it before the eyes ofthe girl. 

'Good Heavens, no! Do you think I am going to pay you for cutting thoseends? It's the ends at the top I want cut. Lighten it; that's what Iwant. Do you think I am a woman in a hairdresser's advertisement to sitall day looking at my hair? I have to get my father's dinner. Lightenit, Mr. Saintou; cut it off; that's what I want. '

'Mon Dieu, no!' Saintou again relapsed from the hairdresser into theman. He too could have decision. He leant against the next chair and sethis lips very firmly together. 'By all that is holy, no, ' he said; 'youmay get some villain Englishman to cut that hair, but me, never. '

'You speak English very well, Mr. Saintou. Have you been long in thecountry? Well, wash the hair then, and be done. Don't put the soap in myeyes. '

Saintou was in ecstasies. He touched the hair reverently as one wouldtouch the garments of a saint. He laid aside his ordinary brushes andsponges, and going into the shop he brought thence what was best andnewest. Do not laugh at him. Have we not all at some time in our livesmet with what seemed the embodiment of our ideal; have we not set asidefor the time our petty economies and reserves, and brought forthwhatever we had that was best, of thought, or smiles, or vesture?

'Ah, mademoiselle, ' he said, 'to take care of such hair for ever--thatwould be heaven. I am a Frenchman; I have a soul; I can feel. '

'Should you be afraid to die a sudden death, Mr. Saintou?' said thequick voice from the depths of a shower of water. 

'Ciel! We do not speak of such things, mademoiselle. There will come atime, I know, when my hair will turn grey; then for the sake of myprofession I shall be obliged to dye it. There will come a time afterthat when I shall die; but we do not even think of these things, it isbetter not. '

'But should you be afraid to die now?' persisted the girl. 

'Very much afraid, ' said the hairdresser candidly. 

'Then don't feel, Mr. Saintou. I never feel. I make it the business ofmy life not to feel. They tell me there is something wrong at my heart, and that if I ever feel either glad or sorry I shall go off, pop, like acrow from a tree when it is shot, like a spark that falls into water. '

The hairdresser meditated upon this for some time. He did not believeher. He had drawn the bright hair back now from the water, and wasfondling it with his whitest and softest towels. 

'Who was it that said to mademoiselle that her heart was bad?'

'Good gracious, Mr. Saintou, my heart is not bad. I know my catechismand go to church, and cook my father's dinner every day, and a very gooddinner it is too. What put it into your head that I had a bad heart?'

'Pardon! mademoiselle; I mistake. Who told mademoiselle that she wassick at heart?'

'Good gracious heavens! I am not sick at heart. To be sure my mother isdead, and my sister is ill, and my father is as cross as two sticks, butfor all that I am not heart-sick. I like this world very well, and whenI feel sad I put more onions into the soup. '

Saintou went on with his work for some time in silence, then he triedagain. 'You say I speak good English, and I flatter myself I have theaccent very well, but what avails if I cannot make you understand? Wasit a good doctor who said mademoiselle's heart was affected; touched, Imight say?'

There was a shout of laughter from under the shower of gold. 

'My heart touched! One would think I was in love. No, my heart is nottouched yet; least of all by you, Mr. Saintou. 

 'Least of all by you, Mr. Saintou. '

She repeated this last rhyming couplet with a quaint musical intonation, as though it was the refrain of a song, and after her voice andlaughter had died away she went on nodding her head in time to thebrushing as if she were singing it over softly to herself. Thisdistressed the hairdresser not a little, and he remained silent. 

'What shall I pay you, Mr. Saintou?' said the little lady, when thelarge hat was once more on the head. 

'If mademoiselle would but come again, ' said the hairdresser, puttingboth hands resolutely behind his back. 

'When I come again I shall pay you both for that time and this, ' shesaid, with perhaps more tact than could have been expected of her. 'Andif you want to live long, Mr. Saintou, don't feel. If I should feel Ishould die off, quick, sharp, like a moth that flies into the candle. 'She made a little gesture with her hand, as if to indicate the ease andsuddenness with which the supposed catastrophe was to take place, andhobbled down the street. Saintou stood in the doorway looking after her, and his heart went from him. 

He sent her flowers--flowers that a duchess might have been proud toreceive. He sent them more than once, and they were accepted; he arguedmuch from that. He made friends with the baker in order that he mightbow to him morning and evening. Then he waited. He said to himself, 'She is English. If I go to see her, if I put my hand on my heart andweep, she will jeer at me; but if I wait and work for her in silence, then she will believe. ' He made a parlour for her in the room above hisshop; and every week, as he had time and money, he went out to choosesome ornament for it. His maiden sister watched these actions withsuspicion, threw scornful looks at when he observed her watchfulness, and lent a kindly helping hand when he was out of sight. The parlourgrew into a shrine ready for its divinity, and the hairdresser workedand waited in silence. In this he made a mistake, but he feared herlaughter. 

Meanwhile the girl also waited. She could not go back to thehairdresser's shop lest she should seem to invite a renewal of thoseattentions which had given her the sweet surprise of love. The law ofher woman's nature stood like a lion in the path. She waited through themonths of the dreary winter till the one gleam of sunshine which hadcome into her hard young life had faded, till the warmth it had kindledin her heart died--as a lamp's flame dies for lack of oil; died--as aflower dies in the drought; died into anger for the man who haddisturbed her peace, and when she thought she cared for him no more shewent again to get her hair cut. 

'You have come, ' said Saintou; but the very strength of his feeling madehim grave. 

'Good gracious, yes, I have come to have my hair cut. You would not cutit when I was here, and I have been very poorly these three months. Icould not come out, so the other day I had my sister cut it off. Myfather wanted to send for you, but I said "no, " and, oh, my! it looksjust as if a donkey had come behind and mistaken it for hay. '

How quickly a train of thought can flash through the brain! Saintouasked himself if he loved the girl or the hair, and his heart answeredvery sincerely that the hair, divine as it was, had been but the outwardsign which led him to love the inward grace of the girl. 

'Mademoiselle ought not to have said "no"; I should have come verywillingly and would have cut her hair, if I had known it must be so. '

'I made my sister cut it, but it's frightful. It looks as if one hadtried to mow a lawn with a pair of scissors, or shear a sheep with apenknife. '

'I will make all that right, ' said Saintou soothingly; 'I will make itall right. Just in a moment I will make it very nice. '

Yes, it was too true, the hair was gone; and very barbarously it hadbeen handled. 'I shall make it all right, ' he said cheerfully; 'I shalltrim it beautifully for mademoiselle. Ah, the beautiful colour is thereall the same. '

'As red as a sunset or a geranium, ' she said. 

'You do not believe that, ' sighed Saintou. He trimmed the hair verytenderly, and curled it softly round the white face, till it looked likea great fair marigold just beginning to curl in its petals for thenight. He worked slowly, for he had something he wanted to say, and whenhis work was done he summoned up courage and said it. He told her hishopes and fears. He told her the story blunderingly enough, but it hadits effect. 

'Mon Dieu!' said Saintou, but he said it in a tone that made his sister, who was listening to every word through the door, leave that occupationand dart in to his assistance. 

'Qu'elle est morte, ' was her brief stern comment. And so it was. Thebaker's daughter had felt, and she had died. 

'This is not wholly unexpected, ' said the baker sadly, when he came tocarry away the corpse of his daughter. 'We all expected it, ' said theneighbours; 'she had heart disease. ' And they talked their fill, andnever discovered the truth it would have pleased them best to talkabout. 

The short hair curled softly about the face of the dead girl as she layin her coffin, and Saintou paid heavily for masses for her sweet soul. When they had laid her in the churchyard he came home, and took the key, and went into the little parlour all alone. She had never seen it. Shehad never even heard of it. It is sad to bury a baby that is dead; itis sadder, if we but knew it, to bury in darkness and silence a childthat has never lived. A joy that has gone from us for ever is a jewelthat trembles like a tear on Sorrow's breast, but the brightest stars inher diadem are the memories of hopes that have passed away unrealisedand untold. Ah well, perhaps the gay trappings of the little room, bytheir daily influence on his life, drew him nearer to heaven. He gavethe key to his sister afterwards, and they used the room as their own;but that day he locked himself in alone, and, hiding his face in thecushions of her chair, he wept as only a strong man can weep. 

VI

A COMMERCIAL TRAVELLER

Mam'selle Zilda Chaplot keeps the station hotel at St. Armand, in theFrench country. 

The hotel is like a wooden barn with doors and windows, not a very largebarn either. The station is merely a platform of planks between thehotel and the rails. The railroad is roughly made; it lies long andstraight in a flat land, snow-clad in winter, very dusty in the summersun, and its line is only softened by a long row of telegraph poles, which seem to waver and tremble as the eye follows their endlessrepetition into the distance. In some curious way their repetition lendsto the stark road a certain grace. 

When Zilda Chaplot was young there were fewer wires on these telegraphpoles, fewer railway-lines opposite the station, fewer houses in St. Armand, which lies half a mile away. The hotel itself is the same, butin those days it was not painted yellow, as it is now, and was not halfso well kept. The world has progressed by twenty years since mam'sellewas a girl, and, also, she owns the place herself now, and is a muchbetter inn-keeper than was her father. 

Mam'selle Chaplot is a very active person, tall, and somewhat stout. Hercomplexion is brown; her eyes are very black; over them there is afringe of iron-grey hair, which she does up in curl-papers every night, and which, in consequence, stands in very tight little curls all day. 

Mam'selle Chaplot minds her affairs well; she has a keen eye to the mainchance. She is sometimes sharp, a trifle fiery, but on the whole she isgood-natured. There are lines about the contour of her chin, and alsowhere the neck sweeps upward, which suggest a more than common power ofsatisfaction in certain things, such as dinners and good sound sleep, and good inn-keeping--yes, and in spring flowers, and in autumn leavesand winter sunsets. Zilda Chaplot was formed for pleasure, yet there isno tendency latent in her which could have made her a voluptuary. Thereare some natures which have so nice a proportion of faculties that theyare a law of moderation to themselves. They take such keen delight insmall pleasures that to them a little is enough. 

The world would account Mam'selle Chaplot to have had a life of toil andstern limitations; a prosperous life, truly, for no one could see herwithout observing her prosperity, but still a hard dry life. Even herneighbours, whose ideas of enjoyment do not soar above the St. Armandlevel, think that her lot would be softer if she married. Many of themen have offered marriage, not with any disinterested motive, it istrue, but with kindly intent. They have been set aside like children whomake requests unreasonable, but so natural for them to make that therequest is hardly worth noticing. The women relatives of these rejectedsuitors have boasted to mam'selle of their own domestic joys, and havedrawn the contrast of her state in strong colour. Zilda only says'Chut!' or she lifts her chin a little, so that the pretty upward sweepof the neck is apparent, and lets them talk. Mam'selle is not the womanto be turned out of her way by talk. 

The way of single blessedness is not chosen by Zilda Chaplot because ofany fiction of loyalty to a quondam lover. Her mind is such that shecould not have invented obligations for herself, because she has not theinventive faculty. No, it is simply this: Mam'selle Chaplot loved once, and was happy; her mind still hugs the memory of that happiness withexultant reserve; it is enough; she does not desire other happiness ofthat sort. 

When she looks out on the little station platform and sees the loungersupon it, once and again she lets her busy mind stop in its business tothink of some one else she was once accustomed to see there. When shelooks with well-practised critical eye down the hotel dining-room, whichis now quite clean and orderly, when she is scolding a servant, orserving a customer, her mind will revert to the room in its former roughstate, and she will remember another customer who used to eat there. When the spring comes, and far and near there is the smell of wet moss, and shrubs on the wide flat land shoot forth their leaves, and thefields are carpeted with violets, then mam'selle looks round and hugsher memories, and thinks to herself, 'Ah! well, I have had my day. ' Andbecause of the pleasant light of that day she is content with thepresent twilight, satisfied with her good dinners and her goodmanagement. 

This is the story of what happened twenty years ago. 

St. Armand is in the French country which lies between the town ofQuebec and the townships where the English settlements are. At that timethe railway had not been very long in existence; two trains ransouthward from the large towns in the morning, and two trains rannorthward to the large towns in the evening; besides these, there wasjust one local train which came into St. Armand at noon, and passengersarriving at noon were obliged to wait for the evening train to get onfarther. 

There were not many passengers by this short local line. Even on themain line there was little traffic that affected St. Armand. Yet mostof the men of the place found excuse of business or pleasure to come andwatch the advent of the trains. The chief use of the station platformseemed to be for these loungers; the chief use of the bar at the hotelwas to slake their thirst, although they were not on the whole anintemperate lot. They stood about in homespun clothes and smoked. Alazy, but honest set of humble-minded French papists were the men at St. Armand. 

It was on the station platform that Zilda Chaplot came out in society, as the phrase might be. She was not a child, for when her father tookthe place she was twenty-four. There was red in her cheeks then, and thelashes of her eyes were long; her hair was not curled, for it was notthe fashion, but brushed smoothly back from broad low brows. She wastall, and not at all thin. She was very strong, but less active in thosedays, as girls are often less active than women. When Zilda had leisureshe used to stand outside the hotel and watch the men on the platform. She was always calm and dignified, a little stupid perhaps. She did notattract a great deal of attention from them. 

They were all French at St. Armand, but most of the strangers whichchance brought that way spoke English, so that the St. Armand folkscould speak English also. 

Anything which is repeated at appreciable intervals has to occur veryoften before the unscientific mind will perceive the law of itsrepetition. There was a little red-haired Englishman, John Gilby byname, who travelled frequently that way. It was a good while before theloungers at the station remarked that upon a certain day in the week healways arrived by the local train and waited for the evening train totake him on to Montreal. It was, in fact, Gilby himself who pointed outto them the regularity of his visits, for he was of a socialdisposition, and could not spend more than a few afternoons at that dullisolated station without making friends with some one. He travelled fora firm in Montreal; it was his business to make a circuit of certaintowns and villages in a certain time. He had no business at St. Armand, but fate and the ill-adjusted time-table decreed that he should waitthere. 

This little red-haired gentleman--for gentleman, in comparison with theSt. Armand folk he certainly was--was a thorough worldling in the senseof knowing the world somewhat widely, and corresponding to its ways, although not to its evil deeds. Indeed, he was a very good sort of man, but such a worldling, with his thick gold chain, and jaunty clothes, andquick way of adjusting himself to passing circumstances, that it wassome time before his good-natured sociableness won in the least uponthe station loungers. They held aloof, as from an explosive, not knowingwhen it would begin to emit sparks. He was short in stature, muchshorter than the hulking fellows who stood and surveyed him through thesmoke of their pipes, but he had such a cocky little way with him thathe overawed them much more than a big man would have done. Out of sheerdulness he took to talking to Zilda. 

Zilda stood with her back against the wall. 

'Fine day, ' said Gilby, stopping beside her. 

'Oui, monsieur. '

Gilby had taken his cigar from his mouth, and held it between twofingers of his right hand. Her countrymen commonly held their pipesbetween their thumb and finger. To Zilda, Gilby's method appearedastonishingly elegant, but she hardly seemed to observe it. 

'You have a flat country here, ' said he, looking round at the dry summerfields; 'rather dull, isn't it?'

'Oui, monsieur. '

'Don't you speak English?'

'Yes, sir, ' said Zilda. 

This was not very interesting for Gilby. He had about him a good deal ofthe modern restlessness that cannot endure one hour without work oramusement. He made further efforts to make up to the men; he asked themquestions with patronising kindness, he gave them scraps of informationupon all subjects of temporary interest, with a funny little air ofpompous importance. When by mere force of habit they grew more familiarwith him, he would strut up and engage them in long conversations, listen to all they said with consummate good nature, giving his opinionin return. He was wholly unconscious that he looked like a bantamcrowing to a group of larger and more sleepy fowls, but the Frenchmenperceived the likeness. 

As the months wore on he did them good. They needed waking up, those menwho lounged at the station, and he had some influence in that direction;not much, of course, but every traveller has some influence, and his wasof a lively, and, on the whole, of a beneficial sort. The men broughtforth a mood to greet him which was more in correspondence with his own. 

When winter came the weather was very bleak; deep snow was all around. Gilby disliked the closeness of the hotel, which was sealed to the outerair. 

'Whew!' he would say, 'you fellows, let us do something to keepourselves warm. ' And after much exercise of his will, which was strong, he actually had the younger men all jumping with him from a wood pilenear the platform to see who could jump farthest. He was not very younghimself; he was about thirty, and rather bald; the men who were with himwere much younger, but he thought nothing of that. He led them on, andincited them to feats much greater than his own, with boisterouschallenges and loud bravos. Before he jumped himself he always made mockhesitation for their amusement, swinging his arms, and apparentlybracing himself for the leap. Perhaps the deep frost of the country madehim frisky because he was not accustomed to it; perhaps it was alwayshis nature to be noisy and absurd when he tried to be amusing. Certainit was that it never once occurred to him that under the Frenchpoliteness with which he was treated, under the sincere liking whichthey really grew to have for him, there was much quiet amusement at hisexpense. It was just as well that he did not know, for he would havebeen terribly affronted; as it was, he remained on the best of termswith them to the end. 

The feeling of amusement found vent in his absence in laughter andmimicry. Zilda joined in this mimicry; she watched the Frenchmen strutalong the platform in imitation of Gilby, and smiled when theirimitation was good. When it was poor she cried, 'Non, ce n'est pas commeça, ' and she came out from the doorway and showed them how to do it. Herimitation was very good indeed, and excited much laughter. This showedthat Zilda had been waked into greater vivacity. Six months before shecould not have done so good a piece of acting. 

Zilda's exhibition would go further than this. Excited by success, shewould climb the wood pile, large and heavy as she was, and, standingupon its edge, would flap her arms and flutter back in a frightenedmanner and brace herself to the leap, as Gilby had done. She was aidedin this representation by her familiarity with the habits of chickenswhen they try to get down from a high roost. The resemblance struck her;she would cry aloud to the men--

'Voici Monsieur Geelby, le poulet qui a peur de descendre!'

The fact that at the thought of mimicking Gilby Zilda was roused to anunwarranted glow of excitement showed, had any one been wise enough tosee it, that she felt some inward cause of pleasurable excitement at themention of his name. A narrow nature cannot see absurdity in what itloves, but Zilda's nature was not narrow. She had learnt to love littleGilby in a fond, deep, silent way that was her fashion of loving. 

He had explained to her the principles of ventilation and why hedisliked close waiting-rooms. Zilda could not make her father learn thelesson, but it bore fruit afterwards when she came into power. Gilby hadexplained other things to her, small practical things, such as somepoints in English grammar, some principles of taste in woman's dress, how to choose the wools for her knitting, how to make muffins for histea. It was his kindly, conceited, didactic nature that made himinstruct whenever he talked to her. Zilda learned it all, and learnedalso to admire and love the author of such wisdom. 

It was not his fault; it was not hers. It was the result of his gorgeouswatch-chain and his fine clothes and his worldly knowledge, and also ofthe fact that because of his strict notions and conceited pride it neveroccurred to him to be gallant or to make love to her. Zilda, thehotel-keeper's daughter, was accustomed to men who offered her lightgallantry. It was because she did not like such men that she learned tolove--rather the better word might be, to adore--little John Gilby. Fromhigher levels of taste he would have been seen to be, in externalnotions, a common little man, but from Zilda's standpoint, even inmatters of outward taste he was an ideal; and Zilda, placed as she was, quickly perceived, what those who looked down upon him might not havediscovered, that the heart of him was very good. 'Mon Dieu, but he isgood!' she would say to herself, which was simply the fact. 

All winter long Gilby came regularly. Zilda was happy in thinking of himwhen he was gone, happy in expecting him when he was coming, happy inmaking fun of him so that no one ever suspected her affection. All thatlong winter, when the snow was deep in the fields, and the enginescarried snow-ploughs, and the loungers about the station wore buffalocoats, Zilda was very happy. Gilby wore a dogskin cap and collar andcuffs; Zilda thought them very becoming. Then spring came, and Gilbywore an Inverness cape, which was the fashion in those days. Zildathought that little Gilby looked very fascinating therein, although sheremarked to her father that one could only know he was there because thecape strutted. Then summer came and Gilby wore light tweed clothes. TheFrenchmen always wore their best black suits when they travelled. Zildaliked the light clothes best. 

Then there came a time when Gilby did not come. No one noticed hisabsence at first but Zilda. Two weeks passed and then they all spoke ofit. Then some one in St. Armand ascertained that Gilby had had a rise inthe firm in which he was employed, that he sat in an office all day anddid not travel any more. Zilda heard the story told, and commented upon, and again talked over, in the way in which such matters of interest areslowly digested by the country intellect. 

Alas! then Zilda knew how far she had travelled along a flowery pathwhich, as it now seemed to her, led to nowhere. It was not that she hadwanted to marry Gilby; she had not thought of that as possible; it wasonly that her whole nature summed itself up in an ardent desire thatthings should be as they had been, that he should come there once aweek, and talk politics with her father and other men, and set the boysjumping, and eat the muffins he had taught her to make for his tea. Andif this might not be, she desired above all else to see him again, tohave one more look at him, one more smile from him of which she couldtake in the whole value, knowing it to be the last. How carelessly shehad allowed him to go, supposing that he would return! It was not herwish to express her affection or sorrow in any way; it was not hernature to put her emotions into words; but ah, holy saints! just to seehim again, and at least take leave of him with her eyes!

It was very sad that he should simply cease to come, yet that she knewwas just what was natural; a man does not bid adieux to a railwaystation, and Zilda knew that she was, as it were, only part of thestation furniture. She resented nothing; she had nothing to resent. 

So the winter came again, and Christmas, and again the days grew longerover the snowfields. Zilda always looked for the sunsets now, for shehad been taught that they were beautiful. She cultivated geraniums andpetunias in pots at her windows, just as she had done for many winters, but she would stop oftener to admire the flowers now. 

The men had taken again to congregating in the hot close bar-room, orhuddling together in their buffalo coats, smoking in the outer air. Zilda looked at the wood pile, from which no one jumped now, with wearyeyes. It had grown intolerable to her that now no one ever mentionedGilby; she longed intensely to hear his name or to speak it. She darednot mention him gravely, soberly, because she was conscious of hersecret which no one suspected. But it was open to her to revive themimicry. 'Voici Monsieur Geelby, ' she would cry, and pass along thestation platform with consequential gait. A great laugh would break fromthe station loungers. 'Encore, ' they cried, and Zilda gave the encore. 

There was only one other relief she found from the horrible silencewhich had settled down upon her life concerning the object of heraffection. At times when she lay awake in the quiet night, or at suchtimes as she found herself within the big stone church of St. Armand, she prayed that the good St. Anne would intercede for her, that shemight see 'Monsieur Geelby' once more. 

This big church of St. Armand has a great pointed roof of shining tin. It is a bright and conspicuous object always in that landscape; undersummer and winter sun it glistens like some huge lighthouse reflector. Ever since, whenever Zilda goes out on the station platform, for abreath of air, for a moment's rest and refreshing, or, on businessintent, to chide the loungers there, the roof of this church, at ahalf-mile's distance, twinkles brightly before her eyes, set in greenfields or in a snow-buried world; and every time it catches her eye itbrings to her mind more or less distinctly that she has in her own waytested religion and found it true, because the particular boon which shehad demanded at this time was granted. 

It was a happy morn of May; the snow had just receded from the land, leaving it very wet, and Spring was pushing on all the business she hadto do with almost visible speed. The early train came in from Montrealas usual, and who should step out of it but Gilby himself! He was alittle stouter, a little more bald, but he skipped down upon theplatform, radiant as to smile and the breadth of his gold watch-chain, and attired in a check coat which Zilda thought was the most perfectthing in costume which she had ever beheld. 

In a flash of thought it came to Zilda that there would be more than amomentary happiness for her. 'Ah, Monsieur Geelby, do you know that theriver has cut into the line three miles away, and that this train can gono farther till it is mended. '

Gilby was distinctly annoyed; he had indeed left town by the earlier ofthe two morning trains in order to stop an hour and take breakfast atSt. Armand; he had been glad of the chance of doing that, of seeingChaplot and his daughter and the others; but to be stopped at St. Armanda whole day--he made exhibition of his anger, which Zilda took verymeekly. Why had the affair not been telegraphed? Why were busy men likehimself brought out of the city when they could not get on to do theirwork?

There were other voices besides Gilby's to rail; there were other voicesbesides Zilda's to explain the disaster. In the midst of the babel Zildaslipped away to make muffins hastily for Gilby's breakfast. Her heartwas singing within her, but it was a tremulous song, half dazed withdelight, half frightened, fearing that with his great cleverness hewould see some way to proceed on his journey although she saw none. 

When she came out of the kitchen with the muffins in her hand hersunshine suddenly clouded. Gilby, unconscious that a special breakfastwas preparing for him, had hastily swallowed coffee and walked on to thesite of the breakdown to see for himself how long the mending wouldtake. 

It was as if one, looking through long hours for the ending of night, had seen the sunrise, only to see the light go out suddenly again indarkness. Zilda felt that her heart was broken. Her disappointment grewupon her for an hour, then she could no longer keep back the tears;because she had no place in which to weep, she began to walk away fromthe hotel down the line. There was no one to notice her going; she wasas free to go and come as the wild canaries that hopped upon the buddingbramble vines growing upon the railway embankment, or the blue-breastedswallows that sat on the telegraph wire. 

At first she only walked to hide her tears; then gradually the purposeformed within her to go on to the break in the road. There was no reasonwhy she should not go to see the mishap. Truly there had been many abreakdown on this road before and Zilda had never stirred foot toexamine them, but now she walked on steadily. Her fear told her thatGilby might find some means of getting on to the next station, someengine laden with supplies for the workmen from the other station mighttake him back with it. If so, what good would this her journey do? Ah, but perhaps the good God would allow her to see him first, or--well, shewalked on, reason or no reason. 

The sun was high, the blue of the sky seemed a hundred miles in depth, and not wisp or feather of cloud in it anywhere! Where the flat fieldswere untilled they were very green, a green that was almost yellow, itwas so bright. Within the strip of railway land a tangle of young bushesgrew, and on every twig buds were bursting. About a mile back from theroad, on either side, fir woods stood, the trees in close level phalanx. Everywhere over the land birds big and little were fluttering andflying. 

Zilda did not notice any of these things; she had only learned toobserve two things in nature, both of which Gilby had pointed out toher--the red or yellow rose of the winter sunset, the depth of colour inthe petals of her flowers. Nature was to her like a language of whichshe had only been told the meaning of two words. In the course of thenext month she learned the meaning of a few more; she never made furtherprogress, but what she learned she learned. 

The river which, farther on, had done damage to the line, here ran closeto it for some distance, consequently Zilda came to the river before shereached the scene of the disaster. The river banks at this season weremarshy, green like plush or velvet when it is lifted dripping from greenvats of the brightest dye. There were some trees by the river bank, maples and elms, and every twig was tipped with a crimson gem. Zilda didnot see the beauty of the river bank either; she regarded nothing untilshe came to a place where a foot-track was beaten down the side of theembankment, as if apparently to entice walkers to stray across a bit ofthe meadow and so cut off a large curve of the line. At this pointZilda heard a loud chirpy voice calling, 'Hi! hi! who's there? Is any onethere?'

Zilda did not know from whence the voice came, but she knew from whom itcame. It was Gilby's voice, and she stopped, her soul ravished by themusic. All the way along, bobolinks, canaries, and song-sparrows hadbeen singing to her, the swallows and red-throats had been talking;everywhere among the soft spongy mosses, the singing frog of theCanadian spring had been filling the air with its one soft whistlingnote. Zilda had not heard them, but now she stopped suddenly with headbent, listening eager, enraptured. 

'Hi! hi!' called the voice again. 'Is any one there?'

Zilda went down the bank halfway among the bushes and looked over. Shesaw Gilby sitting at the edge of the meadow almost in the river water. She saw at once that something was wrong. His attitude was as natural ashe could make it, such an attitude as a proud man might assume when painis chaining him in an awkward position, but Zilda saw that he wasinjured. Her heart gave a great bound of pleasure. Ah! her bird waswounded in the wing; she had him now, for a time at least. 

'You! Mam'selle Zilda, ' he said in surprise; 'how came you here?'

'I wished to see the broken road, monsieur. ' There was nothing in hervoice or manner then or at any other time to indicate that she took aspecial interest in him. 

'Do you often take such long walks?' he asked with curiosity. 

Zilda shrugged her shoulders. 'Sometimes; why not?'

She could not have told why she dissembled; it was instinct, just as itwas the instinct of his proud little spirit to hate to own that he washelpless. 'Look here, ' he said, 'I slipped on the bank--and I--I think Ihave sprained my ankle. '

'Oui, monsieur, ' said Zilda. 

Her manner evinced no surprise; her stolidity was grateful to him. 

Stooping down, she took his foot in her hand, gently, but as firmly asif it had been a horse's hoof. She straightened it, unlaced his muddyboot, and with strong hands tore the slit further open until she couldtake it off. 

'Look here, ' he said, with a little nervous shout of laughter, 'do younot know you are hurting me?' It was the only wince he gave, although hewas faint with pain. 

'Oui, monsieur'--with a smile as firm and gentle as her touch. 

She took off her hat, and, heedless of the ribbon upon it, filled itwith water again and again and drenched the swollen leg. It was sogreat a relief to him that he hardly noticed that she stood ankle-deepin the river to do it. She wore a little red tartan shawl upon hershoulders, and she dipped this also in the river, binding it round andround the ankle, and tying it tight with her own boot-lace. 

'Thank you, ' said he; 'you are really very good, Mam'selle Zilda. '

She stood beside him; she was radiantly happy, but she did not show itmuch. She had him there very safe; it mattered less to her how to gethim away; yet in a minute she said--

'Monsieur had better move a little higher up; he is very uncomfortable. '

He knew that much better than she, but he had borne all the pain hecould just then. He nodded as if in dismissal of the idea. 'Presently. But, in the meantime, Zilda, sit down and see what a beautiful placethis is; you have not looked at it. '

So she found a stone to sit on, and immediately her eyes were opened andshe saw the loveliness around her. 

The river was not a very broad one, but ah! how blue it was, with aglint of gold on every wave. The trees that stood upon either bank casta lacework of shadow upon the carpet of moss and violets beneath them. The buds of the maples were red. On a tree near them a couple of malecanaries, bright gold in the spring season, were hopping and piping;then startled, they flew off in a straight line over the river to theother shore. 

'See them, ' said Gilby; 'they look like streaks of yellow light!'

'I see, ' said Zilda, and she did see for the first time. 

Now Gilby had a certain capacity for rejoicing in the beauties ofnature; it was overlaid with huge conceit in his own taste anddiscernment and a love of forcing his observations on other people, butthe flaws in his character Zilda was not in a position to see. The goodin him awakened in her a higher virtue than she would otherwise haveknown; she was unconscious of the rest, just as eyes which can see formand not colour are unconscious of the bad blending of artificial hues. 

Presently Zilda rose up. 'I will make monsieur more comfortable, ' shesaid, and she lifted him to a drier place upon the bank. 

This was mortifying to little Gilby; his manner was quite huffy for someminutes after. 

Zilda had her own ideas of what she would do. She presently left himalone and walked on swiftly to the place of the breakdown. There sheborrowed a hand-car; it was a light one that could be worked easily bytwo men, and Zilda determined to work it alone. While she was comingback along the iron road on the top of the narrow embankment, Gilbycould see her from where he sat--a stalwart young woman in homespungown, stooping and rising with regular toilsome movement as she workedthe rattling machine that came swiftly nearer. 

When the carriage thus provided for him was close at hand, the almostbreathless Zilda actually proposed to exert her strength to carry Gilbyup to it. He insisted upon hopping on one foot supported by her arm; hedid not feel the slightest inclination to lean upon her more than wasneedful, he was too self-conscious and proud. Even after she had placedhim on the car, he kept up an air of offence for a long time justbecause she had proved her strength to be so much greater than his own. His little rudenesses of this sort did not disturb Zilda's tranquillityin the least. 

Gilby sat on the low platform of the hand-car. He looked like a bantamcock whose feathers were much ruffled. Zilda worked at the handles ofthe machine; she was very large and strong, all her attitudes werestatuesque. The May day beamed on the flat spring landscape throughwhich they were travelling; the beam found a perfect counterpart in thejoy of Zilda's heart. 

So she brought Gilby safely to the hotel and installed him in the bestroom there. The sprain was a very bad one. Gilby was obliged to liethere for a month. Sometimes his friends came out from the town to seehim, but not very often, and they did not stay long. Zilda cooked forhim, Zilda waited upon him, Zilda conversed with him in the afternoonswhen he needed amusement. This month was the period of her happiness. 

When he was going home, Gilby felt really very grateful to the girl. Hehad not the slightest thought of making love to her; he felt toostrongly on the subject of his dignity and his principles for that; butalthough he haggled with Chaplot over the bill, he talked in a bombasticmanner about making Zilda a present. 

It did not distress Zilda that he should quarrel with her father's bill;she had no higher idea in character than that each should seek his ownin all things; but when Gilby talked of giving her a present she shrankinstinctively with an air of offence. This air of offence was the onebetrayal of her affection which he could observe, and he did not gathervery much of the truth from it. 

'I will give you a watch, Zilda, ' he said, 'a gold watch; you will likethat. '

'No, monsieur. ' Zilda's face was flushed and her head was high in theair. 

'I will give you a ring; you would like that--a golden ring. '

'No, monsieur; I would not like it at all. '

Gilby retired from the discussion that day feeling some offence and agood deal of consternation. He thought the best thing would be to havenothing more to do with Zilda; but the next day, in the bustle of hisdeparture, remembering all she had done for him, he relented entirely, and he gave her a kiss. 

Afterwards, when the train was at the station, and Chaplot and Zilda hadput his bags and his wraps beside him on a cushioned seat, Gilby turnedand with great politeness accosted two fine ladies who were travellingin the same carriage and with whom he had a slight acquaintance. Hisdisposition was at once genial and vain; he had been so long absent fromthe familiar faces of the town that his heart warmed to the firsttownsfolk he saw; but he was also ambitious: he wished to appear on goodterms with these women, who were his superiors in social position. 

They would not have anything to do with him, which offended him verymuch; they received his greeting coldly and turned away; they saidwithin themselves that he was an intolerably vulgar little person. 

But all her life Zilda Chaplot lived a better and happier woman becauseshe had known him. 

VII

THE SYNDICATE BABY

Some miles above the city of La Motte, the blue Merrian river widensinto the Lake of St. Jean. In the Canadian summer the shores of thislake are as pleasant a place for an outing as heart could desire. Theinhabitants of the city build wooden villas there, and spend the longwarm days in boats upon the water. The families that live in thesewooden villas do not take boarders; that was the origin of 'TheSyndicate. ' It consisted of some two dozen bachelors who were obliged tosit upon office stools all day in the hot city. 'If, ' said they, 'wecould live upon the lake, we could have our morning swim and our eveningsail; and the trains would take us in and out of the city. '

The one or two uncomfortable hotels of this region were alreadyovercrowded, so these bachelors said to each other--'Go to; we will putour pence together, and build us a boat-house with an upper story, andlive therein. '

They bought a bit of the beach for a trifle of money. They built aboat-house, of which the upper half was one long dormitory, with a greatbalcony at the end over the water which served as kitchen anddining-hall. The ground floor was the lake itself, and each man whocould buy a boat tethered it there. The property, boats excepted, was incommon. By and by they bought a field in which they grew vegetables;later they bought two cows and a pasture. The produce of the herd andthe farm helped to furnish forth the table. This accretion of wealthtook several years; some of the older men grew richer, and took tothemselves wives and villas; the ranks were always filled up by moreimpecunious bachelors. The bachelors called themselves 'The Syndicate. '

The plan worked well, chiefly because of the fine air and the sunshine, the warm starry nights, and, above all, the witchery of the lake, whichis to every man who has spent days and nights upon it like a mysticallady-love, ever changeful and ever charming. Then, too, there was thecontrast with the hot city; the sense of need fulfilled makes mengood-natured. The one servant of the establishment, an old man who madethe beds and the dinners, was not a professional cook; the meals wereoften indifferent; yet the Syndicate did not quarrel among themselves. 

Some outlet for temper perhaps was needful. At any rate they had oneoutside quarrel with an old Welshman named Johns, a farmer of greatimportance in the place, who had sold them the land and tried, in theiropinion, to cheat them afterwards about the boundaries. Their unitedrage waxed hot against Johns, and he, on his side, did nothing topropitiate. The quarrel came to no end; it was a feud. 'Esprit decorps, ' like the fumes of wine, gives men a wholly unreasonable sense ofcomplacence in themselves and their belongings, whatever the belongingsmay happen to be. The Syndicate learned to cherish this feud as avaluable possession. 

The Syndicate, as has been seen, had one house, one servant, and oneenemy. It also had one Baby. The Baby was the youngest member of thecommunity, a pretty boy who by some chance favour had obtained a bed inthe dormitory at the hoyden age of nineteen. He had a tendency tochubbiness, and his moustache, when it did come, was merely a silkenwhisp, hardly visible. He did some fagging in return for theextraordinary favour of adoption. The Baby from the first was entirelyaccustomed to being 'sat upon. ' He had no unnecessary independence ofmind. At twenty-one he still continued to be 'Baby. '

All the affairs of the Syndicate flourished, including the feud withthe neighbouring landowner. All went well with the men and their boatsand the Baby, until, at length, upon one fateful day for the latter, there came a young person to the locality who made an addition to thehousehold of Farmer Johns. 

'Old Johns has got a niece, ' said the bachelors sitting at dinner, as ifthe niece had come fresh to the world as babies do, and had not held thesame relation to old Johns for twenty-five years. Still, it was true shehad never been in the old man's possession before, and now she hadarrived at his house, a sudden vision of delight as seen from the roador on the verandah. 

Now Helen Johns was a beauty; no one unbiassed by the party spirit of atime-honoured feud would have denied that. She was not, it is true, ofthe ordinary type of beauty, whose chief ornament is an effort atcaptivation. She did not curl her hair; she did not lift her eyes andsmile when she was talking to men; she did not trouble herself to put onher prettiest gown when the evening train came in, bringing thebachelors from the city. She was tall--five foot eight in her stockings;all her muscles were well developed; there was nothing sylph-like abouther waist, but all her motions had a strong, gentle grace of their ownthat bespoke health and dignity. She had a profession, too, which wasmuch beneath most of the be-crimped and smile-wreathed maidens whobasked in the favour of the bachelors. She had been to New York and hadlearned to teach gymnastics, the very newest sort; 'Delsart' or'Emerson, ' or some such name, attached to the rhythmic motions sheperformed. The Syndicate had no opportunity to criticise the gymnasticperformance, for they had not the honour of her acquaintance; theycriticised everything else, the smooth hair, the high brow, thewell-proportioned waist, the profession; they decided that she was notbeautiful. 

There were, roughly speaking, two classes of girls in this summersettlement, each held in favour by the Syndicate men according aspersonal taste might dispose. There were the girls who in a cheerfulmanner were ever to be found walking or boating in such hours and placesas would assuredly bring them into contact with the happy bachelors, andthere were those who would not 'for the world' have done such a thing, who sedulously shunned such paths, and had to be much sought afterbefore they were found. Now it chanced that Helen Johns was seen to rowalone in her uncle's boat right across the very front of the Syndicateboat-house, at the very hour when the assembled members were eatingroast beef upon the verandah above and arriving at their decisionsconcerning her, and she did not look as if she cared in the leastwhether twenty-four pair of eyes were bent upon her or not. To be sure, it was her nearest way home from the post-office across the bay, and thepost came in at this evening hour. No one could find any fault, not evenany of the bachelors, but none the less did the affront sink deep intotheir hearts. It added a new zest to the old feud. 'We do not see thatshe is beautiful, ' they cried over their dinner. 'We should not care forHelen of Troy if she looked like that. '

The Baby dissented; the Baby actually had the 'cheek' to say, rightthere aloud at the banquet, that he might not be a man of taste, but, for his part, he thought she looked 'the jolliest girl' he had everseen. In his heart he meant that he thought she looked like a goddess oran angel (for the Baby was a reverent youth), but he veiled his realfeeling under this reticent phrase. 

One and all they spoke to him, spoke loudly, spoke severely. 'Baby, 'they said, 'if you have any dealings with the niece of Farmer Johnswe'll kick you out of this. '

It was a romantic situation; love has proverbially thriven in theatmosphere of a family feud. The Baby felt this, but he felt also thathe could not run the risk of being kicked out of the Syndicate. The Babydid sums in a big hot bank all day; he had no dollars to spare, therewas no other place upon the lake where he could afford to live, and hehad a canoe of his own which his uncle had given him. Hiawatha did notlove the darling of his creation more than the Baby loved his cedar-woodcanoe. All this made him conceal carefully that mysterious sensation ofunrestful delight which he experienced every time he saw Miss HelenJohns. This, at least, in the first stage of his love-sickness. 

Fate was hard; she led the Baby, all cheerful and unsuspecting, to spendan evening at a picnic tea in a wood a mile or more from the shore. Mischievous Fate! She led him to flirt frivolously until long after darkwith a girl that he cared nothing at all about, and then whispered inhis ear that he would get home the quicker if in the obscurity he ranacross the Johns' farm. Fate, laughing in her sleeve, led him to passwith noiseless footsteps quite near the house itself; then she wascontent to leave him to his own devices, for through the open window hecaught sight of Helen Johns doing her gymnastics. Her figure was allaglow with the yellow lamplight; she was happy in the poetry of hermotions and in the delight that the family circle took in watching them. The Baby was in the dark and the falling dew; he was uncomfortable, forhe had to stand on tiptoe, but nothing would have induced him to easehis strained attitude. The pangs of a fierce discontent took possessionof his breast. 

Art was consulted in the gymnasium in which Miss Johns had studied; thetheory was that only that which is beautiful is healthful. Sometimes shepoised herself on tiptoe with one arm waved toward heaven, an angel allready, save the wings, for aerial flight. Sometimes she seemed to hoverabove the ground like a running Mercury. Sometimes she stood, a handbehind her ear, listening as a maid might who was flying from danger insome enchanted land. Often she waved her hands slowly as if weaving aspell. 

A spell was cast over the soul of the Baby; he held himself against theextreme edge of a verandah; his mouth remained open as if he weredrinking in the beams from the bright interior and all the beautifulpictures that they brought with them. It was only when the show was overthat he noiselessly relaxed his strained muscles, and crept away overthe dew-drenched grass, hiding under the shadow of maple boughs, guiltytrespasser that he was. 

After that, one evening, Farmer Johns and his niece had an errand torun; at a house about two miles away on the other side of the bay therewas a parcel which it was their duty to fetch. They had started out inthe calm white light of summer twilight; a slight wind blew, just enoughto take their sail creeping over the rippled water, no more. The lakewithin a mile of the shore was thickly strewn with small yachts, boats, and canoes. Upon the green shore the colours of the gaily painted villascould still be seen among the trees, and most conspicuous of all thegreat barn-like boat-house of the Syndicate, which was painted red. Byand by the light grew dimmer and stars came out in the sky; then onecould no longer distinguish the outline of the shore, but in everywindow a light twinkled, like a fallen star. 

Helen sat in the side of the tiny ship as near the prow as might be; heruncle sat at the tiller and managed the sails. They were a silent pair, the one in a suit of tweeds with a slouch hat, the other in a muslingown with a veil of black lace wrapped about her head. 

The sailing of the boat was an art which Helen had not exerted herselfto understand; she only knew that every now and then there was a minuteof bluster and excitement when her uncle shouted to her, and she wasobliged to cower while the beam and the sail swung over her head with asound of fluttering wind. When she was allowed to take her seat afterthis little hurly-burly the two lighthouses upon the lake and all thelights upon the shore had performed a mysterious dance; they all lay indifferent places and in different relation to one another. She had notlearned to know the different lights. When dusk came she was lost to herown knowledge. She only knew that the sweet air blew upon her face andthat she trusted her uncle. 

The moonless night closed in. Now and then, as they passed a friendlycraft, evening greetings were spoken across the dark space. By the timethey got to the place for which they were bound they were floatingalmost alone upon the black water. 

Johns descended into a small boat and secured the sailing-boat to thebuoy which belonged to the house whither he was going, or rather, hethought that he secured it. 

Helen heard the plash of his oars until he landed. The shore was buttwenty yards away, but she could hardly see it. The sail hung limp, wrinkled, and motionless. She began to sing, and there alone in thedarkness she fell in love with her own voice, and sang on and on, thinking only of the music. 

Her uncle was long in coming; she became conscious of movement in thewater, like the swell of waves outside rolling into the cove. She heardthe sound of swaying among all the trees on the shore. She looked up andsaw that the stars of one half the sky were obscured, that the darknesswas rolling onward toward those that were still shining. 

She stopped her own singing, and the song of the waters beneath her prowwas curiously like the familiar sound when the boat was in motion. Shestrained her eyes, but could not see how far she was from the nearshore. She looked on the other side and it seemed to her that the lightson the home-ward side of the bay were moving. That meant that she wasmoving, at what speed and in what direction she had no means of knowing. 

She stood up, lifted her arms in the air and shouted for help; again andagain her shouts rang out, and she did not wait to hear an answer. Shethought that the masters of other boats had seen the storm coming andgone into shore. 

She was out now full in the whistling wind and the boat was leaping. Herthroat was hoarse with calling, her eyes dazzled by straining. 

When she turned in despair from scanning the shore she saw a sight thatwas very strange. At the tiller where her uncle ought to have been, andjust in the attitude in which he always stood, was a slight whitefigure. A new sort of fear took possession of Helen; at first she couldnot speak or move, but kept her eyes wide open lest the ghostly thingshould come near her unawares. 

This illusion might be a forerunner of the death to which she washastening, the Angel of Death himself steering her to destruction!

Then in a strange voice came the familiar shout, the warning to holddown her head. The sail swung over in the customary way; every movementof the figure at the helm was so familiar and natural that comfortbegan to steal into her heart. Plainly, whoever had taken command of thedrifting craft knew his business; might it not be an angel of life, andnot of death?

Now in plain sober reality, as her pulses ceased to dance so wildly, Helen could not believe that her companion was angel or spirit. One doesnot believe in such companionship readily. 

She scrambled to her knees and steadied herself by the seat. 'Who areyou?' she asked. 

The figure made a gesture that seemed like a signal of peace, but noanswer was given. 

The lights upon her own part of the shore were now not far distant. Shelooked above and saw breaks in the darkness that had hidden the stars;the clouds were passing over. 

The squall that was taking them upon their journey was still whistlingand blowing, but she feared its force less as she realised that she wasnearing home. 

She desired greatly to work herself along the boat and touch the sailorcuriously with her hand, but she was afraid to do it, and that for tworeasons: if he was a spirit she had reason for shrinking from suchcontact, and if he was a man--well, in that case she also sawobjections. 

The man at the helm dropped the sail; for a minute or two he stood notfar from Helen as he busied himself with it. 

'Who are you?' she asked again, but she still had not courage to put outher hand and touch him. 

There was a little wooden wharf upon the shore, and to this the sailorheld the boat while Helen sprung out. Her feet were no sooner safe uponit than the boat was allowed to move away. She saw the black mast andthe white figure recede together and disappear in the darkness. 

Johns had to walk home by the shore, and in no small anxiety. When hesaw that his niece was safe he chuckled over her in burly fashion. 

'Then I suppose, ' he said, 'that some fellow got aboard her between thepuffs of wind. I hope it was none of those Syndicate men; they're a fastlot. What was his name? What had he to say for himself?'

'She was flying far too fast for any one to get aboard, ' asserted Helen. 'I don't know what his name was; he didn't say anything; I don't knowwhere he went to. '

Then the uncle suggested toddy in an undertone to his wife. The auntlooked over her spectacles with solicitude, and then arose and put herniece to bed. 

When Helen was left alone she lay looking out at the stars that againwere shining; she wondered and wondered; perhaps the reason that shecame to no definite conclusion was that she liked the state of wonderbetter. Helen was a modern girl; she had friends who were spiritualists, friends who were theosophists, friends who were 'high church' andbelieved in visions of angels. 

In the morning Johns' boat was found tethered as usual to the buoy infront of his house. 

Long before this the Syndicate had suspected the Baby's attachment. Thestrength of that attachment they did not suspect in the least; neverhaving seen depths in the Baby, they supposed there were none. They hadfallen into the habit of taking the Baby by the throat and asking him intrenchant tones, 'Have you spoken to her?' The Baby found it convenientto be able to give a truthful negative, not that he would have mindedfibbing in the least, but in this case the fib would certainly have beendetected; he could not expect his goddess to enter into any clandestineparley and keep his secret. 

Had the Baby taken the matter less to heart he would have been more rashin asserting his independence, but he meditated some great step and 'laylow. ' What or when the irrevocable move was to be he had no definiteidea, the thought of it was only as yet an exalted swelling of mind andheart. 

There was a period, after the affair of the boat, when he spent a gooddeal of time haunting the sacred precincts of the house where Helenlived. The precincts consisted of a dusty lane, a flat, ugly fencedfield where a cow and a horse grazed, and a place immediately about thehouse covered with thick grass and shaded by maple trees. There weresome shrubs too, behind which one could hide if necessary, but they wereprickly, uncomfortable to nestle against, and the unmown grass absorbedan immense quantity of dew. In imagination, however, the Baby wanderedon pastoral slopes and in classic shades. At first he paid his visits atnight when the family were asleep, and he slipped about so quietly thatno one but the horse and the cow need know where he went or what he did. At length, however, he grew more bold, and took his way across the maplegrove going and coming from other evening errands. Trespassing is notmuch of a fault at the lake of St. Jean. The Baby became expert indodging hastily by, with his eyes upon the windows; the dream of hislife was to see the gymnastics performed again; at length it wasrealised. 

The thing we desire most is often the thing that brings us woe. 

The Baby caught sight of Helen practising her beautiful attitudes. Hehung on to a rail of the verandah, and gazed and gazed. Then he took hislife in his hand, as it were, and swung himself up on the verandah; hemoved like a cat, for he supposed that the stalwart Johns was within. From this better point of view, peeping about, he now surveyed the wholeinterior of the small drawing-room. What was his joy to find that therewas no family circle of spectators; Helen was exercising herself alone!He hugged to himself the idea that the gracious little spectacle was allhis own. 

Now, as it happened, the Baby in his secret hauntings of this house hadnot been so entirely unseen as he supposed. Certainly Johns had nevercaught sight of him or he would have been made aware of it, but Helen, since the night of the boating mystery, had more than once caught sightof a white figure passing among the maple shadows. These glimpses hadadded point and colour to all the mystical fancies that clustered roundthe helmsman of the yacht. She hardly believed that some guardian spiritwas protecting her in visible semblance, or that some human PrinceCharming, more kingly and wise than any man that she had yet seen, hadchosen this peculiar mode of courting her; but her wish was the fatherof thoughts that fluttered between these two explanations, and hope wasfed by the conviction that no man who could see her every day if hechose would behave in this romantic manner. 

So upon this evening it happened that when Helen, poised upon her toesand beating the time of imaginary music with her waving hand, caughtsight of the Baby's white flannels through the dark window pane, sherecognised the figure of her dreams and, having long ago made up hermind what to do when she had the chance, she ran to the French windowwithout an instant's delay, and let herself out of it with gracefulspeed. 

The Baby, panic-stricken, felt but one desire, that she might never knowwho had played the spy. He threw himself over the verandah rail with anacrobat's skill, and with head in front and nimble feet he darted offunder the maple trees: but he had to reckon with an agile maiden. Helenhad grown tired of a fruitless dream. A crescent moon gave her enoughlight to pursue; lights of friendly houses on all sides assured her ofsafety. 

Over the log fence into the pasture vaulted the Baby, convinced now thathe had escaped. Vain thought! He had not considered the new education. Over the fence vaulted Helen as lightly: in a minute the Baby heard heron his track. 

The cow and the horse had never before seen so pretty a chase. There wasexcitement in the air and they sniffed it; they were both young and theybegan to run too. The sound of heavy galloping filled the place. 

Of the two sides of the field which lay farthest from the house, onelooked straight over to the glaring Syndicate windows, and one to therugged bank that rose from the shore. The Baby's one mad desire was toconceal his identity. He made for the dark shore. Another fence, hethought, or the rocks of the bank, would surely deter her flying feet. 

They both vaulted the second fence. The Baby still kept his distanceahead, but when he heard that she too sprang over, a fear for her safetydarted across his excited brain. Would those cantering animals jumpafter and crush her beneath their feet, or would she fall on the rocksof the shore which he was going to leap over? The Baby intended to leapthe shore and lose his identity by a swim in the black water. 

It was this darting thought of anxiety for Helen that made him hesitatein his leap. Too late to stop, the hesitation was fatal to fairperformance. The Baby came down on the shore with a groan, his leg underhim and his head on the earth. 

He saw Helen pause beside him, deliberately staring through the dimlight. 

'I'm not hurt, ' said the Baby, because he knew that he was. 

'You are only the Syndicate Baby!' she exclaimed with interrogatoryindignation. 

'I'm going to cut the Syndicate; I'll never have anything more to dowith them, Miss Johns. '

Helen did not understand the significance of this eager assurance. 

The Baby's brain became clear; he tried to rise, but could not. 

'Are you not hurt?' she asked. 

'Oh! no, not at all, Miss Johns' (he spoke with eager, youthfulpoliteness); 'it's only--it's only that I've doubled my leg and can'tquite get up. '

The Baby was pretty tough; a few bumps and breaks were matters of smallimportance to him; his employers had already bargained with him not toplay football as he gained so many holidays in bandages thereby. Justnow he was quick enough to take in the situation: Helen despised him, itwas neck or nothing, he must do all his pleading once for all, and thecompensation for a broken leg was this, that she could not have theinhumanity to leave him till he declared himself fit to be left. Hepulled himself round, and straightened the leg before him as he sat. 

Helen was not accustomed to falls and injuries; she was shocked andpitiful, but she was stern too; she felt that she had the right. 

'I'm very sorry; I will go and get some one to help you, but you knowit's entirely your own fault. What have you been behaving in this wayfor?'

'If you'd only believe me, ' pleaded the Baby, 'I--I--you really can haveno idea, Miss Johns----'

If she could have seen how white and earnest his young face was shemight have listened to him, but the light was too dim. 

'I want to know this' (severely), 'Was it you who got on to our sailingboat that other night?'

'I thought you were alarmed, Miss Johns, and in a rather--ratherdangerous situation. ' The Baby was using his prettiest tones, such as heused when he went out to a dance. 

If she could have known how heroic it was to utter these mincing accentsover a broken leg she might have been touched; but she did not even knowthat the leg was broken. She went on rigidly, 'How could you get aboardwhen she was sailing so fast? Where did you come from?'

'Oh! it wasn't difficult at all, I assure you, Miss Johns; I only got onbetween the gusts of the wind. I swam from the Syndicate boat. You know, of course, one of us must have gone when we heard you singing out forhelp, and I was only too happy, frightfully happy, I am sure--and it wasnothing at all to do. If you were much here, and saw us swimming andboating, you'd see fellows do that sort of thing every day. '

It was a delicate instinct that made him underrate the feat he hadperformed, for he would have been so glad to have her feel under theslightest obligation to him; but as far as her perceptions wereconcerned, the beauty of his sentiment was lost, for when he said thatthe thing that he had done was easy, she believed him. 

She still interrogated. 'Why did you not speak and tell me who youwere?'

There had been an ostensible and a real reason for this conduct on theBaby's part. The first was the order which his friends in the Syndicateboat had called after him as he jumped into the water, the second hespoke out now for the first time to Helen. 

'I didn't speak, Miss Johns, because I--I _couldn't_. Oh! you have noidea--really, you know, if you'd only believe me--I love you so much, Miss Johns, I couldn't say anything or I'd have said more than I ought, the sort of thing I'm saying now, you know. '

'Tut!' said Helen sharply, 'what rubbish!'

'Oh! but Miss Johns--yes, I knew you would think it was all rot and thatsort of thing; that was the reason I didn't say it in the boat, and thatis the reason I've never dared to ask to be introduced to you, MissJohns. It wasn't that I cared for the Syndicate. You see, the worst ofit is, I'm so confoundedly poor; they give me no sort of a screw at allat the bank, I do assure you. But, Miss Johns, my uncle is one of thedirectors; he's sure to give me a leg up before very long, and if youonly knew--oh! really if you only knew----, ' words failed him quite whenhe tried to describe the strength of his devotion. He only sat beforeher, supporting himself with both hands on the ground and looking upwith a face that had no rounded outline now, but was white, passionateand pathetic; he could only murmur, 'really, really--if you onlyknew----'

The darkness barred her vision and the extravagant words in the boyishvoice sounded ridiculous to her. 

'I will believe you, ' she said, 'if you want me to, but it doesn't makeany difference; I am sorry you are hurt, and sorry you have taken thisfancy for me. I think you will find some other girl very soon whom youwill like better; I hope you will. There isn't' (she was becomingvehement), 'there isn't the slightest atom of use in your caring forme. '

'Isn't there?' asked the Baby despairingly. 'I wish you would say thatyou will think over it, Miss Johns; I wish you would say that I mightknow you and come and see you sometimes. I'd cut the Syndicate and makeit up with your uncle. '

'It wouldn't be the slightest use, ' she repeated excitedly. 

'Of course if you go on saying that, I sha'n't bore you any more, butdo, Miss Johns, do, do just think a minute before you say it again. '

A note in his voice touched her at last; she paused for the requiredminute and then answered gently; her gentleness carried conviction. 'Icould never care for you. You are not at all the sort of man I couldever care for, and I am going back to New York in a few days, so youwon't be troubled by seeing me any more. '

When Helen rushed breathless to the door of the Syndicate boat-house andtold of the accident, the bachelors went out in a body and bore the Babyhome. 

They petted him until he was on his feet again. They gained some vagueknowledge of his interview with Helen, and he kept a very distinctremembrance of it. Both he and they believed that his first attempt atlove had come to nothing, but that was a mistake. 

The Baby had loved with some genuine fervour, and his grief made a manof him. 

VIII

WITCHCRAFT

A young minister was walking through the streets of a small town in theisland of Cape Breton. The minister was only a theological student whohad been sent to preach in this remote place during his summer holiday. The town was at once very primitive and very modern. Many log-housesstill remained in it; almost all the other houses were built of wood. The little churches, which represented as many sects, looked like thechurches in a child's Dutch village. The town hall had only a brickfacing. On the hillsides that surrounded the town far and wide were manyfields, in which the first stumps were still standing, charred by thefires that had been kindled to kill them. There were also patches offorest still to be seen among these fields, where the land had not yetbeen cleared. In spite of all this, the town was very advanced, everyimprovement being of the newest kind because so recently achieved. Uponhuge ungainly tree-trunks roughly erected along the streets, electriclamps hung, and telephone wires crossed and recrossed one another fromroof to roof. There was even an electric tram that ran straight throughthe town and some distance into the country on either side. The generalstore had a gaily dressed lay figure in its window, --a femalefigure, --and its gown was labelled 'The Latest Parisian Novelty. '

The theological student was going out to take tea. He was a tall, activefellow, and his long strides soon brought him to a house a little wayout of the town, which was evidently the abode of some degree of tasteand luxury. The house was of wood, painted in dull colours of red andbrown; it had large comfortable verandahs under shingled roofs. Itsgarden was not old-fashioned in the least; but though it aspired totrimness the grass had not grown there long enough to make a good lawn, so the ribbon flower-beds and plaster vases of flowers lacked thegreen-velvet setting that would have made them appear better. Thestudent was the less likely to criticise the lawn because a very pretty, fresh-looking girl met him at the gate. 

She was really a fine girl. Her dress showed rather more effort atfashion than was quite in keeping with her very rural surroundings, andher speech and accent betrayed a childhood spent among uneducated folkand only overlaid by more recent schooling. Her face had the best partsof beauty: health and good sense were written there, also flashes ofhumour and an habitual sweet seriousness. She had chanced to be at thegate gathering flowers. Her reception of the student was frank, and yetthere was just a touch of blushing dignity about it which suggested thatshe took a special interest in him. The student also, it would appear, took an interest in her, for, on their way to the house, he made avariety of remarks upon the weather which proved that he was a littleexcited and unable to observe that he was talking nonsense. 

In a little while the family were gathered round the tea-table. Thegirl, Miss Torrance by name, sat at the head of the table. Her fatherwas a banker and insurance agent. He sat opposite his eldest daughterand did the honours of the meal with the utmost hospitality, yet withreserve of manner caused by his evident consciousness that his grammarand manners were not equal to those of his children and their guest. There were several daughters and two sons younger than Miss Torrance. They talked with vivacity. 

The conversation soon turned upon the fact that the abundant supply ofcream to which the family were accustomed was not forthcoming. Strawberries were being served with the tea; some sort of cold puddingwas also on the table; and all this to be eaten without cream, --theseyoung people might have been asked to go without their supper, soindignant they were. 

Now, Mr. Torrance had been decorously trying to talk of the youngminister's last sermon and of the affairs of the small Scotch church ofwhich he was an elder, and Miss Torrance was ably seconding his effortby comparing the sentiments of the sermon to a recent magazine article, but against her will she was forced to attend to the young people'sclamour about the cream. 

It seemed that Trilium, the cow, had recently refused to give her milk. Mary Torrance was about eighteen; she suddenly gave it as her opinionthat Trilium was bewitched; there was no other explanation, she said, noother possible explanation of Trilium's extraordinary conduct. 

A flush mounted Miss Torrance's face; she frowned at her sister when thestudent was not looking. 

'It's wonderful, the amount of witchcraft we have about here, Mr. Howitt, ' said the master of the house tentatively to the minister. 

Howitt had taken Mary's words in jest. He gave his smooth-shaven facethe twist that with him always expressed ideas wonderful or grotesque. It was a strong, thin face, full of intelligence. 

'I never could have conceived anything like it, ' said he. 'I come acrosswitch tales here, there, everywhere; and the marvellous thing is, someof the people really seem to believe them. '

The younger members of the Torrance family fixed their eyes upon himwith apprehensive stare. 

'You can't imagine anything more degrading, ' continued the student, whocame from afar. 

'Degrading, of course. ' Mr. Torrance sipped his tea hastily. 'The CapeBreton people are superstitious, I believe. '

An expression that might have betokened a new resolution appeared uponthe fine face of the eldest daughter. 

'_We_ are Cape Breton people, father, ' she said, with dignifiedreproach. 'I hope'--here a timid glance, as if imploring support--'Ihope we know better than to place any real faith in these degradingsuperstitions. '

Howitt observed nothing but the fine face and the words that appeared tohim natural. 

Torrance looked at them both with the air of an honest man who was stillmade somewhat cowardly by new-fashioned propriety. 

'I never put much o' my faith in these things myself, ' he said at lastin broad accents, 'still, '--an honest shake of the head--'there's queerthings happens. '

'It is like going back to the Middle Ages'--Howitt was stillimpervious--'to hear some of these poor creatures talk. I never thoughtit would be my lot to come across anything so delightfully absurd. '

'Perhaps for the sake of the ministry ye'd better be careful how ye sayyour mind about it, ' suggested Mr. Torrance; 'in the hearing of the poorand uneducated, of course, I mean. But if ye like to make a study o'that sort of thing, I'd advise ye to go and have a talk with MistressBetty M'Leod. She's got a great repertory of tales, has Mistress Betty. '

Mary spoke again. Mary was a young woman who had the courage of heropinions. 'And if you go to Mistress M'Leod, Mr. Howitt, will you justbe kind enough to ask her how to cure poor Trilium? and don't forgetanything of what she says. '

Miss Torrance gave her sister a word of reproof. There was still uponher face the fine glow born of a new resolution never again to listen toa word of witchcraft. 

As for Howitt, there came across his clever face the whimsical lookwhich denoted that he understood Mary's fun perfectly. 'I will goto-morrow, ' he cried. 'When the wise woman has told me who has bewitchedTrilium, we will make a waxen figure and stick pins in it. '

The next day Howitt walked over the hills in search of Mistress BettyM'Leod. The lake of the Bras d'Or held the sheen of the western sun inits breast. The student walked upon green slopes far above the water, and watched the outline of the hills on the other side of the inlet, andthought upon many things. He thought upon religion and philosophy, forhe was religious and studious; he thought upon practical details of hispresent work, for he was anxious for the welfare of the souls under hischarge; but on whatever subject his thoughts dwelt, they came back ateasy intervals to the fair, dignified face of his new friend, MissTorrance. 

'There's a fine girl for you, ' he said to himself repeatedly, withboyish enthusiasm. He thought, too, how nobly her life would be spent ifshe chose to be the helpmeet of a Christian minister. He wonderedwhether Mary could take her sister's place in the home circle. Yet withall this he made no decision as to his own course. He was discreet, andin minds like his decisions upon important matters are fruits of slowgrowth. 

He came at last to a farm, a very goodly farm for so hilly a district. It lay, a fertile flat, in a notch of the green hillside. When hereached the house yard he asked for Mistress Betty M'Leod, and was ledto her presence. The old dame sat at her spinning-wheel in a farmkitchen. Her white hair was drawn closely, like a thin veil, down thesides of her head and pinned at the back. Her features were small, hereyes bright; she was not unlike a squirrel in her sharp little movementsand quick glances. She wore a small shawl pinned around her spareshoulders. Her skirts fell upon the treadle of the spinning-wheel. Thekitchen in which she sat was unused; there was no fire in the stove. Thebrick floor, the utensils hanging on the walls, had the appearance ofundisturbed rest. Doors and windows were open to the view of the greenslopes and the golden sea beneath them. 

'You come from Canada, ' said the old dame. She left her spinning with acertain interested formality of manner. 

'From Montreal, ' said he. 

'That's the same. Canada is a terrible way off. '

'And now, ' he said, 'I hear there are witches in this part of the land. 'Whereupon he smiled in an incredulous cultured way. 

She nodded her head as if she had gauged his thought. 'Ay, there's manya minister believes in them if they don't let on they do. I mind----'

'Yes, ' said he. 

'I mind how my sister went out early one morning, and saw a witchmilking one of our cows. '

'How did you know she was a witch?'

'Och, she was a neighbour we knew to be a witch real well. My sisterdidn't anger her. It's terrible unlucky to vex them. But would youbelieve it? as long as we had that cow her cream gave no butter. We hadto sell her and get another. And one time--it was years ago, whenDonald and me was young--the first sacrament came round----'

'Yes, ' said he, looking sober. 

'And all the milk of our cows would give hardly any butter for a wholeyear! And at house-cleaning time, there, above the milk shelves, whatdid they find but a bit of hair rope! Cows' and horses' hair it was. Oh, it was terrible knotted, and knotted just like anything! So then ofcourse we knew. '

'Knew what?'

'Why, that the milk was bewitched. We took the rope away. Well, thatvery day more butter came at the churning, and from that time on, more, but still not so much as ought by rights to have come. Then, one day, Ithought to unknot the rope, and I undid, and undid, and undid. Well, when I had got it undone, that day the butter came as it should!'

'But what about the sacrament?' asked he. 

'That was the time of the year it was. Oh, but I could tell you a sad, sad story of the wickedness of witches. When Donald and me was young, and had a farm up over on the other hill, well, there was a poor widowwith seven daughters. It was hard times then for us all, but for her, she only had a bit of flat land with some bushes, and four cows and somesheep, and, you see, she sold butter to put meat in the children'smouths. Butter was all she could sell. 

'Well, there came to live near her on the hill an awful wicked old manand woman. I'll tell you who their daughter is: she's married to Mr. M'Curdy, who keeps the store. The old man and his wife were awful wickedto the widow and the fatherless. I'll tell you what they did. Well, thewidow's butter failed. Not one bit more could she get. The milk was justthe same, but not one bit of butter. "Oh, " said she, "it's a hard world, and me a widow!" But she was a brave woman, bound to get along some way. So, now that she had nothing to sell to buy meal, she made curds of themilk, and fed the children on that. 

'Well, one day the old man came in to see her in a neighbouring way, andshe, being a good woman, --oh, but she was a good woman!--set a dish ofcurds before him. "Oh, " said he, "these are very fine curds!" So he wentaway, and next day she put the rennet in the milk as usual, but not abit would the curd come. "Oh, " said she, "but I must put something inthe children's mouths!" She was a fine woman, she was. So she kept thelambs from the sheep all night, and next morning she milked the sheep. Sheep's milk is rich, and she put rennet in that, and fed the childrenon the curd. 

'So one day the old man came in again. He was a wicked one; he wasdreadful selfish; and as he was there, she, being a hospitable woman, gave him some of the curd. "That's good curd, " said he. Next day, whenshe put the rennet in the sheep's milk, not a bit would the curd come. She felt it bitterly, poor woman; but she had a fine spirit, and she fedthe children on a few bits of potato she had growing. 

'Well, one day, the eldest daughter got up very early to spin--in thetwilight of the dawn it was--and she looked out, and there was the oldwoman coming from her house on the hill, with a shawl over her head anda tub in her arms. Oh, but she was a really wicked one! for I'll tellyou what she did. Well, the girl watched and wondered, and in thetwilight of the dawn she saw the old woman crouch down by one of thealder bushes, and put her tub under it, and go milking with her hands;and after a bit she lifted her tub, that seemed to have something in it, and set it over against another alder bush, and went milking with herhands again. So the girl said, "Mother, mother, wake up, and see whatthe neighbour woman is doing!" So the mother looked out, and there, inthe twilight of the dawn, she saw her four cows in the bit of land, among the alder bushes, and the old neighbour woman milking away at abush. And then the old woman moved her tub likewise to another bush, andlikewise, and likewise, until she had milked four bushes, and she tookup her tub, and it seemed awful heavy, and she had her shawl over it, and was going up the hill. 

'So the mother said to the girl, "Run, run, and see what she has got init. " For they weren't up to the ways of witches, and they wereastonished like. But the girl, she said, "Oh, mother, I don't like. "Well, she was timid, anyway, the eldest girl. But the second girl was aromping thing, not afraid of anything, so they sent her. By this timethe wicked old woman was high on the hill; so she ran and ran, but shecould not catch her before she was in at her own door; but that secondgirl, she was not afraid of anything, so she runs in at the door, too. Now, in those days they used to have sailing-chests that lock up; theyhad iron bars over them, so you could keep anything in that was asecret. They got them from the ships, and this old woman kept her milkin hers. So when the girl bounced in at the door, there she saw thatwicked old woman pouring milk out of the tub into her chest, and thechest half full of milk, and the old man looking on! So then, of coursethey knew where the good of their milk had gone. '

The story was finished. The old dame looked at the student and noddedher head with eyes that awaited some expression of formal disapproval. 

'What did they know?' asked he. 

'Know! Oh, why, that the old woman was an awful wicked witch, and she'dtaken the good of their milk. '

'Oh, indeed!' said the student; and then, 'But what became of the widowand the seven daughters?'

'Well, of course she had to sell her cows and get others, and then itwas all right. But that old man and his wife were that selfish they'dnot have cared if she'd starved. And I tell you, it's one of the thingswitches can do, to take the good out of food, if they've an eye to it;they can take every bit of nouriture out of it that's in it. There weretwo young men that went from here to the States--that's Boston, ye know. Well, pretty soon one, that was named M'Pherson, came back, looking sowhite-like and ill that nothing would do him any good. He drooped and hedied. Well, years after, the other, whose name was McVey, came back. Hewas of the same wicked stock as the old folks I've been telling ye of. Well, one day, he was in low spirits like, and he chanced to be talkingto my father, and says he, "It's one of the sins I'll have to 'count forat the Judgment that I took the good out of M'Pherson's food till hedied. I sat opposite to him at the table when we were at Bostontogether, and I took the good out of his food, and it's the blackest sinI done, " said he. 

'Oh, they're awful wicked people, these witches! One of them offered toteach my sister how to take the good out of food, but my sister was toohonest; she said, "I'll learn to keep the good of my own, if ye like. "However, the witch wouldn't teach her that because she wouldn't learnthe other. Oh, but I cheated a witch once. Donald, he brought me a poundof tea. 'Twasn't always we got tea in those days, so I put it in the tinbox; and there was just a little over, so I was forced to leave that inthe paper bag. Well, that day a neighbour came in from over the hill. Iknew fine she was a witch; so we sat and gossiped a bit; she was a realpleasant woman, and she sat and sat, and the time of day went by. So Imade her a cup of tea, her and me; but I used the drawing that was inthe paper bag. Said she, "I just dropped in to borrow a bit of tea goinghome, but if that's all ye have"--Oh, but I could see her eyeing round;so I was too sharp for her, and I says, "Well, I've no more in the paperjust now, but if ye'll wait till Donald comes, maybe he'll bring some. "So she saw I was too sharp for her, and away she went. If I'd as much asopened the tin, she'd have had every grain of good out of it with hereyes. '

At first the student had had the grave and righteous intention ofdenouncing the superstition, but gradually he had perceived that to doso would be futile. The artistic soul of him was caught by the curiousrecital. He remembered now the bidding of Mary Torrance, and thoughtwith pleasure that he would go back and repeat these strange stories toMiss Torrance, and smile at them in her company. 

'Now, for instance, ' he said aloud, 'if a good cow, that is a great petin the family, should suddenly cease to give her milk, how would you setabout curing her?'

The dame's small bright eyes grew keener. She moved to herspinning-wheel and gave it a turn. 'Ay, ' she said, 'and whose is thecow?'

He was not without a genuine curiosity. 'What would you do for _any_ cowin that case?'

'And is it Torrance's cow?' asked Mistress Betty. 'Och, but I know it'sTorrance's cow that ye're speiring for. '

The young minister was recalled to a sense of his duty. He rose up withbrisk dignity. 'I only asked you to see what you would say. I do notbelieve the stories you have been telling me. '

She nodded her head, taking his assertion as a matter of course. 'ButI'll tell you exactly what they must do, ' she said. 'Ye can tell MissTorrance she must get a pound of pins. '

'A pound of pins!' said he. 

'Ay, it's a large quantity, but they'll have them at the store, for it'smore than sometimes they're wanted--a time here, a time there--againstthe witches. And she's to boil them in whatever milk the cow gives, andshe's to pour them boiling hot into a hole in the ground; and when she'sput the earth over them, and the sod over that, she's to tether theanimal there, and milk it there, and the milk will come right enough. '

While the student was making his way home along the hillside, throughfield and forest, the long arm of the sea turned to red and gold in thelight of the clouds which the sun had left behind when it sank down overthe distant region that the Cape Breton folk call Canada. 

The minister meditated upon what he had heard, but not for long. Hecould not bring his mind into such attitude towards the witch-tales asto conceive of belief in them as an actual part of normal humanexperience. Insanity, or the love of making a good story out of notionswhich have never been seriously entertained, must compose the warp andwoof of the fabric of such strange imaginings. It is thus we account formost experiences we do not understand. 

The next evening the Torrance family were walking to meeting. Thestudent joined himself to Miss Torrance. He greeted her with thewhimsical look of grave humour. 'You are to take a pound of pins, ' hesaid. 

'I do not believe it would do any good, ' she interrupted eagerly. 

It struck him as very curious that she should assert her unbelief. Hewas too nonplussed to go on immediately. Then he supposed it was part ofthe joke, and proceeded to give the other details. 

'Mr. Howitt, '--a tremulous pause, --'it is very strange about poorTrilium, she has always been such a good, dear cow; the children arevery fond of her, and my mother was very fond of her when she was aheifer. The last summer before she died, Trilium fed out of mother'shand, and now--she's in perfect health as far as we can see, but fathersays that if she keeps on refusing to give her milk he will be obligedto sell her. '

Miss Torrance, who was usually strong and dignified, spoke now in a veryappealing voice. 

'Couldn't you get an old farmer to look at her, or a vet?'

'But why do you think she has suddenly stopped giving milk?' persistedthe girl. 

'I am very sorry, but I really don't know anything about animals, ' saidhe. 

'Oh, then if you don't know anything about them----' She paused. Therehad been such an evident tone of relief in her voice that he wonderedmuch what would be coming next. In a moment she said, 'I quite agreedwith you the other night when you said the superstition about witchcraftwas degrading. '

'No one could think otherwise. ' He was much puzzled at the turn of herthought. 

'Still, of course, _about animals_, old people like Mistress BettyM'Leod may know something. '

As they talked they were walking down the street in the calm of thesummer evening to the prayer meeting. The student's mind was intent uponhis duties, for, as they neared the little white-washed church, manygroups were seen coming from all sides across the grassy space in whichit stood. He was an earnest man, and his mind became occupied with thethought of the spiritual needs of these others who were flocking to hearhim preach and pray. 

Inside the meeting-room, unshaded oil lamps flared upon a congregationmost serious and devout. The student felt that their earnestness anddevotion laid upon him the greater responsibility; he also felt muchhindered in his speech because of their ignorance and remote ways ofthought. It was a comfort to him to feel that there was at least onefamily among his hearers whose education would enable them to understandhim clearly. He looked with satisfaction at the bench where Mr. Torrancesat with his children. He looked with more satisfaction to where MissTorrance sat at the little organ. She presided over it with dignity andsweet seriousness. She drew music even out of its squeaking keys. 

A few days after that prayer meeting the student happened to be in thepost-office. It was a small, rough place; a wooden partition shut offthe public from the postmistress and her helpers. He was waiting forsome information for which he had asked; he was forced to stand outsidethe little window in this partition. He listened to women's voicesspeaking on the other side, as one listens to that which in no wayconcerns oneself. 

'It's just like her, stuck up as she is since she came from school, setting herself and her family up to be better than other folks. '

'Perhaps they were out of them at the store, ' said a gentler voice. 

'Oh, don't tell me. It's on the sly she's doing it, and then pretendingto be grander than other folks. '

Then the postmistress came to the window with the required information. When she saw who was there, she said something else also. 

'There's a parcel come for Miss Torrance, --if you happen to be going upthat way, ' the postmistress simpered. 

The student became aware for the first time that his friendship withMiss Torrance was a matter of public interest. He was not entirelydispleased. 'I will take the parcel, ' he said. 

As he went along the sunny road, he felt so light-hearted that, hardlythinking what he did, he began throwing up the parcel and catching itagain in his hands. It was not large; it was very tightly done up inthick paper, and had an ironmonger's label attached; so that, though hepaid small attention, it did not impress him as a thing that could beeasily injured. Something, however, did soon make a sharp impressionupon him; once as he caught the parcel he felt his hand deeply pricked. Looking closely, he saw that a pin was working its way through the thickpaper. After that he walked more soberly, and did not play ball. Heremembered what he had heard at the post-office. The parcel wascertainly addressed to Miss Torrance. It was very strange. He rememberedwith displeasure now the assumption of the postmistress that he would beglad to carry this parcel. 

He delivered the pound of pins at the door without making a call. Hismind had never come to any decision with regard to his feeling for MissTorrance, and now he was more undecided than ever. He was full ofcuriosity about the pins. He found it hard to believe that they were tobe used for a base purpose, but suspicion had entered his mind. Theknowledge that the eyes of the little public were upon him made himrealise that he could not continue to frequent the house merely tosatisfy his curiosity. 

He was destined to know more. 

That night, long after dark, he was called to visit a dying man, and themessenger led him somewhat out of the town. 

He performed his duty to the dying with wistful eagerness. The spiritpassed from earth while he yet knelt beside the bed. When he wasreturning home alone in the darkness, he felt his soul open to the powerof unseen spirit, and to him the power of the spiritual unseen was thepower of God. 

Walking on the soft, quiet road, he came near the house where he hadlately loved to visit, and his eye was arrested by seeing a lanterntwinkling in the paddock where Trilium grazed. He saw the forms of twowomen moving in its little circle of light; they were digging in theground. 

He felt that he had a right to make sure of the thing he suspected. Thewomen were not far from a fence by which he could pass, and he did passthat way, looking and looking till a beam of the lantern fell full onthe bending faces. When he saw that Miss Torrance was actually there, hewent on without speaking. 

After that two facts became known in the village, each much discussed inits own way; yet they were not connected with each other in the commonmind. One was that the young minister had ceased to call frequently uponMiss Torrance; the other, that Trilium, the cow, was giving hermilk. 

IX

THE GIRL WHO BELIEVED IN THE SAINTS

Marie Verine was a good girl, but she was not beautiful or clever. Shelived with her mother in one flat of an ordinary-looking house in asmall Swiss town. Had they been poorer or richer there might have beensomething picturesque about their way of life, but, as it was, there wasnothing. Their pleasures were few and simple; yet they were happier thanmost people are--but this they did not know. 

'It is a pity we are not richer and have not more friends, ' MadameVerine would remark, 'for then we could perhaps get Marie a husband; asit is, there is no chance. '

Madame Verine usually made this remark to the Russian lady who livedupstairs. The Russian lady had a name that could not be pronounced; shespoke many languages, and took an interest in everything. She wouldreply--

'No husband! It is small loss. I have seen much of the world. '

Marie had seen little of the world, and she did not believe the Russianlady. She never said anything about it, except at her prayers, and thenshe used to ask the saints to pray for her that she might have ahusband. 

Now, in a village about half a day's journey from the town where Mariedwelt, there lived a young girl whose name was Céleste. Her mother hadnamed her thus because her eyes were blue as the sky above, and her facewas round as the round moon, and her hair and eyelashes were likesunbeams, or like moonlight when it shines in yellow halo through thecurly edges of summer clouds. The good people of this village were ahard-working, hard-headed set of men and women. While Céleste's fatherlived they had waxed proud about her beauty, for undoubtedly she was acredit to the place; but when her parents died, and left her needy, theysaid she must go to the town and earn her living. 

Céleste laughed in her sleeve when they told her this, because youngFernand, the son of the inn-keeper, had been wooing and winning herheart, in a quiet way, for many a day; and now she believed in him, andfelt sure that he would speak his love aloud and take her home to hisparents. To be sure, it was unknown in that country for a man who hadmoney to marry a girl who had none; but Fernand was strong to work andto plan; Céleste knew that he could do what he liked. 

It was the time when the April sun smiles upon the meadow grass till itis very green and long enough to wave in the wind, and all amongst itthe blue scilla flowers are like dewdrops reflecting the blue that hangsabove the gnarled arms of the still leafless walnut trees. The cottagewhere Céleste lived was out from the village, among the meadows, and tothe most hidden side of it young Fernand came on the eve of the day onwhich she must leave it for ever. Very far off the snow mountains hadtaken on their second flush of evening red before he came, and Célestehad grown weary waiting. 

'Good-bye, ' said Fernand. He was always a somewhat stiff and formalyoung man, and to-night he was ill at ease. 

'But, ' cried Céleste--and here she wept--'you have made me love you. Ilove no one in the world but you. '

'You are foolish, ' said he. 'It is, of course, a pity that we must part, but it cannot be helped. You have no dowry, not even a small one. Itwould be unthrifty for the son of an innkeeper to marry a girl without asou. My parents would not allow me to act so madly!' and his manneradded--'nor would I be so foolish myself. '

Next day Céleste went up to the town, and went into the market-place tobe hired as a servant. 

This was the day of the spring hiring. Many servants were wanting work, and they stood in the market-place. All around were the old houses ofthe square; there was the church and the pastor's house, and the houseand office of the notary, and many other houses standing very closetogether, with high-peaked roofs and gable windows. The sun shone down, lighting the roofs, throwing eaves and niches into strong shadow, gleaming upon yellow bowls and dishes, upon gay calicoes, upon cheeseand sausages, on all bright things displayed on the open market-stalls, and upon the faces of the maid-servants who stood to be hired. Manyladies of the town went about seeking servants: among them was MadameVerine, and the Russian lady and Marie were with her. When they came infront of Céleste they all stopped. 

'Ah, what eyes!' said the Russian lady--'what simple, innocent, trustfuleyes! In these days how rare!'

'She is like a flower, ' said Marie. 

Now, they quickly found out that Céleste knew very little about the workshe would have to do; it was because of this she had not yet found amistress. 

'I myself would delight to teach her, ' cried the Russian lady. 

'And I, ' cried Marie. So Madame Verine took her home. 

They taught Céleste many things. Marie taught her to cook and to sew;the Russian lady taught her to write and to cipher, and was surprised atthe progress she made, especially in writing. Céleste was the moreinteresting to them because there was just a shade of sadness in hereye. One day she told Marie why she was sad; it was the story ofFernand, how he had used her ill. 

'What a shame!' cried Marie, when the brief facts were repeated. 

'It is the way of the country, ' said the Russian lady. 'These Swisspeasants, who have so fair a reputation for sobriety, are mercenaryabove all: they have no heart. '

Céleste lived with Madame Verine for one year. At the end of that timeMadame Verine arose one morning to find the breakfast was not cooked, nor the fire lit. In the midst of disorder stood Céleste, with flushedcheeks and startled eyes, and a letter in her hand. 

'Ah, madam, ' she faltered, 'what a surprise! The letter, it is frommonsieur the notary, who lives in the market-place, and to me, madam--_to me_!'

When Madame Verine took the letter she found told therein that an auntof Céleste, who had lived far off in the Jura, was dead, and had left toCéleste a little fortune of five thousand francs, which was to be paidto her when she was twenty-one, or on her marriage day. 

'Ah, ' cried Céleste, weeping, 'can it be true? Can it be true?'

'Of course, since monsieur the notary says so. '

'Ah, madam; let me run and see monsieur the notary. Let me just ask him, and hear from his lips that it is true!'

So she ran out into the town, with her apron over her head, and Mariemade the breakfast. 

The Russian lady came down to talk it over. 'The pretty child isdistraught, and at _so small_ a piece of good fortune!' said she. 

But when Céleste came in she was more composed. 'It is true, ' she said, with gentle joy, and she stood before them breathless and blushing. 

'It will be three years before you are twenty-one, ' said Madame Verine;'you will remain with me. '

'If you please, madam, no, ' said Céleste, modestly casting down hereyes; 'I must go to my native village. '

'How!' they cried. 'To whom will you go?'

Céleste blushed the more deeply, and twisted her apron. 'I have goodclothes; I have saved my year's wages. I will put up at the inn. Thewife of the innkeeper will be a mother to me now I can pay for mylodging. '

At which Madame Verine looked at the Russian lady, and that lady lookedat her, and said behind her hand, 'Such a baby, and so clever! It is themere instinct of wisdom; it cannot be called forethought. '

It is to be observed that, all the world over, however carefully amistress may guard her maid-servant, no great responsibility is feltwhen the engagement is broken. Madame Verine shrugged her shoulders andgot another servant. Céleste went down to her village. 

After that, when Marie walked in the market-place, she used to like tolook at the notary's house, and at him, if she could espy him in thestreet. The house was a fine one, and the notary, in spite of iron-greyhair and a keen eye, good-looking; but that was not why Marie wasinterested; it was because he and his office seemed connected with theromance of life--with Céleste's good fortune. 

When summer days grew long, Madame Verine, her friend and daughter, tooka day's holiday, and out of good nature they went to see Céleste. 

'Céleste lives like a grand lady now, ' cried the innkeeper's wife, onbeing questioned. 'She will have me take her coffee to her in bed eachmorning. '

'The wages she has saved will not hold out long, ' said the visitors. 

'When that is finished she gives us her note of hand for the money shewill get when she is married. She has shown us the notary's letter. Itis certainly a tidy sum she will have, and our son has some thoughts ofmarrying. '

They saw Céleste, who was radiant; they saw young Fernand, who waspaying his court to her. They returned home satisfied. 

It was not long after that when one morning Céleste came into MadameVerine's house; she was weeping on account of the loss of some of hermoney. She had come up to town, she said, to buy her wedding clothes, for which the notary had been so good as to advance her a hundredfrancs, but her pocket had been picked in the train. The money wasgone--quite gone--alas!

So tearful was she that they lent her some money--not much, but alittle. Then she dried her eyes, and said she would also get some thingson credit, promising to pay in a month, for it was then she was to bemarried. At the end of the day she came back gaily to show hertreasures. 

'When the rejoicings of your wedding are over, ' said Madame Verine, 'andyour husband brings you to town to claim the money, you may stay here inthe upper room of this house--it is an invitation. '

In a month came the wedding pair, joyful and blooming. The Russian ladymade them a supper. They lodged in an attic room that Madame Verinerented. In the morning they went out, dressed in their best, to see thenotary. 

An hour later Madame Verine sat in her little salon. The floor was ofpolished wood; it shone in the morning light; so did all the polishedcurves of the chairs and cabinets. Marie was practising exercises on thepiano. 

They heard a heavy step on the stair. The bridegroom came into the room, agitated, unable to ask permission to enter. He strode across the floorand sat down weakly before the ladies. 

They thought he had been drinking wine, but this was not so, althoughhis eye was bloodshot and his voice unsteady. 

'Can you believe it!' he cried, 'the notary never wrote letters to her;there was no aunt; there is no money!'

'It is incredible, ' said Madame Verine, and then there was a pause ofgreat astonishment. 

'It is impossible!' cried the Russian lady, who had come in. 

'It is true, ' said the bridegroom hoarsely; and he wept. 

And now Céleste herself came into the house. She came within the room, and looked at the ladies, who stood with hands upraised, and at herweeping husband. If you have ever enticed a rosy-faced child to bathein the sea, and seen it stand half breathless, half terrified, yettrying hard to be brave, you know just the expression that was on theface of the child-like deceiver. With baby-like courage she smiled uponthem all. 

Now the next person who entered the room was the notary himself. He wasa gentleman of manners; he bowed with great gallantry to the ladies, notexcepting Céleste. 

'She is a child, and has had no chance to learn the arts of cunning, 'cried the Russian lady, who had thought that she knew the world. 

The notary bowed to her in particular. 'Madam, the true artist is born, not made. '

Then he looked at Céleste again. There were two kinds of admiration inhis glance--one for her face, the other for her cleverness. He looked atthe weeping husband with no admiration at all, but the purpose in hismind was steady as his clear grey eye, unmoved by emotion. 

'I have taken the trouble to walk so far, ' said he, 'to tell this youngman what, perhaps, I ought to have mentioned when he was at my office. Happily, the evil can be remedied. It is the law of our land that if thefortune has been misrepresented, a divorce can be obtained. '

Céleste's courage vanished with her triumph. She covered her face. Thehusband had turned round; he was looking eagerly at the notary and athis cowering bride. 

'Ah, Heaven!' cried the two matrons, 'must it be?'

'I have walked so far to advise, ' said the notary. 

All this time Marie was sitting upon the piano-stool; she had turned ithalf-way round so that she could look at the people. She was not pretty, but, as the morning light struck full upon her face, she had thecomeliness that youth and health always must have; and more than that, there was the light of a beautiful soul shining through her eyes, forMarie was gentle and submissive, but her mind and spirit were alsostrong; the individual character that had grown in silence now began toassert itself with all the beauty of a new thing in the world. Marie hadnever acted for herself before. 

She began to speak to the notary simply, eagerly, as one who could nolonger keep silence. 

'It would be wrong to separate them, monsieur. '

Madame Verine chid Marie; the notary, no doubt just because he was a manand polite, answered her. 

'This brave young fellow does not deserve to be thus fooled. I shall beglad to lend him my aid to extricate himself. '

'He does deserve it, ' cried Marie. 'Long ago he pretended to have lovefor her, just for the pleasure of it, when he had not--that is worsethan pretending to have money! And in any case, it is a _wicked_ law, monsieur, that would grant a divorce when they are married, and--looknow--left to himself he will forgive her, but he is catching at what yousay. You have come here to tempt him! You dare not go on, monsieur!'

'Dare not, mademoiselle?' said the notary, with a superior air. 

'No, monsieur. Think of what the good God and the holy saints would say!This poor girl has brought much punishment on herself, but--ah, monsieur, think of the verdict of Heaven!'

'Mademoiselle, ' said the notary haughtily, 'I was proposing nothing butjustice; but it is no affair of mine. ' And with that he went outbrusquely--very brusquely for a gentleman of such polite manners. 

'I am astonished at you, Marie, ' said Madame Verine. This was true, butit was meant as a reproach. 

'She is beside herself with compassion, ' said the Russian lady; 'butthat is just what men of the world despise most. '

Then Marie went to her room weeping, and the two ladies talked toCéleste till her soft face had hard lines about the mouth and her eyeswere defiant. Young Fernand slipped out and went again to themarket-place. 

'I come to ask your aid, monsieur the notary. '

'I do not advise you. '

'But, monsieur, to whom else can I apply?'

'I am too busy, ' said the notary. 

Fernand and Céleste walked back to their village, hand in hand, bothdowncast, both peevish, but still together. 

Now the notary was not what might be called a bad man himself, but hebelieved that the world was very bad. He had seen much to confirm thisbelief, and had not looked in the right place to find any facts thatwould contradict it. This belief had made him hard and sometimes evendishonest in his dealings with men; for what is the use of being good ina world that can neither comprehend goodness nor admire it? On thewhole, the notary was much better satisfied with himself than with humannature around him, although, if he had only known it, he himself hadgrown to be the reflex--the image as in a mirror--of what he thoughtother men were; it is always so. There was just this much truth in himat the bottom of his scorn and grumbling--he flattered himself that ifhe could see undoubted virtue he could admire it; and there was in himthat possibility of grace. 

After he left Madame Verine's door he thought with irritation of thegirl who had rebuked him. Then he began to remember that she was only awoman and very young, and she had appealed to his heart--ah, yes, he hada heart. After all, he was not sure but that her appeal was charming. Then he thought of her with admiration. This was not the result ofMarie's words--words in themselves are nothing; it is the personality ofthe speaker that makes them live or die, and personality is strongestwhen nourished long in virtue and silence and prayer. When it came topass that the notary actually did the thing Marie told him to do, hebegan to think of her even with tenderness in his heart. 

Now a very strange thing happened. In about a week the notary called onMadame Verine a second time; he greeted her with all ceremony, and thenhe sat down on a little stiff chair and explained his business in hisown brief, dry way. 

Marie was not there. The little _salon_, all polished and shining, gavefaint lights and shadows in answer to every movement of its inmates. Madame Verine, in a voluminous silk gown, sat all attention, looking atthe notary; she thought he was a very fine man, quite a great personage, and undoubtedly handsome. 

'Madam, ' began he, 'I am, as you know, at middle age, yet a bachelor, and the reason, to be plain with you, is that I have not believed inwomen. Pardon me, I would not be rude, but I am a business man. I haveno delusions left, yet it has occurred to me that a young woman whowould make the lives of the saints her rule of life--I do not believein such things myself, but--in short, madam, I ask for your daughter inmarriage. '

He said it as if he was doing quite a kind thing, as, indeed, he thoughthe was. Madame Verine thought so too, and with great astonishment, andeven some apologies, gave away her daughter with grateful smiles. 

Marie was married to the notary, and he made her very happy. At firstshe was happy because he had good manners and she had such a lovingheart that she loved him. After a few years he found out that she wastoo good for him, and then he became a better man. 

X

THE PAUPERS' GOLDEN DAY

Betty Lamb was a comely girl; she was big to look at, being tall andstrong. She was never plump; she was never well clothed, not even in thebest days of her youth. She had been brought up in the work-house; afterthat she belonged to no one. Her mind was a little astray: she hadstrong, rude, strange ideas of her own; she would not be humble and workday in, day out, like other folk, and for that reason she never throvein the world. She lived here and there, and did this and that. All thetown knew her; she was just 'Betty Lamb'; no one expected aught of her. 

It was a small town in the west of Scotland. On different sides of itlong lanes of humble cottages straggled out into the fields; thecottages had grey stone walls and red tiled roofs. There were new greychurches in the town, and big buildings, and streets of shops. Thepeople in those days thought these very fine; they thought less aboutthe real glory of the town--a ruined abbey which stood upon an openheath just beyond the houses. 

Three walls, two high gothic windows with the slender mullions unbroken, a few stately columns broken off at different heights from the ground, and one fragment of the high arch of the nave standing up against thesky in exquisite outline--these formed the ruin. It was built of the redsandstone that in its age takes upon it a delicate bloom of pink andwhite; it looked like a jewel in the breast of the grey hill country. Furze grew within the ruin and for acres on all sides. Sheep and goatscame nibbling against the old altar steps. A fringe of wallflower andgrass grew upon the top of the highest arch and down the brokenfragments of the wall. 

All around the stately hills looked down upon the town and the ruin, andthe sky that bent over was more often than not full of cloud, soft andgrey. 

Betty Lamb was getting on to middle age, about thirty, when she had ababy. They had put her again in the poorshouse, but she rose when herbaby was but a day old and went away from the place. 

It was summer time then; the sky relented somewhat; there was sunshinebetween the showers, and sometimes a long fair week of silvery weather, when a white haze of lifting moisture rose ever, like incense, from thehills, and the light shone white upon the yellow bloom of the furze. 

Betty Lamb found the ambry niche in the wall of the ruin at the side ofthe place where the altar had been. She laid her baby there. That washis cradle, and by sunlight and moonlight she was heard singing loudsongs to him. The people were afraid of going too near her at that time. 'It is dangerous, ' said they, 'to touch an animal when she has her youngwith her. '

As years went on Betty Lamb and her little boy spent summer after summerupon the moor. The child was not christened, unless, indeed, the dewfalling from the sacred stones and the pity of God for fatherlessinnocents had christened him. In this world, at least, his name waswritten in no book of life, for he had no name. 

He grew to be a little lithe lad. Then it was that in every pickle ofmischief where a little lad could be this elf-child, with his black eyesand curly auburn hair, was to be found. So maddening indeed were hisnaughty tricks that the townspeople spoke not so often of beating him, as they would have beaten a human child, but of wringing his neck like ayoung thing that had no right to live. Yet it was more often in wordthan in deed that punishment of any sort was inflicted, for thepreliminary stage was perforce, 'first catch your boy, ' and that was farfrom easy. 

Even when the catching was accomplished the beating did not always come. One day the minister of the Kirk looked out upon his glebe. Hisfavourite cow, with a bridle in her mouth, was being galloped atgreatest speed around the field, Betty's lad standing tip-toe upon herback. The minister, with the agility which unbounded wrath gave him, caught the boy' and swung his cane. 

'I am going to thrash you, ' said he. 

'Ay, ye maun do that. ' The small face was drawn to the aspect of a gravejudge--'ye maun do that; it's yer juty. '

The minister, who had looked upon his intention rather in the light ofnatural impulse, felt the less inclination for the task. 'Are you notafraid of being beaten?' he asked. 

'Aweel'--an air of profound reflection--'I'm thinking I can even it onyday wi' ridin' on a coo's back when she'll rin like yon. '

The sunlight of habitual benevolence began to break through the cloud ofwrath upon the good minister's face. 'If I let you off, laddie, whatwill you do for me in return?'

An answering gleam of generosity broke upon the sage face of the child. 'I'll fair teach ye how to dae't ye'sel'. '

The lad grew apace. The neighbours said that he showed 'a caring' forhis mother, but no one held toward him a helping hand. They were so surethat no good could come of him or of her. The mother had taken todrink, and one day it was found that the lad was gone. Just as he hadoften slipped from the grasp of one or other of the angry townsmen, dodged, darted, and disappeared for the moment, so now it seemed that hehad slipped from the grasp of the town, run quickly and disappeared. Noone knew why he had gone, or whither, or to what end. 

Betty Lamb remained in the town, a fine figure of a woman, but bowed inthe shoulders, dirty, and clad in rags. At last, when her strongdefiance of poverty and need would no longer serve her, she was seen togo about from door to door in the early dawn, raking among the ashes forsuch articles as she chose to put in an old sack and carry upon herback. The townsfolk honestly thought that all had been done that couldbe done to make a decent woman of her, and now in her old age she mustneeds go down to the gutter. 

One day a man came to the town with circus pictures and a bucket ofpaste. He pasted his pictures upon all the blank spaces of walls whichhe could find. Great was the joy of the children who stood and stared, their little hearts made glad by novelty and colour. Great was thesurprise of the older folk, who said, 'It is a new thing in the worldwhen so great a show as this comes out of the accustomed track of showsto erect its tent in our small town!' Yet so it was; from some whim ofthe manager, or of some one who had the ear of the manager, the thingwas decreed. 

Upon these circus pictures there figured, in a series of many wonderfulharlequin attitudes, a certain Signor Lambetti. Very foreign was thecurl of his hair and the waxen ends of his moustache; very magnificentwas his physique; he wore the finest of silken tights and crimson smallclothes, and medals were depicted hanging upon his breast. 

When at length the circus came for that one night's entertainment andthe huge tent was set up upon the common not far from the old red ruin, all the town flocked to see the brilliant spectacle. The minister wasthere, and what was more, his wife and daughters too; they were fargrander than he was, and wore silken furbelows and fringed shawls. Theminister paid for the best seats for them to sit in. All the shopkeeperswere there; every man, woman and child in all the town who could find asmuch as sixpence to pay for standing room was there. But the strangestcircumstance was that before the show began a man went out from thebrightly-lit doorway and called in a loud voice to the beggars andlittle ragged boys and girls who had come to survey the tent on theoutside, and he brought them all in and gave them a good part of thetent to sit in, although they had not sixpence to pay, nor even a penny. 

Ah! in those days it was a very grand sight. There were elephants whoperformed tricks, and camels who walked about with men and bundles ontheir backs just as they do in eastern deserts, and there were wonderfulladies who dressed and behaved like fairies, and who rode standingtip-toe on the backs of horses and jumped through swinging rings. Butthe crowd had not read the circus bills and the newspapers from all theneighbouring cities for nothing. They were a canny Scotch crowd; theywere not to be taken in by mere glitter, no, not the smallest barefootboy nor the most wretched beggar, for they knew very well that the realcrisis of the evening was to be the appearance of Signor Lambetti, andthe word 'wonderful' was not to be spoken until his feats began to beperformed. 

At length he came outside the curtain upon which all eyes had long beenfixed. The curl of his hair and the waxed ends of his moustache provedhim to be beyond doubt from foreign parts. He was indeed a most grandand handsome gentleman. His dress was, if anything, more superb than ithad been in the pictures; all his well-formed muscles showed through thesilken gauze that he wore. His velvet trappings were trimmed with goldlace and his medals shone like gold. 

He walked upon a tight rope away up in the peaked roof of the tent; heheld a wand in his hand by which to balance himself and in the otherhand a cup of tea which he drank in the very middle of his walk;tossing it off, bowing to the crowd below, and bringing the cup andsaucer to the other end in safety. 

The crowd gave deep sighs, partly of satisfaction for being permitted tosee so wonderful a sight, partly out of relief for the safety of theperformer. 'Ay me, ' they said to one another, 'did ye ever see the lichto' that?' It meant more from them than the loudest clamour of applause, yet they applauded also. 

Then Signor Lambetti, looking quite as fresh and jaunty as at first, ascended a small platform, standing out upon it in the full light of allthe lamps. He made a little speech to the effect that he was now goingto perform a feat which was so difficult and dangerous that hitherto hehad kept it solely for the benefit of crowned heads, before whom on manyoccasions he had had the privilege of appearing. He said, in an airyway, that the reason he did the town the honour of beholding this mostwonderful of all his feats was merely that he had taken a liking to theplace. 

'Ay, but he's grond, ' said the little barefoot boys to one another asthey huddled against the front of the stand allotted to them. 'Ay me, but he's grond'; and all the rest of the townsfolk said the same tothemselves or each other, but they expressed it in all the differentways of that dignified caution common to the Scotch. 

There was a series of swings, one trapeze fixed higher than another, like a line of gigantic steps, to the very pinnacle of the tent. 'TheSignor' announced that he was going to swing himself up upon thesehanging bars until he reached the topmost, and from that he would leapthrough the air down, down into the lighted abyss below, and catch arope that was stretched at the foot of the Grand Stand. 

Merely to hear him tell what he was going to do made the crowd drawbreath with thrills of joyful horror. 

Up and up he went, swinging himself with lissome grace, raising eachtrapeze with the force of his swing until he could reach the one aboveit. 

He looked smaller as he travelled higher in his wonderful flyingprogress. The little boys had not breath left now even to say, 'Ay me, but he's grond. ' There was silence among all the crowd. 

To every one in all that crowd--to all except one--the spectacle wasthat of a strange man performing a strange feat; one poor woman presentsaw a different sight, one alone in all that crowd knew that the acrobatwas not a stranger. 

In a corner of the beggars' gallery sat Betty Lamb. Dirty and clothed inrags as she was, she held up her head at this hour with the old queenlydefiance of her youthful days. Her eyes, bleared and sunken, haddescried her son; her mother's heart, mad though all pronounced her tobe, had vibrated to the first sound of her son's voice. She knew him ascertainly as if she had seen him standing before her again, the littlelad of past years, or the infant cradled in the ambry of the ruinedchancel. 

The monarchs of whom Lambetti had been glibly speaking were not morenoble in rank or more surrounded with glory in the thought of Betty Lambthan was this hero of the circus, and he her son! What constitutesglory? Is it not made up of the glare of lamps and the wearing ofshining clothes, the shout of a thousand voices in applause, the glanceof a thousand eyes in admiration, and the renown that spreads into thenewspapers? In the mind of Betty Lamb there was no room for gradations;she knew glory, she knew shame; she herself had sunk to shame; but nowthat was past, her son had attained to glory, and her soul went out, asit were, from the circumstances of her own degradation and accepted hisglory as her own. 

They said (the townsfolk said) that Betty Lamb had not lackedopportunity. Ah well, God knows better than we what to each soul may beits opportunity. 

Betty Lamb watched her son in his perilous upward flight, and, for thefirst time in her life, prayed that Heaven would forgive her misdeeds. By some inborn instinct she assumed that it was this prayer she mustpray in order to obtain that desire of her eyes, his safety. When hereached the highest swing, when he made his leap from that awful heightand caught the lower rope, there had come a change in Betty Lamb's soul. It had seemed hours, nay, years to her, the space of time in which hewas swinging himself up and leaping down. Perhaps, half-witted as shehad been, this was in reality her life, not the other that for sixtyyears she had been visibly living. She saw that his eye was fixed uponher; she knew that the kisses were thrown to her. She rose and walkederect, in her heart a new sense of responsibility and of the value oflife. 

Next day in Betty Lamb's cellar-room a shadow darkened the doorway, andher son stood before her. He did not kiss her--that had not been theirway, even when he was an infant and she had sung her songs to him in thelonely ruin--but he bowed to her with all the foreign graces that he hadlearned, just as if she were one of the queens before whom he hadperformed. She feasted her eyes upon him. 

He looked round upon the cellar. 'You must not live here any longer, 'said he. 

For the first time in her life humility reigned in her heart and sheresigned her gypsy freedom. 'I'm thinking, ' she replied modestly, 'thatit's nae fit for the mither of sich as ye are noo. '

With the minister Lambetti left money that would defray the expenses ofa decent habitation for his mother, and, to the wonder of all, from thatday forth the mother lived in it decently. She was even charitable withher little store; she was even known to raise the fallen. 

When she was dead Lambetti was dead too. He had lived his life fast, and, if gold be of worth, it seemed as if he had lived it to somepurpose. Lambetti left money to the town, money for two purposes whichin due time the long-headed townsmen carried into effect. An asylum wasbuilt upon the moor; it is called 'Betty Lamb's Home for the Young andthe Aged. ' The old Abbey also was walled in; lawns and flower beds werespread about the broken stones, and where the walls might totter theywere supported. The honour of this change too is ascribed to the famousson of Betty Lamb, who had no name but his mother's. 

XI

THE SOUL OF A MAN

CHAPTER I

A man was standing on one of the highroads in the south ofGloucestershire. He was a man of science; his tools and specimens werein his hand, and he was leaning against the wayside paling, enjoying awell-earned rest. A long flock of birds fluttered over the autumnfields; beneath them a slow ploughman trudged with his horses, breakingthe yellow stubble. The sky hung low, full of sunshine yet full ofhaze--an atmosphere of blue flame, and the earth was bright with thewarm autumn colours of woods and hedgerow. 

Just as the birds were flying past, a young woman came by upon the road, treading with quick powerful step upon the fallen leaves. She was a poorwoman; her beauty, which would have been almost perfect in a simplergown, was marred by garments cut in cheap conformity to fashionabledress. It could not be hidden, however, and her large symmetricalfigure, swinging as she walked, attracted the attention of the man; ashe stood there, leaning against the paling, he felt by no meansdisinclined to while away his hour of rest by a few soft words with thecomely stranger. If he had put his thoughts into words, he would haveheld it as good luck that she had come to amuse his leisure, thinkingvery little about luck as it concerned her. His dog lying at his feetstirred to look at the woman, and the man, following the same instinctof nature, accosted her. 

'Can you tell me, my girl, what time it is?'

She stopped short and looked at him. 'That I can't, sir, ' she said inclear hearty tones, and turned to continue her walk. 

'But tell me what time you think it is, my good girl; I am not good atreading the sun. '

She turned again, and looked at him with a longer pause, but, if therewas suspicion or disapproval in her thoughts, she expressed nothing inher face. 

'Yer a gent; I'd 'a thought ye'd 'a had a watch. '

'But mine is at the watchmaker's getting mended, ' he said with a smile. He was neither young nor handsome, but he was clever, and that goesfurther than either in dealing with a woman. 

She still stood staring at him in rude independence. 

'The shadows is longer 'an they was a while by; mebbe it's three. '

He sighed and shifted his position wearily against the paling, as thoughfaint with fatigue. 

'You can't tell me of any place near where I can get something to eat? Ihave been working hard since daybreak, and now I am out of my reckoning, and tired and hungry. ' He glanced down at his tools and earth-stainedclothes. 

He won his wish; the woman, who would not have tarried a moment forselfish pleasure, remained out of generous pity. 

'I've the piece mother put up, mebbe it's big enou' for we two. '

'But I could not think of taking your luncheon, ' he exclaimed, with agallantry that was meant to be impressive, but was quite lost on hispractical companion. She proceeded to open her parcel and examine thecontents to see whether or not there was enough for two. He alsoexamined it critically with his eyes, in some alarm at her promptresponse to his appeal, but the thick slices of bread and meat, if notdainty, were clean, and of excellent quality. 

She took the largest and thickest bit and thrust it into his hand, verymuch as a mother would feed her child with the portion she consideredits fair share. 

''Ere, ye may 'ev that, fur I shan't want it. '

'You are very kind, ' he said, with a touch of sarcasm too fine for her. 

It appeared that, having taken out the food, she thought well to makeher own meal, for she went a few steps farther on, and, sitting down onthe grass with her back to the paling, began to eat. A large tuft ofweeds grew midway between him and her. Truly we can foresee consequencesbut a very little way in our dealings with a fellow-creature, and thisman, as he stood munching his bread, uncertain how to proceed in winningfavour from the bold beauty, was hardly pleased with the result of hisencounter. His dog went and laid its head upon her knee, and she fed itwith crumbs; its master, after watching them a minute, stepped out onthe road with the intention of sitting down between them and the weeds. As he did so he caught sight, as he thought, of a man seated in the veryplace he intended to occupy. So strong was the impression that hestarted and stared; but again, as before, there was no one to be seen. The sunshine was bright upon all things; the palings were so far apartthat he could see everything in the fields behind; there was no one faror near but the ploughman at half a field's distance, and they two, andthe dog. 

The woman turned coolly round and looked through the paling, as if shesupposed he had seen something behind her. 'Was't a haër?' she asked, eyeing him with interest; 'ye ain't feared o' the like o' that?'

'No, it was not a hare; I did not see a hare. '

'What was't ye seed then?' she asked, looking at him with bolddetermination. 

'What did I see?' he repeated vaguely, 'I saw nothing. '

'Thought ye looked as if ye'd seed something', ' she remarkedincredulously, and then went on eating and feeding the dog, asindifferent to his presence as she was to the presence of the weeds. 

'Are you going far to-night?' he asked at length, thinking he would makemore progress toward friendship before he sat down. 

'To th' town. '

'Indeed, as far as that! Which town, may I ask?' he said, withmechanical politeness, for his mind was running on what he had seen. 

'Yer a fool and noä mistake, ' she replied with emphasis. 'There's butone town wi'in a walk. '

'On the contrary, I am considered a man of great learning, ' he replied, with more eager self-assertion than he could hitherto have believedpossible under the circumstances. 

'Is't larning ye've got?' she asked, with much greater interest than shehad before evinced. 

'Yes; I am a man who spends his life seeking for knowledge. '

'Are ye wiser ner parson?'

'Very much wiser, ' replied the man of science, with honest conviction. 

She looked much more impressed than he had hoped; and thinking that hehad made himself sufficiently interesting, he began to speak about herown affairs, supposing they would please her better. 

'You are not a married woman?' he said, looking at her ringless hand. 

'Married or no, ' she replied, 'it's nowt to you. '

'I beg your pardon; everything which concerns such a beautiful womanmust be of interest to me. '

At that she laughed outright in hard derision, and went on eating herbread and meat. 

'But won't you tell me if you are married or not?' he pleaded, pursuinga subject which he thought must interest her. He was surprised to seethe sudden expression of womanly sorrow that came over her face, givingher eyes new depth and light. She answered him sadly, looking past himinto the sunny distance--

'No, nor like to be. '

'I must disagree with you there. If you are not married yet, I am sureyou will be very soon. I never saw a more likely lassie than yourself. '

Manlike, he was quite unconscious of the consummate impertinence of theform this compliment had taken; but afterwards he realised it when hisidle words recurred to his mind. 

She turned her eyes full upon him, and said with energy: 'Ye know nowtat all about it;' and then added more meditatively, 'neither doparson. '

She had been so absorbed in her thoughts for a few minutes that she hadceased to stroke the dog, and, resenting this, it raised its silky headfrom her lap and laid it upon her breast. Thus reminded, she smiled downinto the eyes of the dog and caressed it, pressing its head closeragainst her bosom. The man stood a few paces away, watching these twobeautiful creatures as they sat in the hazy autumn sunlight, with theirbackground of weeds and moss-grown paling. He felt baffled andperplexed, for he knew that he stood apart, excluded from theircompanionship by something he could not define. So intolerable did thisfeeling become that he resolved to break through it, and made a hastymovement to sit down beside them; but, as he stepped forward, he wassuddenly aware that there was another man in the place he would havetaken, embracing and protecting the girl. He swore a loud oath, andflung himself backwards to stand by the hedge on the opposite side ofthe road, that he might the better review the situation. It was all asit had been before--that quiet autumn landscape--only the woman appearedmuch interested in his sudden movements. 

'What was't ye seed; was't a snaïke?' she inquired loudly, at the sametime moving her skirts to look for that dangerous reptile. 

'No, ' he shouted, putting his whole energy into the word. 

'What was't ye seed, cutting them capers as if ye was shot, an' sayingo' words neyther fit fur heaven above nor earth beneath?'

So loudly did she ask, and so resolutely did she wait for an answer, that he was forced into speech. 'I don't know, ' he said, with anotheroath, milder than the first. 

'Well, sure enow, ' she said, still speaking loudly, ''ere's somethin'awful queer, ye says yer a man that's got larning more ner parson, an'ye sees somethin', an' can't tell what ye's seed. That's twice thisshort while; are ye often took bad the like o' that?'

The bold derision of this speech fell without effect upon its object, because he perceived a gleam of mischievous intelligence in her eyeswhich she had intended to conceal, but she was no adept in the art ofconcealment. The conviction that the woman knew perfectly what he hadseen and did not in reality despise him for his conduct, took the stingfrom her jeers but did not make his position pleasanter. The repeatedshock to his nerves had produced a chilly feeling of depression andalmost fear, which he could not immediately shake off, and he stood backagainst the opposite hedge, with his half-eaten bread in his hand, conscious that he looked and felt more like a whipped schoolboy than, ashe had fondly imagined when he first stopped the woman, the hero of arural love scene. That was nothing; he was, as he had describedhimself, a man who devoted his life to the search for knowledge, andpersonal consciousness was almost lost in the intense curiosity whichthe circumstances had aroused in him. With the trained mind of oneaccustomed to investigation, he instantly perceived that his only clueto the explanation of the phenomenon lay in the personality of thewoman. His one eager desire was to probe her thought through andthrough, but how was he to approach the interior portals of a mindguarded by a will as free and strong as his own? He would fain havebound down her will with strong cords and analysed the secrets of hermind with ruthless vivisection. But how? His tact, trained by all thesubtleties of a life cast in cultured social relations, was unequal tothe occasion, and, fearing to lose ground by a false step, he remainedsilent. 

The woman finished eating and shook herself free of the crumbs. Hesupposed, almost with a sense of desperation, that she was about toleave him before he could begin his inquiry, but instead of moving shemotioned him to come near, and he went, and stood on the road in frontof her. 

'Ye says yer a man o' larning, an' I b'lieves ye, she began. 

He was about to reply that he was only a seeker after truth, but he waschecked by the knowledge that she would accept no answer she could notunderstand. He fell back on the truth as it was to her, and saidsimply, 'Yes. '

'I wants to ask ye two questions; will ye answer like an honest man?'

She had laid aside all her loud rudeness, and was speaking with intenseearnestness--an earnestness that won his entire respect. 

'I will indeed answer you honestly, if I can answer. '

'Then tell me this--What's the soäl o' a man?'

He stood with lips sealed, partly by surprise at the question, andpartly by self-acknowledged ignorance of the answer. 

'The soäl o' a man, ' she repeated more distinctly, 'ye knows what I meansurely?'

Yes, he knew what she meant, but he knew also that his own most honestconvictions hovered between a materialist philosophy and faith in thespiritual unseen. If at that moment he could have decided between thetwo he would gladly have done so, for the sake of the eager womansitting at his feet, but he knew that he did not know which was thetruth. 

She, still labouring under the impression that she had not made hermeaning plain, endeavoured to explain. 'Ye knows when a man dies, there's two parts to him; one they buries, and one goes--' she pointedupward with her thumb, not irreverently, but as merely wishing toindicate a fact without the expense of words. 

'Yes, I understand what you mean, ' he said slowly, 'and under thattheory, the soul----'

'Under what?' she said sharply. 

'I mean that if you say the soul is divided from the body at death----'

'But it is--ain't it?' she interrupted. 

'Yes, it is, ' he said, feeling that it was better to perjure himselfthan to shake her faith. 

'Go on, ' she said, 'for parson says the soäl is the thing inside thatthinks; but when a man's luny, ye knows--off his head like--has he nosoäl then? I've looked i' the Catechis', an' i' Bible, an' i'Prayer-book, an' fur the life o' me, I doän't know. '

'I don't wonder at that, ' he said, with mechanical compassion, castingabout in his mind for some possible motive for her extraordinaryvehemence. 

He felt as certain, standing there, that this was a true woman, true toall the highest attributes of her nature, as if he had been able toweigh all the acts of her life and find none of them wanting. In themidst of his perplexity he found time to ask himself whence he had thisknowledge. Did he read it in the lines of her face, or was it someunseen influence of her mind upon his own? He had only time to question, not to answer, for she looked up in his face with the trust andexpectation of a child, awaiting his words. 

He spoke. 'You say when a man dies he is divided into two parts--thebody that rots and the part "that lives elsewhere. "' He was speakingvery slowly and distinctly. 'If that part of a man which lives goes toHeaven, where everything is quite different from this, he could have nouse for most of his thoughts--what we call opinions, for they are formedon what he sees, and hears, and feels here. Look here!'--he held out hisarm and moved it up and down from the elbow--'there are nerves andmuscles; behind them is something we call life--we don't know what itis. And behind your thoughts and feeling there is the same life--wedon't know what it is. The part of you that you say goes to Heaven mustbe that life. If you ask me what I think, I think the greater part ofwhat you call mind is part of your body. If your body can live a spiritlife, so can it; but it would need as much changing first. '

It was most extraordinary to him to see the avidity with which she drankin his words, and also the intelligence with which she seemed to masterthem, for she cried--

'What's i' the soäl then? When ye _will_ to do a thing agen all costs, is that i' the soäl?'

'Certainly the spirit must be the self, and the will, as far as we know, is that self--more that self than anything else is. ' He spoke in thepleased tone of a schoolmaster who finds that the mind beneath histouch is being moulded into the right shape; and besides he supposed hecould question her next. 

'I _knowed_ that, ' she said, with an intensity of conviction thatconfounded her listener, 'I _knowed_ the soäl was will. '

'It must be intelligence, and will, and probably memory, ' he said, beguiled into the idea that she was interested in the nicety of histheory, 'but not in any sense that activity of mind which shows itselfin the opinions most men conceive so important. '

But of this she took no heed. 'When a man's off his head or par'lysed, wi' no more life in him than babe unborn--yet when he's living and notdead--where's his soäl then? Parson he says the soäl's sleeping insidehim afore going to glory, like a grub afore it turns into a fly; but Iasked him how he knowed, and he just said he knowed, an' I mun b'lieve, and that's no way to answer an honest woman. '

'He did not really know. '

'Well, tell what you knows, ' she said. 

'Indeed, I do not know anything about it. '

'Ye doän't know!'

'I do not know. '

The animation of hope slowly faded from her face, giving place to a lookof bitter disappointment. It was as if a little child, suddenly deniedsome darling wish, should have strength to restrain its tears and mutelyacquiesce in the inevitable. 

'Then there's nowt to say, ' she said, rising, sullen in the first momentof pain. 

'But you'll tell me why you have asked?' he begged; 'I am very sorryindeed that I cannot answer. '

'Noä, I'll not tell ye, fur it's no concern o' yours; but thank yekindly, sir, all the same. Yer an honest man. Good-day. '

With that she walked resolutely away, nor would she accept his offer ofpayment for the food she had given. He stood and watched her, feelingcheckmated, until he saw her exchange greetings with the ploughman, whoreached the end of his furrow as she passed the side of the field. Seeing this, he took up his specimens and walked slowly in the samedirection, waiting for the ploughman's next return. As he stood at thehedge he noticed that the labourer, who appeared to be a middle-aged manof average intelligence, surveyed him with more than ordinary interest. 

'Good-day, ' he said. 

'Good-day, sir. ' There was a clank of the chains, a shout and groan tothe horses, and they stopped beside the hedge. 

'Can you tell me the name of the young woman who passed down the roadjust now?'

'Jen Wilkes, sir; "Jen o' the glen" they calls 'er, for she lives in theholler down there, a bit by on the town road, out of West Chilton. '

'She has not lived here long, surely; she seems a north country woman byher speech. '

'Very like, sir; it's a while by sin' she came with 'er mother to livei' Chilton. '

It was evident that the ploughman had much more to say, and that hewished to say it, but his words did not come easily. 

'Can you tell me anything more about her?' The man rubbed his coarsebeard down upon his collar, and clanked his chains, and made gutturalsounds to his horses, which possibly explained to them the meaning hedid not verbally express. Then he looked up and made a facialcontortion, which clearly meant that there was more to be saidconcerning Jen if any one could be found brave enough to say it. 

'I feel assured she is everything that is good and respectable. '

At this the ploughman could contain himself no longer, but heaving upone shoulder and looking round to see that there was no one to hear, heblurted out--''Ave you seen 'er shadder, sir?'

'Her what?'

''Er shadder. I seen you so long with 'er on the road I thought maybeyou'd tried to 'ave a kiss. Gentlemen mostly thinks a sight of Jen'slooks; an' it ain't no harm as I knows on to kiss a tidy girl, ify'ain't married, or th' missus don't object. '

'And if I did, what has that to do with it? What do you mean by hershadow?'

'Oh, I dunno; I h'ain't seen nothing myself; but they says, whenever anyhas tried to be friendly with 'er, they's seed something not just o' theright sort. They calls it 'er shadder--but I dunno, I h'ain't seennothing myself. '

When we are suddenly annoyed, by whatever cause, we are apt to vent ourannoyance upon the person nearest to us; and at this unlooked-forcorroboration of his unpleasant vision, the gentleman said rudely, 'You're not such a fool as to believe such confounded trash as that, areyou?'

'No sir, I'm no fool, ' said the ploughman sulkily, starting his horsesto go up the furrow. In vain the other called out an attempted apology, and tried to delay him; the accustomed shout and clank of the chains wasall he got in answer. The birds that had settled upon the field roseagain at the return of the horses, and curveted in a long flutteringline above their heads. The man on the road turned reluctantly away, and, too perplexed almost for thought, walked off to catch hishome-bound train. 

CHAPTER II

The man of science, Skelton by name, passed some seven days in businessand pleasure at home among men of his own class, and then, impelled byan intolerable curiosity, he went to seek the home of the woman withwhom he had so strange a meeting. Concerning the mad delusion from whichhe had suffered in her presence, his mind would give him no rest. Somefurther effort he must make to understand the cause of an experiencewhich he could not reason from his memory. The effort might be futile;he could form no plan of action; yet he found himself again upon thehighroad which led from the nearest station to the village of WestChilton. 

The autumn leaf that had bedecked the trees was lying upon the ground, its brightness soiled and tarnished. The cloud rack hung above, a vaultof gloom in which the upper winds coursed sadly. 

'This is the field, ' said Skelton within himself. 'The ploughman hasfinished his work, but the crows are still flapping about it. I wonderif they are the same crows! That is the clump of weeds by which she sat;it was as red as flame then, but now it is colourless as the cinders ofa fire that is gone out. '

His words were like straws, showing the current of his thoughts. 

Just then in the west the cloud masses in the horizon, being moved bythe winds, rent asunder, exposing the land to the yellow blaze of thesetting sun. The distant hills stood out against the glow in richerblue, and far and near the fields took brighter hues--warm brown ofearth ready to yield the next harvest, yellow of stubble lands at rest, bright green of slopes that fed the moving cows. There were luminousshadows, too, that gathered instantly in the copses, as if they were theforms of dryads who could sport unseen in the murk daylight, but mustfly under each shrub for refuge in the sudden sunshine. Close at hisfeet lay the patch of cabbages--purple cabbages they were, throwing backfrom each glossy leaf and stalk infinite gradations of crimson light. Parts of the leaves were not glossy but were covered with opaque bloomof tender blue, and here and there a leaf had been broken, disclosingscarlet veins. They were very beautiful--Skelton stood looking down intotheir depth of colour. 

It had been difficult for him to conjecture a possible cause for thephantom he had thought he saw a week before, but one theory which hadfloated in his mind had been that from these cabbages, which had lain atrifle too long in sun and moisture; gases might have arisen which haddisturbed his senses. It was true that his theory did not account forother instances of the same optical delusion to which the talk of theploughman had seemed to point, but Skelton could not bring himself toattach much importance to his words. He meditated on them now as hestood. 

'I dare not go to the young woman and ask her to show me her "shadder. "If she knew I was here she would only try to defeat my purpose. I _can_only interview her neighbours; and this first rustic whom I questionedshut himself up like an oyster; if all the rest act in this way, whatcan I do? And if I can hear all the vulgar superstition there is to beheard, will there be in the whole of it the indication of a singlefact?'

So he mused by the road-side while the sun hung in the dream temple offire made by the chasm of cloud. Then the earth moved onward into thenight, and he walked on upon his curious errand. 

The darkness of evening had already fallen, and he was still about amile from the village when he discerned a woman coming towards him onthe road. It was the very woman about whom his mind was occupied. Therewas a house at one side; the gate leading to it was close to him, and, not wishing to be recognised at the moment, he turned in through it towait in the darkness of some garden shrubs till she had passed. 

But she did not pass. She came up, walking more and more slowly, tillshe stood on the road outside the gate. She looked up and down the roadwith a hesitating air, and then, clasping her hands behind her, leanedback against a heavy gate-post and composed herself to wait. There waslight enough to see her, for there was a moon behind the clouds, andalso what was left of the daylight in the west was glimmering full uponher. The house was close to the road--apparently an oldfarmstead--turning blank dark walls and roofs to them, so that it wasevidently uninhabited or else inhabited only at the other side. Theyoung woman looked up at it, apparently not without distrust, but evento her keen scrutiny there was no sign of life. For the rest, the roadlay through a glen, the village was out of sight, and the hills aroundthem were like the hills in Hades--silent, shadowy and cold. 

It seemed an unearthly thing that she should have come there to standand lean against the gate, as if to shut him into his self-sought trap;and there was no impatience about this woman--she stood quite still inthat dark, desolate place, as though she was perfectly contented to waitand wait--for what? how long?--these were the questions he askedhimself. Was this dark house the abode of evil spirits with which shewas in league? and if so, what result would accrue to him? There arecircumstances which suggest fantastic speculations to the most learnedman. 

At length he heard a footfall. He could not tell where at first, but, asit approached, he saw a countryman in a carter's blouse coming acrossthe opposite field. He got through the hedge and came toward the gate. Then the girl spoke in her strong voice and north-country accent, butSkelton would hardly have known the voice again, it was so soft and sad. 

'I've been waiting on ye, Johnnie; some women thinks shame to be firstat the trysting, but that's not me when I loves ye true. '

At this Skelton by an impulse of honour thought to pass out of ear-shot, and then another motive held him listening. He thought of the ghostlything he had seen by this girl, of the wild tale the ploughman had told. The passion of investigation, which had grown lusty by long exercise, rose within him triumphing over his personal inclinations. Too much wasat stake to miss a chance like this. Honour in this situation seemedlike a flimsy sentiment. He waited for the answer of the girl's loverwith breathless interest. 

The man was evidently a fine young fellow, tall and strong, and when hespoke it was not without a touch of manly indignation in his tone. 

'If you love me true, Jen, I can't think what the meaning of your doingsis. It's two years since you came to live in the glen, and you can't sayas you've not understood my meaning plain since the first I saw you;it's to take you to church and take care of you as a woman ought to betook care of by a man. And you know I could do it, Jen, for my wages isgood; but you've shied an' shied whenever you've seen me, and baulkedan' baulked when you couldn't shy, so as no skittish mare is half sobad. '

'Because, Johnnie, I wouldn't ha' yer heart broke the way mine is. Iloved ye too true for that. '

'But what's to hinder that we may be like other folks is? There'stroubles comes to all, but we can bear them like the rest. What's tohinder? I thought there was some one else, an' that you didn't like. Godknows, Jen, if that 'ad been the way, I'd never 'ev troubled you again;but last night when we heard your mother was took bad, an' mother an' mestepped round to see what we could do, an' you let on as you did 'ave acaring for me, I says, --"Let's be cried in the church, " so as yourmother could die happy, if die she must. But when you says, "no, " and asyou'd meet me here an' tell me why, I was content to wait an' come here;an' now what I want to know is--why? what's to hinder, Jen?'

'Ye knows as well as me the tales about me, Johnnie. '

'Tales!' said the young man passionately; 'what tales? All along I'veknocked down any man as 'ud say a word against you. '

'Ay, but the women, Johnnie; ye couldn't knock them down; that's why awoman's tale's allus the worst. '

'An' what can they say? the worst is that if any man comes nigh you fora kiss or the like o' that--and no offence, Jen, but you're an uncommontidy girl to kiss--he sees another man betwixt himself an' you. Foolsthey be to believe such trash! If you'd give me the leave--which I'm notthe fellow to take without you say the word--I'd soon show as no shadder'ud come betwixt. '

He came a step nearer, reproachful in his frank respect, as if he wouldclaim the liberty he asked; but she drew back, holding up her hand toward him off. 

'I believe you half believe the nonsense yourself, Jen. '

'Heaven knows, Johnnie, I've reason to b'lieve it weel, none knowsbetter ner me. It's that I've comed to tell ye to-night; an' there'snowt fur it but we mun part. An' if I trouble yer peace staying here i'the glen, I'll go away out o' yer sight. It wasn't a wish o' mine tobring ye trouble. None knows better ner me how hard trouble's to bear. '

Her voice trembled as if with some physical pain; he only answered by asound of incredulous surprise. 

'I'll tell ye the whole on't, Johnnie. Ye sees, we lived i'Yarm--mother and me. Mother, she sewed books fur a book-binding man; an'we'd a little coming in as father'd saved. Well, mother, she was fearedlest I'd fall into rough ways like, an' she kep' me in a good bit, an'there was a man as helped i' the book-binding----' she stopped, and thensaid half under her breath--

'His name was Dan'el, Dan'el McGair, it was. '

'Go on, Jen. '

'He was a leän man and white to look at. He was very pious, and knowedlots o' things. Least, I don't know if he was pious, fur he didn't go tochurch, but he'd his own thoughts o' things, an' he was steady, an' kep'himself to himself. He niver telled me his thoughts o' things--he saidit 'ud unsettle me like--but he taught me reading; an' mother, she likedhis coming constant to see us. As fur as I knows, he was a good man; butI tell ye, Johnnie, that man had a will--whatsoever thing Dan'el McGairwanted, that thing he mun have, if he died i' the getting. He was aboutforty, an' I was nigh on twenty; it was after he'd taught me reading, an' whenever I'd go out here or there, or do this or that he didn'tlike, he'd turn as white as snow, an' tremble like a tree-stem i' thewind, an' dare me to do anything as he didn't like. Ye sees he allus hadthat power over mother to make her think like him, but I wouldn't givein to him. If I'd gived in--well, I doänt know what 'ud 'a comed. Godknows what did come were bad enow. ' She stopped speaking and toed thedamp ground--crushing her boot into the frosty mud and drawing itbackwards and forwards as she stood against the gate. 

'Go on, Jen. '

'Ye sees, what he willed to get, that he mun have, an' at the end hewilled to have me--mind, body, an' soäl. He'd 'a had me, only I made astand fur my life. Mother, she was all on his side, only she didn't wantfur me to do what I wouldn't; but she cried like, an' talked o' hisgoodness--an' Dan'el, he wouldn't ask out an' out, or I could 'a toldhim my mind an' 'a done wi' it; but he went on giving us, an' payingthings, an' mother she took it all, till I was fairly mad wi' the shamean' anger on't. I doänt say as I acted as I ought; I knowed I'd a powerover him to drive him wild like wi' a smile or a soft word, an' power'sawful dangerous fur a young thing--it's like as if God gave the wind awill o' its own, an' didn't howd it in His own hand. Then I was fearedo' Dan'el's power over mother, an' give in times when I ought to 'a heldmy own. An' I liked to have him fur a sarvint to me, an' I led him onlike. So it went on--he niver doubted I'd marry wi' him, an' I held outfur my life. Then at th' end, some words we had made things worse. 'Twasi' spring--i' March I think--he walked out miles an' miles on the badroads to bring me the first flowers. I was book-binding then, out lateat night, an' I comed home to find he'd left them fur me--snowdrops theywas, an' moss wi' a glint o' green light on't, like sun shining throughth' trees; an' there was a grey pigeon's feather he'd picked upsomewheres, all clean and unroughed, like a bit o' the sky at th' dawn;an' there was a twig wi' a wee pink toädstood on't, all pink an' red. The sight o' them fairly made me mad. 'Twas bad enow to buy me wi' munnyan' the things munny can buy, but it seemed he'd take the very thoughtso' God A'mighty and use them to get his will. I were mad; but if he'dcomed to our house I couldn't 'a spoke fur mother's being there; so Ijust took them bits o' Spring i' my hand, an' went out i' the dark tohis house, an' went into his room, an' threw 'em on the floor, an'stamped 'em wi' my foot, an' I told him how he'd sneaked round to bindme to him, an' as how I'd die first. I was mad, an' talked till Icouldn't speak fur my voice give out, an' that wasn't soon. He just satstill hearing me, but he was white, an' shook like a man wi' the palsy. They said he'd had fits once an' that made him nervous, but I didn'tthink o' him like that. He was strong, fur he could make most all men doas he wanted. He was spoiling my life wi' his strength, an' I didn'tthink o' him as weakly. When I'd raged at him an' couldn't say more, Iwent out an' was going home i' the dark, howding by the wall, as weak asa baby; an' just afore I got home, I seed him stand just in front' o'me. I thought he'd runned after me--mebbe he did--but I've thoughtsince, mebbe not, that his body mayn't 'a been there at all; but anywayI seed him stand just afore me, wi' his eyes large and like fire, an'him all white and trembling. He said, "I tell ye, Jen, I will have yemine, an' as long as I live no other man shall, " an' wi' that I wentpast him into the house. '

'Go on, Jen, ' said the carter. 

'All I knows is that the word he spoke was a true word. Next day theycomed and telled us he was found all par'lysed in his chair, an' hecouldn't move nor speak. From that time the doctors 'ud sometimes comefrom a long way off; they said as there was somethin' strange about hissickness. I doänt know what they said, I niver seed him again. There'spart o' him lies i' the bed, an' the parish feeds him, an' the doctorsthey talk about him. I niver seed him again sin' that night, but I knowswhat he said was true, an' there's many a man as 'as seed him anear mesin' that day. I tell ye, Johnnie, there's trouble to face i' this worldworse ner death, --not worse ner our own death, fur that's most times agood thing, but worse ner the death o' them we love most true--an' worsener parting i' this world, Johnnie, an' worse _a'most_ than sin itself;but, thank God, not _quite_ worse ner sin. But I never knowed, lad, howbad my own trouble was--though it's a'most drove me hard at times, notrecking much what I said or did--I niver knowed, my lad, how bad it wastill I knowed it was yer trouble too. '

The young carter stood quite silent. His blue blouse glimmered white inthe darkness and flapped a little in the wind, but he stood still as arock, with his strong arms crossed upon his breast, and the silenceseemed filled with the expression of thoughts for which words would havebeen useless. It was evident that her strong emotion had brought to hismind a conviction of the truth of her words which could not have beenconveyed by the words alone. So they stood there, he and she, in all therugged power of physical strength, confronted with their life's problem. At last, after they had been silent a long time, and it seemed that hehad said many things, and that she had answered him, he appearedsuddenly to sum up his thoughts to their conclusion, and stretched outboth his strong arms to take her and all her griefs into his heart. Itseemed in the darkness as though he did clasp her and did not, for shegave a low terrible cry and fled from him--a cry such as a spirit mightgive who, having ascended to Heaven's gate with toil and prayer, fallsbackward into Hell; and she ran from him--it seemed that with only herhuman strength she could not have fled so fast. He followed her, dashingwith all his strength into the darkness. They went towards the village, and in the mud their footfalls were almost silent. 

The listener came out of his hiding and went back on the road by whichhe had come. 

CHAPTER III

Next morning Skelton travelled northward to Yarm. After some difficultyhe succeeded in discovering the paralytic whom he sought. The medicalinterest which had at first been aroused by the case appeared to havedied away; and it was only after some time spent in interviewingofficials that he at last found the man, Daniel McGair. A parishapothecary had him in charge. The apothecary was a coarse good-naturedfellow, one of that class of ignorant men upon whose brains the dregs ofa refined agnosticism have settled down in the form of arrogantassumption. He had enough knowledge of the external matters of scienceto know, upon receiving Skelton's card, that he was receiving a visitorof distinction. 'Yes, sir, ' he said, leading the way out of thedispensary, 'I'll exhibit the case. I don't know that there's muchthat's remarkable about it. Of course, to us who take an interest inscience, all these things are interesting in their way. '

It was quite clear he did not know in what way the most special interestaccrued to this case. 

'No sir, he ain't in the Union; he saved, and bought his cottage beforehis stroke, so that's where he is. He ain't got no kith or kin, as faras we know. '

It was bright noonday when they walked through the narrow streets ofmean houses, passing among the numerous children which swarm in suchlocalities. The sun was shining, the children were shouting, the womenwere gossiping at their doors, when the apothecary stopped at a lowone-roomed cottage, the home of Daniel McGair. He opened the door with akey and went in, as though the house were empty. 

It was a plain bare room; there was no curtain on the window and the sunshone in. There was a smouldering fire in the grate, a bookshelf on oneside, still holding its dusty and unused volumes; there was anarm-chair--was that the chair in which he had sat to see his love-giftstrampled down, in which he had received that mysterious stroke from theunseen enemy? There was also a table in the room, and a chest, and, inthe corner, a pallet-bed, upon which lay the withered body of a man. That was all, except some prints that hung upon the wall, dusty andlifeless-looking. Such changes do years of disuse make in dwellingswhich, when inhabited, have been replete with human interest. Even yetthere was abundant indication that the room had once been the abode ofone who put much of his own personality into his surroundings. The chairand the chest were carved with a rude device--the Devil grappling withthe Son of God. The prints were crude allegorical representations ofLife and Death. The books were full of the violent polemic of theReformation. A flowerpot stood on the window-sill; perhaps ten years agoit had had a flower in it, but now it held the apothecary's emptyphials. Everything proclaimed the room tenantless. 

Skelton walked to the bed and looked down upon it with profoundcuriosity. Only the head lay above the coverlet; withered and shrunkenit was, yet the brow was high, and it was plain that the features hadbeen fine and strong, betokening the once keen and sensitivenerve--there was nothing sensitive now; all thought and feeling had forever fled. The half-shut lids disclosed the vacant eyes; the hair layclammy and matted on the wrinkled brow; there was nothing of life leftbut the breath. 

'It's my opinion, sir, that he'll live out his natural time. It's atheory of mine that we are all born with a certain length of life in us, and, barring accident, that time we'll live. Well, of course this manhad the accident of his stroke, which by rights ought to have done forhim, but by some fluke he weathered it, and now he'll live out his time. If one could find out his ancestors and see how long they each lived, with a little calculation I could tell you how long he'd lie there. 'With that the apothecary poked his patient in the cheek, and jerked himby the arm, to show Skelton how completely consciousness was gone. Hewould have treated a corpse with more respect: the lowest of us has somereverence for death. 

Just then the door, which had been left ajar, was pushed open, and aslight, sweet-faced woman came in from the street. She was evidently adistrict Bible-reader, but, although perceiving that she had entered ahouse where she was not needed, she advanced as far as the bed andlooked down upon it with a passion of tenderness and pity depicted onher face. 

'Bless you, mum, he ain't suff'ring, ' said the apothecary. 

'I was thinking of his soul, not of his body, ' she said. 'I waswondering if he had been prepared to meet his Creator. '

'Where do you suppose his soul is?' asked Skelton curiously. He askedthe question in all reverence; she was not a lady apparently, only aworking woman, but there was about her the strong majesty of a noblelife. 

'He is not dead yet, ' she replied with evident astonishment. 

'Lor, mum, ' said the apothecary, 'his brain ain't in working order justat present, and as for his spirit apart from his body, that's an unknownquantity we scientific men don't deal in. '

She looked at them both with a look of indescribable compassion, andwent away. Skelton would fain have followed the woman out into the sunnystreet, but he remained to pay that courtesy which was due to thebrusque good nature of his companion. 

After examining the room and finding nothing more of interest, he wentand talked over the physical circumstances of the case with the parishdoctor. He did not gain much information about the patient's diseasedbody, and naturally none whatever concerning the whereabouts of hissoul. The peculiar interest of the case he did not mention to any one. Afterwards he went back to the neighbourhood by himself, andendeavoured, as quietly as possible, to find out what traces the man'spast life had left upon the minds of his neighbours. Ten years bringmore change to any community than we are apt to suppose; and among thepoor, where rude necessity rules rather than choice, there is morechange than among the rich. There were a few who had seen McGair movingup and down the streets, and knew him to have been a book-binder bytrade. One or two remembered the widow Wilkes and her daughter, andcould affirm that they had been friends of McGair and had moved awayafter his illness. Whither they had gone no one knew. 

When there was nothing more to be seen or heard at Yarm, Skelton wenthome. Again he threw himself into all the daily interests of his life inorder that he might think the more dispassionately of the circumstancesof this strange case. In truth it was not now entirely out of curiositythat he was tempted to think of it; his sympathy had been stirred by thecourage and sorrow of the woman whom he had so idly accosted on thatbright autumn day only a few weeks before. She had appealed to himbecause he had knowledge. Was all his knowledge, then, powerless to helpher? He believed that the shadowy appearance which dogged her footstepscould only be some projection of mind, whether or not its cause was thestrong will of the paralytic transcending the ordinary limits of timeand space, he could not tell. Certainly no discussion as to its natureand origin could in any way aid its victim, and he could only fall backupon the comfort material kindness and sympathy could give. At last hewent down once more to West Chilton, this time for the express purposeof seeing Jen. 

He found the cottage in the glen road near the village, and his knockwas answered by Jen herself. She recognised him instantly, but was toopre-occupied to take much interest in the fact of his coming. He learnedthat her mother had just died, and that the neighbours were in thehouse, keeping vigil during the few sad days preceding the burial. Itwas evident that there was little real sympathy between them and thebereaved daughter, so he easily persuaded her to come out and walk a bitup the road with him. She did so, evidently supposing that he had somebusiness with her, but too deeply buried in her sorrow to inquire whatit was. 

They came to the house by the roadside where he had last seen her andshe had been unconscious of his presence. The place seemed to rouse herfrom the dulness of grief, and she suddenly raised her head, like abeautiful animal scenting some cause of excitement, and stood still, looking round with brightened eyes, taking long deep breaths in the purefrosty air. No doubt she had passed the same road many times since thetryst, but the mind which has lately stood face to face with deathperceives more clearly the true relations of all things to itself; and, in this spot, among all life's shiftings of the things that seem and arenot, she had stood and wrestled with the reality of her ghostly bondage. 

All about them the hills were covered with the year's first snow. Howbright the light was upon their heights! how soft the shadows thatgathered in their slopes! The fields were white also, and thehedgerows. Above them the sky was veiled with snow clouds, soft andgrey, except that at the verge of east and west there were faintmetallic lines, such as one sees upon clouds across snowfields, like thepale reflections of a distant fire. Jen had come to a full stop now. Sheraised her hands to her face and sobbed out like a little child. 

Skelton stood by her, feeling his own feebleness. 'I know you are ingreat trouble, ' he said. 

Her sobs did not last long; she soon mastered them, not by any art ofconcealment but by rude force. Then standing shame-faced, withhalf-averted head, she wiped her eyes with her apron. 

'Yes, sir, I'm in great trouble, greater ner ye can know, fur death'sneither here nor there--it's living that's hard. Parson, he speaks outabout preparing to die, but to my mind it takes a sight more preparingto know how to go on living. '

'I know that you have greater trouble than your mother's death. I knowthat you love a young man who loves you, and also what it is that youthink keeps you apart from him. '

'And how do you know that, sir?' she asked, still with averted face. 

Then he confessed, humbly enough, just how he did know it, and all thathe knew, and told her about his visit to Yarm. When he spoke of Yarmand his visit to Daniel McGair she turned and looked full at him, drinking in every word with hungry curiosity. 

'Yes, sir, we left the place, an' I haven't heard o' him this nine year, but I knowed he wasn't dead. '

'How did you know that, Jen?'

'Because, sir, when God A'mighty sees fit that he should die, I'll befree o' him, that's all. '

'And aren't you going to marry?'

'Noä, sir. Johnnie an' me has talked it over, an' he says as how he'llwait till such time as I'm free. An' I didn't say "no" to him, fur whenone knows what it is to love true, sir, one knows well it's noä use tosay as this thing's best or t'other, but just it's like being taken uplike a leaf by the wind an' moved whether one will or no. There's justthis diff'rence betwixt true love an' the common kind--the common kindo' love moves ye i' the wrong way, an' true love i' the right; fur it'sa true word the blessed St. John said when he said that love is God. '

'Did St. John say that?' said Skelton. 

'Yes, sir, I read it to mother just afore she died. An' Johnnie's goneacross the sea, sir, wi' his mother; he got a right good chance tobetter hisself, an' I made him go. His ship sailed the day afterChristmas; an' I said, "Johnnie, I'll bide here, an' God 'ull take careo' me as well as ye could yerself;" an' I said, "Johnnie, I'll prayevery day, night an' morning, that if ye can forget me, ye will; for ifye can forget, then yer love's not o' the right sort, as I could take, or God 'ud want ye to give; and if ye can't forget, then there's nowt tosay but as I'll bide here. " An' I said, sir, as he munna think as lovinghim made me sad, fur I was a big sight happier to love him, if heforgets or if he comes again. '

'Will you live here; Jen, where the neighbours distrust you?'

'It 'ud just be the same any other place, sir, an' here I can work i'the fields, spring and harvest, an' earn my own bread. I know thefields, sir, an' the hills--they's like friends to me now, an' I knowsthe dumb things about, an' they all knows me. It's a sight o' help onecan get, sir, when one's down wi' the sorrow o' all the world lying onthe heart, to have a kind look an' a word wi' the dogs an' cows whenthey comes down the hills fur the milking. An' the children they mostlylets come to me now, though they kep 'em from me at first. 

Then he told her that he had come a long way on purpose to see if hecould help her; that he felt ashamed of having listened to her story, and that it would give him happiness in some way or other to make herlife more easy. He explained that he had a great deal of money and manyfriends, and could easily give her anything that these could procure. Insaying this he did not disguise from himself for a moment that hismotive was mixed, and that he desired to gain some hold over her, suchas benevolence could give, that he might further examine the problem ofher extraordinary misfortune. Even as he spoke he marvelled at thestrength of his respect for her, which could so outweigh his owninterest as to make it impossible that he should interfere in heraffairs otherwise than with all deference, as if she were a lady. 

When he had made it quite clear to her that he was able and willing togive her anything she should ask, she thought of his words a while, andthen answered--

'I thank ye, sir, but there's nowt ye can do o' that sort, fur if therewas I'd take it from Johnnie an' none other. But there's one thing I'llask, sir, an' wi' all yer kind offers ye can't but agree to it, fur it'snot much. Ye've found out this tale o' my life; there's none else asknows it, save mother lying dead, an' Johnnie I telled fur love's sake, an' him as lies palsied i' Yarm--God A'mighty only knows, sir, whatDan'el McGair could tell on't--but this I ask, sir, --that ye'll keep allye knows an' say nowt. I did Dan'el a great wrong, for I smiled on himwhiles for the sake o' power; not but what he did me a worse wrong, sofar worse that whiles I think no woman has so sore a life as me; but Idid do him wrong, sir, and fur that reason I'll not ha' his name blazedabroad, hanging on to a tale as 'ud buzz i' the ears o' all. To tell it'ud not make _my_ life worse but better, fur now them as sees this thingsays dark things, an' speaks o' the devil an' worse. The times ha' beenwhen I cursed God an' prayed to die, but, thank Heaven, when I learnedwhat love was, I learned as God A'mighty can love us in spite o' ourwrong-doing, an' the pain it brings. Th' use o' such sore pain as mine, sir, isna fur us to say, or to think great things to bear it patient;but the use o' life, sir, to my thinking, is to keep all His creaturesfrom pain if we can, an' to take God's love like the sunshine, an' bethankful. So I'll ask ye to keep what ye knows o' this tale an' notspeak on't, an' go no more to Yarm; an' if ye'll give me yer hand onthat, sir, I'll thank ye kindly. '

So he gave her his hand on it, and went away. 

XII

A FREAK OF CUPID

CHAPTER I

The earth was white, the firmament was white, the plumage of the windwas white. The wind flew between curling drift and falling cloud, brushing all comers with its feathers of light dry snow. At the sides ofthe road the posts and bars of log-fences stood above the drifts; on theside of the hill the naked maple trees formed a soft brush of grey; justin sight, and no more, the white tin roof and grey walls of a hugechurch and a small village were visible; all else was unbroken snow. Thesurface of an ice-covered lake, the sloping fields, the long straightroad between the fences, were as pure, in their far-reaching whiteness, as the upper levels of some cloud in shadeless air. 

A young Englishman was travelling alone through this region. He had setout from the village and was about to cross the lake. A shaggy pony, asmall sleigh, a couple of buffalo-robes and a portmanteau formed hiswhole equipment. The snow was light and dry; the pony trotted, althoughthe road was soft; the young man, wrapped in his fur-lined coat, hadlittle to do in driving. 

In England no one would set out in such a storm; but this traveller hadlearned that in Canada the snowy vast is regarded as a plaything, or agood medium of transit, or at the worst, an encumbrance to be ploddedthrough as one plods through storms of rain. He had found that he wasnot expected to remain at an inn merely because it snowed, and, being aman of spirit, he had on this day, as on others, done what was expectedof him. 

To-day, in the snow and wind, there was a slight difference from thestorms of other days. The innkeeper, who had given him his horse an hourbefore by the walls of the great tin-roofed church, had looked at thesky and the snow, and asked if he knew the road well; but this had beenaccepted as an ignorant distrust of the foreign gentleman. Havinglearned his lesson, that through falling snow he must travel, into theheart of this greater snowstorm he travelled, valiant, if somewhatdoubtful. 

When he descended upon the ice of the lake he was no longer accompaniedby the grey length of the log-fences. This road across the lake had beenwell tracked after former snowfalls, and so the untrodden snow rosehigh on either side; branches of fir and cedar, stuck at short intervalsin these snow walls, marked out the way. The pony ceased to trot. Thedriver was only astonished that this cessation of speed had not comesooner. 

Standing up in his sleigh and looking round he could see two or threeother sleighs travelling across nearer the village. The village he couldno longer see, scarcely even the hill, nor was there any communicationover the deep untrodden snow between his road and that other on whichthere were travellers. 

Another hour passed, and now, as he went on slowly up the length of thelake, all sound and sight of other sleighs were lost. The cloud was notdark; the snow fell in such small flakes that it did not seem that evenan infinite number of them could bury the world; the wind drifting themtogether, though strong, was not boisterous; the March evening did notsoon darken: and yet there was something in the determined action ofcloud and wind and snow, making the certainty that night would come withno abatement, which caused even the inexperienced Englishman to perceivethat he was passing into the midst of a heavy storm. 

As is frequently the case with travellers, he had certain directionsconcerning the road which appeared to be adequate until he was actuallyconfronted with that small portion of the earth's surface to which itwas necessary to apply them. He was to take the first road which crossedhis, running from side to side of the lake; but the first cross trackappeared to him so narrow and so deeply drifted that he did not believeit to be the public road he sought. 'Some farm, hidden in the levelmaple bush just seen through the falling snow, sends an occasional cartto the village by this by-path, ' so he reassured himself; and the pony, who had spied the track first and paused to have time to consider it, atthe word of command obediently plodded its continuous route. A quarterof a mile farther on the traveller saw something on the road in front;as the sound of his pony's jangling bells approached, a horse lifted itshead and shook its own bells. The horse, the sleigh which it ought tohave been drawing, were standing still, full in the centre of the road. The first thought, that it was cheering to come upon the trace ofanother wayfarer, was checked by the gloomy idea that some impassabledrift must bar the way. 

The other sleigh was a rough wooden platform on runners. Upon it a man, wrapped in a ragged buffalo-skin, lay prostrate. The Englishman jumpedto the ground and waded till he could lay his hand upon the recumbentfigure. 

At the touch the man jumped fiercely, and shook himself from sleep. Warm, luxurious sleep, only that, seemed to have enthralled him. Hischeeks were red, his aquiline nose, red also, suggested some amount ofstrong drink; but his black eyes were bright, showing that the senseswere wholly alive. He looked defiant, inquiring. He was aFrench-Canadian, apparently a _habitant_, but he understood the Englishquestions addressed to him. The curious thing was that he seemed to haveno reason for stopping. When he had with difficulty made way for thegentleman to pass him on the road, he followed slowly, as it seemedreluctantly. A mile farther on the Englishman, now far in front, suspected that the other had again stopped, and wondered much. The man'sface had impressed him; the high cheek bones, the aquiline nose, theclearness of the eye and complexion--these had not expressed dull folly. 

Now the Englishman came to another cross road, wider but more deeplydrifted than the track he was on. He turned into it and ploughed thedrifts. When he reached the shore, where the land undulated, the driftswere still deeper. There were no trees here; he could see no house;there was hardly any evidence, except the evergreen branches stuck inthe sides, that the road had ever been trodden. The March dusk had nowfallen, yet not darkly. The full moon was beyond the clouds, andwhatever wave of light came from declining day or rising night was heldin by, and reflected softly from, the storm of pearl. After some debatehe turned back to the lake and his former road. It must lead somewhere;he pressed steadily on toward the western end of the lake. 

The western shore was level; he hardly knew when he was upon the land. The glimmering night blinded the traveller; no ray of candle light wasin sight. He began to think that he was destined to see his horse slowlyburied, and himself to fight, as long as might be, a losing battle withthe fiends of the air. 

At last the plodding pony stopped again resolutely. Long lines ofLombardy poplars here met the road. They were but as the ghosts oftrees; their stately shape, their regular succession, inspired him withsome sentiment of romance which he did not stay to define. He dimlydiscerned shrubs as if planted in a pleasure-ground. Wading and fumblinghe found a paling and a gate. The pony turned off the high road withrenewed courage in its motion; the Englishman, letting loose the rein, found himself drawn slowly up a long avenue of the ghostly poplar trees. The road was straight, the land was flat, the poplars were upright. Thesimplicity affected him with the notion that he was coming to anenchanted palace. The pony approached the door of a large house, dim tothe sight; its huge pointed tin roof, its stone sides, mantled as theywere with snowflakes and fringed with icicles at eaves and lintels, hardly gave a dark outline in the glimmering storm. The rays of lightwhich twinkled through chinks of shutters might be analogous to thestars produced by a stunned brain; it seemed to the Englishman that ifhe went up and tried to knock on the door the ghostly house, the ghostlypoplar avenue, would vanish. The thought was born of the long monotonyof a danger which had called for no activity of brain or muscle on hispart. The pony knew better; it stopped before the door. 

The traveller stood in a small porch raised a step or two from theground. The door was opened by a middle-aged Frenchwoman clad in apeasant's gown of bluish-grey. Behind her, holding a lamp a little aboveher head, stood a young girl, large, womanly in form, with dimpledsoftness of face, and dressed in a rich but quaint garment of ambercolour. With raised and statuesque wrist she held the lamp aloft to keepthe light from dazzling her eyes. She was looking through the doorwaywith the quiet interest of responsibility, nothing of which wasexpressed in the servant's furrowed countenance. 

'Is the master of the house at home?'

'There is no master. '

The girl spoke with a mellow voice and with a manner of soft dignity;yet, having regarded the stranger, there leaped into her face, as itseemed to him, behind the outward calm of the dark eyes and dimplingcurves, a certain excited interest and delight. The current of thoughtthus revealed contrasted with the calm which she instinctively turned tohim, as the words which an actor speaks aside contrast with those whichare not soliloquy. 

With more hesitation, more obvious modesty, he said--

'May I speak to the mistress of the house?'

'I am the mistress. '

He could but look upon her more intently. She could not have been morethan eighteen years of age. Her hair had the soft and loose manner oflying upon her head that is often seen in hair which has, till lately, been allowed to hang loose to the winds. Her dress, folded over the fullbosom and sweeping to the ground in ample curves, was, little as hecould have described a modern fashion, even to his eyes evidentlyfantastic--such as a child might don at play. Above all, as evidence ofher youth, there was that inward quiver of delight at his appearance andpresence, veiled perfectly, but seen behind the veil, as one may detectglee rising in the heart of a child even though it be upon its formalbehaviour. 

'Can you tell me if there is any house within reach where I can stopfor the night?' He gave a succinct account of his journey, the lostroad, the increasing storm. 'My horse is dead tired, but it might go amile or so farther. '

The serving-woman, evincing some little curiosity, received from thegirl an interpretation in low and rapid French. The woman expressed byher gestures some pity for man and beast. The girl replied with gentlebrevity--

'We know that the roads are snowed up. The next house is three milesfarther on. '

He hesitated, but his necessity was obvious. 

'I am afraid I must beg for a night's shelter. '

He had been wondering a good deal what she would say, how she wouldaccede, and then he perceived that her dignity knew no circumlocution. 'I will send the man for your horse. ' She said it with hardly a moment'spause. 

The woman gave him a small broom, an implement to the use of which hehad grown accustomed, and disappeared upon the errand. The girl stoodstill in her statuesque pose of light-bearer. The young man busiedhimself in brushing the snow from cap and coat and boots. As he brushedhimself he felt elation in the knowledge, not ordinarily uppermost, thathe was a good-looking fellow and a gentleman. 

CHAPTER II

'My name is Courthope. ' The visitor, denuded of coat and cap, presentedhis card, upon which was written, 'Mr. George Courthope. '

He began telling his hostess whence he came and what was his business. Aquarry which a dead relative had bequeathed to him had had sufficientattraction to bring him across the sea and across this railless region. His few words of self-introduction were mingled with and followed byregrets for his intrusion, expressions of excessive gratitude. All thetime his mind was questioning amazedly. 

By the time the speeches which he deemed necessary were finished, he hadfollowed the girl into a spacious room, furnished in the large gay styleof the fifties, brilliantly lit, as if for a festival, and warmed by alog fire of generous dimensions. Having led him in, listening silentlythe while, and put her additional lamp upon the table, she now spoke, with no _empressement_, almost with a manner of _insouciance_. 

'You are perfectly welcome; my father would never have wished his houseto be inhospitable. '

With her words his own apologies seemed to lose their significance; hefelt a little foolish, and she, with some slight evidence of childishawkwardness, seemed to seek a pretext for short escape. 

'I will tell my sister. ' These words came with more abruptness, as ifthe interior excitement was working itself to the surface. 

The room was a long one. She went out by a door at the farther end, and, as with intense curiosity he watched her quickly receding form, henoticed that when she thought herself out of his sight she entered theother room with a skip. At that same end of the room hung a full-lengthportrait of a gentleman. It was natural that Courthope should walktowards it, trying to become acquainted with some link in the train ofcircumstances which had raised this enchanted palace in the wilderness;he had not followed to hear, but he overheard. 

'Eliz, it's a _real_ young man!'

'No! you are only making up, and' (here a touch of querulousness) 'I'veoften told you that I don't like make-ups that one wants too much to betrue. I'll only have the Austens and Sir Charles and Evelina and----'

'Eliz! He's _not_ a make-up; the fairies have sent him to our party. Isn't it just fairilly entrancing? He has a curly moustache and a nicenose. He's English, like father. He says "cawn't, " and "shawn't, " and"heah, " and "theyah, "--genuine, no affectation. Oh' (here came a littlegurgle of joy), 'and to-night, too! It's the first _perfectly_ joyfulthing that has _ever_ come to us. '

Courthope moved quietly back and stood before the blazing logs, lookingdown into them with a smile of pure pleasure upon his lips. 

It was not long before the door, which she had left ajar, was re-opened, and a light-wheeled chair was pushed into the room. It contained aslight, elfin-like girl, white-faced, flaxen-haired, sharp-featured, andarrayed in gorgeous crimson. The elder sister pushed from behind. Thelittle procession wore an air of triumphant satisfaction, still temperedby the proprieties. 

'This is my sister, ' said the mistress of the house. 

'I am very glad to see you, Mr. Courthope. ' The tones of Eliz were sharpand thin. She was evidently acting a part, as with the air of a verygrand lady she held out her hand. 

He was somewhat dazzled. He felt it not inappropriate to ask if he hadentered fairyland. Eliz would have answered him with fantasticaffirmative, but the elder sister, like a sensible child who knew betterhow to arrange the game, interposed. 

'I'll explain it to you. Eliz and I are giving a party to-night. Therehasn't been any company in the house since father died four years ago, and we know he wouldn't like us to be dull, so when our stepmother wentout, and sent word that she couldn't come back to-night, we decided tohave a grand party. There are only to be play-people, you know; all thepeople in Miss Austen's books are coming, and the nice ones out of _SirCharles Grandison_. '

She paused to see if he understood. 

'Are the _Mysteries of Udolpho_ invited?' he asked. 

'No, the others we just chose here and there, because we likedthem--Evelina, although she was rather silly and we told her that wecouldn't have Lord Ormond, and Miss Matty and Brother Peter out of_Cranford_, and Moses Wakefield, because we liked him best of thefamily, and the Portuguese nun who wrote the letters. We thought wewould have liked to invite the young man in _Maud_ to meet her, but wedecided we should have to draw the line somewhere and leave out thepoetry-people. '

The girl, leaning her forearms slightly on the back of her sister'schair, gave the explanation in soft, business-like tones, and there wasonly the faintest lurking of a smile about the corners of her lips toindicate that she kept in view both reality and fantasy. 

'I think that I shall have to ask for an introduction to the Portuguesenun, ' said Courthope; 'the others, I am happy to say, I have metbefore. '

A smile of approval leapt straight out of her dark eyes into his, as ifshe would have said: 'Good boy! you have read quite the right sort ofbooks!'

Eliz was not endowed with the same well-balanced sense of proportion;for the time the imaginary was the real. 

'The only question that remains to be decided, ' she cried, 'is what_you_ would prefer to be. We will let you choose--Bingley, or Darcy, or----'

'It would be fair to tell him, ' said the other, her smile broadeningnow, 'that it's only the elderly people and notables who have beeninvited to dinner, the young folks are coming in after; so if you arehungry----' Her soft voice paused, as if suspended in mid-air, allowinghim to draw the inference. 

'It depends entirely on who you are, who I would like to be. ' He did notrealise that there was undue gallantry in his speech; he felt exactlylike another child playing, loyally determined to be her mate, whateverthe character that might entail. 'I will even be the idiotic Edward ifyou are Eleanor Dashwood. '

Her chin was raised just half-an-inch higher; the smile that had beenpeeping from eyes and dimples seemed to retire for the moment. 

'Oh, we, ' she said, 'are the hostesses. My sister is Eliz King and I amMadge King, and I think you had better be a real person too; just a Mr. Courthope, come in by accident. '

'Well, then, he can help us in the receiving and chatting to them. ' Elizwas quite reconciled. 

He felt glad to realise that his mistake had been merely playful. 'Inthat case, may I have dinner without growing grey?' He asked it ofMadge, and her smile came back, so readily did she forget what she hadhardly consciously perceived. 

When the sharp-voiced little Eliz had been wheeled into the dining-roomto superintend some preparations there before the meal was ready, Courthope could again break through the spell that the imaginaryreception imposed. He came from his dressing-room to find Madge at thehousewifely act of replenishing the fire. Filled with curiosity, unwilling to ask questions, he remarked that he feared she must oftenfeel lonely, that he supposed Mrs. King did not often make visitsunaccompanied by her daughters. 

'She does not, worse luck!' Madge on her knees replied with childishaudacity. 

'I hope when she returns she may not be offended by my intrusion. '

'Don't hope it, '--she smiled--'such hope would be vain. '

He could not help laughing. 

'Is it dutiful then of you'--he paused--'or of me?'

'Which do you prefer--to sleep in the barn, or that I should beundutiful and disobey my stepmother?'

In a minute she gave her chin that lift in the air that he had seenbefore. 

'You need not feel uncomfortable about Mrs. King; the house is reallymine, not hers, and father always had his house full of company. I amdoing my duty to him in taking you in, and in making a feast to pleaseEliz when the stepmother happens to be away and I can do it peaceably. And when she happens to be here I do my duty to him by keeping the peacewith her. '

'Is she unkind to you?' he asked, with the ready, overflowing pity thatyoung men are apt to give to pretty women who complain. 

But she would have him know that she had not complained. 

There was no bitterness in her tone--her philosophy of life was allsweetness. 'No! Bless her! God made her, I suppose, just as He made us;so, according to the way she is made, she packs away all the linen andsilver, she keeps this room shut up for fear it will get worn out, andwe never see any visitors. But to-day she went away to St. Philippe tosee a dying man--I think she was going to convert him or something; buthe took a long time to die; and now we may be snowed up for days, and weare going to have a perfectly glorious time. ' She added hospitably, 'Youneed not feel under the slightest obligation, for it gives us pleasureto have you, and I know that father would have taken you in. '

Courthope rose up and followed her glance, almost an adoring glance, tothe portrait he had before observed. He went and stood again face toface with it. 

A goodly man was painted there, dressed in a judge's robe. Courthoperead the lineaments by the help of the living interpretation of thedaughter's likeness. Benevolence in the mouth, a love of good cheer andgood friends in the rounded cheeks, a lurking sense of the poetry oflife in the quiet eyes, and in the brow reason and a keen sense of rightproportion dominant. He would have given something to have exchanged aquiet word with the man in the portrait, whose hospitality, living afterhim, he was now receiving. 

Madge had been arranging the logs to her satisfaction, she would notaccept Courthope's aid, and now she told him who were going to dine withthem. She had great zest for the play. 

'Mr. And Mrs. Bennett, of course, and we thought we might have Mr. Knightley, because he is a squire and not so very young, even though heis not yet married. Miss Bates, of course, and the Westons. Mrs. Dashwood has declined, of which we are rather glad, but we are havingMrs. Jennings. ' So she went on with her list. 'We could not help askingSir Charles with Lord and Lady G----, because he is so important; butGrandmamma Shirley is "mortifying" at present. She wrote that she couldnot stand "so rich a regale. " Sir Hargrave Pollexfen will comeafterwards with Harriet, and I am thankful to say that Lady Clementinais not in England at present, so could not be invited. ' She stopped, looking up at him freshly to make a comment. 'Don't you detest LadyClementina?'

When they went into the dining-room, the choice spirits deemed worthy tobe at the board were each introduced by name to the Lady Eliz, whoexplained that because of her infirmities she had been unable to havethe honour of receiving them in the drawing-room. She made appropriateremarks, inquiring after the relatives of each, offering congratulationsor condolences as the case demanded. It was cleverly done. Courthopestood aside, immensely entertained, and when at last he too began tooffer spirited remarks to the imaginary guests, he went up in favour soimmensely that Eliz cried, 'Let Mr. Courthope take the end of the table. Let Mr. Courthope be father. It's much nicer to have a master of thehouse. ' She began at once introducing him to the invisible guests as herfather, and Madge, if she did not like the fancy, did not cross herwill. There was in Madge's manner a large good-humoured tolerance. 

The table was long, and amply spread with fine glass and silver; nothingwas antique, everything was in the old-fashioned tasteless style of aformer generation, but the value of solid silver was not small. Thehomely serving-woman in her peasant-like dress stood aside, submissive, as it seemed, but ignorant of how to behave at so large a dinner. Courthope, who in a visit to the stables had discovered that thisFrenchwoman with her husband and one young daughter were at present thewhole retinue of servants, wondered the more that such precious articlesas the young girls and the plate should be safe in so lonely a place. 

Madge was seated at the head of the table, Courthope at the foot; Elizin her high chair had been wheeled to the centre of one side. Madge, playing the hostess with gentle dignity, was enjoying herself to thefull, a rosy, cooing sort of joy in the play, in the feast that she hadsucceeded in preparing, in her amusement at the literary sallies ofEliz, and, above all perhaps, in the company of the new and unexpectedplaymate to whom, because of his youth, she attributed the same perfectsympathy with their sentiments which seemed to exist between themselves. Courthope felt this--he felt that he was idealised through no virtue ofhis own; but it was a delightful sensation, and brought out the bestthat was in him of wit and pure joyfulness. To Eliz the creatures ofher imagination were too real for perfect pleasure; her face was tense, her eyes shot sparkles of light, her voice was high, for her theentertainment of the invisible guests involved real responsibility andeffort. 

'Asides are allowed, of course?' said Eliz, as if pronouncing adebatable rule at cards. 

'Of course, ' said Madge, 'or we could not play. '

'It's the greatest fun, ' cried Eliz, 'to hear Sir Charles telling Mr. John Knightley about the good example that a virtuous man ought to set. With "hands and eyes uplifted" he is explaining the duty he owes to hisMaker. It's rare to see John Knightley's face. I seated them on purposewith only Miss Matty between them, because I knew she wouldn'tinterrupt. '

Courthope saw the smile in Madge's eyes was bent upon him as she saidsoftly, 'You won't forget that you have Lady Catherine de Bourg at yourright hand to look after. I can see that brother Peter has got his eyeupon her, and I don't know how she would take the "seraphim" story. '

'If she begins any of her dignified impertinence here, ' he answered, 'Iintend to steer her into a conversation with Charlotte, Lady G----. '

Courthope had a turkey to carve. He was fain to turn from the guests toask advice as to its anatomy of Madge, who was carving a ham andassuring Mr. Woodhouse that it was 'thrice baked, exactly as Serlewould have done it. '

'Stupid!--it was apples that were baked, ' whispered Eliz. 

'You see, ' said Madge, when she had told him how to begin upon theturkey, 'we wondered very much what a dinner of "two full courses" mightbe, and where the "corner dishes" were to be set. We did not quiteknow--do you?'

'You must not have asides that are not about the people, ' cried Elizintensely. 'Catherine Moreland's mother is talking common sense toGeneral Tilney and Sir Walter Eliot, and there'll be no end of a row ina minute if you don't divert their attention. '

Eliz had more than once to call the other two to account for talkingprivately adown the long table. 

'What a magnificent ham!' he exclaimed. 'Do you keep pigs?'

Madge had a frank way of giving family details. 'It was once a _dear_little pig, and we wanted to teach it to take exercise by running afterus when we went out, but the stepmother, like Bunyan, "penned it"--

 '"Until at last it came to be, For length and breadth, the bigness which you see. "'

More than once he saw Madge's quick wit twinkle through her booklore. When he was looking ruefully at a turkey by no means neatly carved, shegave the comforting suggestion, '"'Tis impious in a good man to besad. "'

'I thought it one of the evidences of piety. '

'It is true that he was "Young" who said it, but so are we; let usbelieve it fervently. '

When Madge swept across the drawing-room, with her amber skirtstrailing, and Eliz had been wheeled in, they received the after-dinnervisitors. Courthope could almost see the room filled with the quaintcreations to whom they were both bowing and talking incessantly. 

'Mr. Courthope--Miss Jane Fairfax--I believe you have met before. 'Madge's voice dropped in a well-feigned absorption in her next guest;but she soon found time again to whisper to him a long speech which MissBates had made to Eliz. Soon afterwards she came flying to him in theutmost delight to repeat what she called a "lovely sneap" which LadyG---- had given to Mrs. Elton; nor did she forget to tell him that EmmaWoodhouse was explaining to the Portuguese nun her reasons for decidingnever to marry. 'Out of sheer astonishment she appears to become quitetranquillised, ' said Madge, as if relating an important fact. 

His curiosity concerning this nun grew apace, for she seemed a favouritewith both the girls. 

When it was near midnight the imaginary pageant suddenly came to anend, as in all cases of enchantment. Eliz grew tired; one of the lampssmoked and had to be extinguished; the fire had burned low. Madgedeclared that the company had departed. 

She went out of the room to call the servant, but in a few minutes shecame back discomfited, a little pout on her lips. 'Isn't it tiresome!Mathilde and Jacques Morin have gone to bed. '

'It is just like them, ' fretted Eliz. 

At the fretful voice Madge's face cleared. 'What does it matter?' shecried. 'We are perfectly happy. '

She lifted the lamp with which he had first seen her, and commenced aninspection of doors and shutters. It was a satisfaction to Courthope tosee the house. It was a French building, as were all the older houses inthat part of the country, heavily built, simple in the arrangements ofits rooms. Every door on the lower floor stood open, inviting the heatof a large central stove. Insisting upon carrying the lamp while Madgemade her survey, he was introduced to a library at the end of thedrawing-room, to a large house-place or kitchen behind the dining-room;these with his own room made the square of the lower story. A wingadjoining the further side was devoted to the Morins. Having performedher duty as householder, Madge said good-night. 

'We have enjoyed it ever so much more because you were here. ' She heldout her hand; her face was radiant; he knew that she spoke the simpletruth. 

She lifted the puny Eliz in her arms and proceeded to walk slowly up thestraight staircase which occupied one half of the long central hall. Thecrimson scarfs hanging from Eliz, the length of her own silk gown, embarrassed her; she stopped a moment on the second step, resting herburden upon one lifted knee to clutch and gather the gorgeous raiment inher hand. 

'You see we put on mother's dresses, that have always been packed awayin the garret. '

Very simply she said this to Courthope, who stood holding a lamp tolight them in their ascent. He waited until the glinting colours oftheir satins, the slow motion of the burden-bearer's form, reached thetop and were lost in the shadows of an open door. 

CHAPTER III

Courthope opened the shutters of his window to look out upon the night;they were heavy wooden shutters clasped with an iron clasp. A Frenchwindow he could also open; outside that a temporary double window wasfixed in the casement with light hooks at the four corners. The wind wasstill blustering about the lonely house, and, after examining thetwilight of the snow-clad night attentively, he perceived that snow wasstill falling. He thought he could almost see the drifts rising higheragainst the out-buildings. 

Two large barns stood behind the house; from these he judged that thefields around were farmed. 

It was considerations concerning the project of his journey the next daywhich had made him look out, and also a restless curiosity regardingevery detail of the _ménage_ whose young mistress was at once sochild-like and so queenlike. While looking out he had what seemed acurious hallucination of a dark figure standing for a moment on the topof the deep snow. As he looked more steadily the figure disappeared. Allthe outlines at which he looked were chaotic to the sight, because ofthe darkness and the drifting snow, and the light which was behind himshimmering upon the pane. If half-a-dozen apparitions had passed in thedim and whirling atmosphere of the yards, he would have supposed thatthey were shadows formed by the beams of his lamp, being interruptedhere and there by the eddying snow where the wind whirled it mostdensely. He did not close his shutters, he even left his inner windowpartially open, because, unaccustomed to a stove, he felt oppressed byits heat. When he threw himself down, he slept deeply, as men sleepafter days among snowfields, when a sense of entire security is thelethargic brain's lullaby. 

He was conscious first of a dream in which the sisters experienced someimminent danger; he heard their shrieks piercing the night. He woke tofeel snow and wind driving upon his face, to realise a half-wakingimpression that a man had passed through his room, to know that thescreams of a woman's voice were a reality. As he sprang for his clotheshe saw that the window was wide open, the whole frame of the outerdouble glass having been removed, but the screams of terror he heardwere within the house. Opening the door to the dark hall he ran, guidedby the sound, to the foot of the staircase which the girls had ascended, then up its long straight ascent. He took its first steps in a bound, but, as his brain became more perfectly awake, confusion of thought, wonder, a certain timidity because now the screaming had ceased, causedhim to slacken his pace. He was thus hesitating in the darkness when hefound himself confronted by Madge King. She stood majestic in greywoollen gown, candle in hand, and her dark eyes blazed upon him interror, wrath and indignation. 

It seemed for a moment that she could not speak; some movement passedover the white sweep of her throat and the full dimpling lips, andthen--

'Go down!' She would have spoken to a dog with the same authority, butnever with such contemptuous wrath. 'Go down at once! How dare you!'

Abashed, knowing not what he might have done to offend, Courthope fellback a step against the wall of the staircase. From within the room Elizcried, 'Is he there? Come in and lock the door, Madge, or he'll killyou!' The voice, sharp, high with terror, rose at the end, and burstinto one of those piercing shrieks which seemed to fill the night, asthe voices of some small insects have the power to make the welkin ringin response. 

Before Courthope could find a word to utter, another light was thrownupon him from a lamp at the foot of the stair. It was held by JacquesMorin, grey-haired, stooping, dogged. The Morin family--man, wife anddaughter--were huddling close together. They, too, were all looking athim, not with the wrath and contempt to which Madge had risen, but withcunning desire for revenge, mingled with the cringing of fear. There wasa minute's hush, too strong for expression, in which each experiencedmore intensely the shock of the mysterious alarm. 

It was Madge who broke the silence. Her voice rang clear, althoughvibrating. 

'Jacques Morin, he came into our room to rob!' She pointed atCourthope. 

The thin voice of Eliz came in piercing parenthesis: 'I saw him in thecloset, and when I screamed he ran. '

Madge began again. 'Jacques Morin, what part of the house is open? Ifeel the wind. ' All the time Madge kept her eyes upon Courthope, as uponsome wild animal whose spring she hoped to keep at bay. 

That she should appeal to this dull, dogged French servant forprotection against him, who only desired to risk his life to serve her, was knowledge of such intense vexation that Courthope could still findno word, and her fixed look of wrath did actually keep him at bay. Ittook from him, by some sheer physical power which he did not understand, the courage with which he would have faced a hundred Morins. 

When Jacques Morin began to speak, his wife and daughter took courageand spoke also; a babel of French words, angry, terrified, arose fromthe group, whose grey night-clothes, shaken by their gesticulations, gave them a half-frenzied appearance. 

In the midst of their talking Courthope spoke to Madge at last. 'I ranup to protect you when I heard screams; I did not wake till youscreamed. Some one has entered the house. He has entered by the windowin my room; I found it open. '

With his own words the situation became clear to him. He saw that hemust hunt for the house-breaker. He began to descend the stairs. 

The Morin girl screamed and ran. Morin, producing a gun from behind hisback, pointed it at Courthope, and madam, holding the lamp, squared upbehind her husband with the courage of desperation. 

It was not this fantastic couple that checked Courthope's downward rush, but Madge's voice. 

'Keep still!' she cried, in short strong accents of command. 

Eliz, becoming aware of his movement, shrieked again. 

Courthope, now defiant and angry, turned towards Madge, but, even as hewaited to hear what she had to say, reflected that her interest couldnot suffer much by delay, for the thief, if he escaped, could make butsmall speed in the drifting storm over roads which led to no near placeof escape or hiding. 

It was the judge's daughter which Courthope now saw in Madge--the desireto estimate evidence, the fearless judgment. 

'We took you in last night, a stranger; and now we have been robbed, which never happened before in all our lives. My sister says it was youshe saw in our room. As soon as I could get the candle lit I found youhere, and Jacques Morin says that you have opened your window so thatyou would be able to escape at once. What is the use of saying that youare not a robber?'

He made another defiant statement of his own version of the story. 

The girl had given some command in French to Morin; to Courthope shespoke again in hasty sentences, reiterating the evidence against him. Her manner was a little different now--it had not the samestraightforward air of command. He began to hope that he might persuadeher, and then discovered suddenly that she had been deliberatelyriveting his attention while the command which he had not understood wasbeing obeyed. A noose of rope was thrown round his arms and instantlytightened; with a nimbleness which he had not expected Morin knotted itfast. Courthope turned fiercely; for a moment he struggled with all hisforce, bearing down upon Morin from his greater height, so that theyboth staggered and reeled to the foot of the stair. At his violence thevoices of the Morin women, joined by that of Eliz, were lifted in suchwild terror that a few moments were sufficient to bring Courthope toreason. He spoke to Madge with haughty composure. 

'Tell him to untie this rope at once. There is some villain about thehouse who may do you the greatest injury; you are mad to take from methe power of arresting him. '

Madam Morin, seeing the prisoner secured, hastened with her lamp to hisbedroom. 

Madge, feeling herself safer now, came a little way down the stair withher candle. 'How can we tell what you would do next?' she asked. 'And Ihave the household to protect; it is not for myself that I am afraid. '

The anger that he had felt toward her died out suddenly. 

It was not for herself that she was afraid! She stood a few steps abovehim; her little candle, flashing its rays into the darkness of the upperand lower halls, made walls and balustrades seem vast by its flickeringimpotence to oust the darkness. Surely this girl, towering in hersweeping robe and queenly pose, was made to be loved of men and gods!Hero, carrying her vestal taper in the temple recesses, before everLeander had crossed the wave, could not have had a larger or more nobleform, a more noble and lovely face. 

Well, if she chose to tie his arms he would have preferred to have themtied, were it not for the maddening thought that more miscreants thanone might be within reach of her, and that they would, if skilled, findthe whole household an easy prey. 

Madam Morin came back from the room with the open window, makingproclamation in the most excited French. 

'What do they say?' asked Courthope of Madge. 

The Morin girl was following close to her mother, and Jacques Morin waseagerly discussing their information. 

Madge passed Courthope in silence. They all went to the window to see;Courthope, following in the most absurd helplessness, trailing the endof his binding-cord behind him, brought up the rear of the littleprocession. Madge walked straight on into his room, where Madam Morinwas again opening the window-shutters. 

'They say, ' said Madge to Courthope, 'that you have had an accomplice, and that he is gone again; they saw his snow-shoe tracks. '

He begged her to make sure that the man was gone, to let him look at thetracks himself and then to search the house thoroughly. Outside thewindow the same chaotic sweep and whirl of the atmosphere prevailed. Itwas difficult, even holding a lantern outside, to see, but they did seethat a track had come up to the window and again turned from it. Afterthat they all searched the house, Courthope allowed to be of thecompany, apparently because he could thus be watched. The thief of thenight had come and gone; some silver and jewellery which had beenstored in a closet adjoining the bedroom of the sisters had been taken. 

Courthope understood very little of the talk that went on. At length, tohis great relief, Madge gave her full attention to him in parley. 

'Won't you believe that I know nothing whatever of the doings of thissneak-thief?'

Some of her intense excitement had passed away, succeeded by distress, discouragement, and perhaps perplexity, but that last she did notexpress to him. She leaned against the wall as she listened to him withwhite face. 

'We never took in any one we didn't know anything about before, and wenever were robbed before. ' She added, 'We treated you kindly; how couldyou have done it? If you did it'--his heart leaped at the 'if' as at abeam of sunshine on a rainy day--'you must have known all about us, although I can't think how; you must have known where we kept things, and that mamma had taken our other man-servant away. You must havebrought your accomplice to hide in the barn and do the work while youplayed the gentleman! That is what Jacques Morin says; he says no onebut a child would have taken you in as I did, and that you might havemurdered us all. They are very angry with me. '

There was conflict in her manner; a few words would be said haughtily, as to some one not worthy of her notice, and then again a few words asto a friend. He saw that this conflict of her mind was increasing as shestood face to face with him, and with that consolation he submitted, ather request, to be more securely bound--the rope twisted round andround, binding his arms to his sides. It was a girl's device; he made nocomplaint. 

It seemed that Morin had no thought of following the thief; hisfaithfulness was limited to such service as he considered necessary, andwas of a cowardly rather than a valiant sort. Courthope, when his firsteagerness to seek passed off, was comforted by reflecting that, had hehimself been free, it would have been futile for him to attempt such aquest while darkness lay over the land in which he was a stranger. 

He was allowed to rest on the settle in the large inner kitchen, securely locked in, and so near Morin's room that his movements could beoverheard. There, still in bonds, he spent the rest of the night. 

CHAPTER IV

When the March morning shone clear and white through the still-fallingsnow, and the Morins began to bustle about their work for the day, themental atmosphere in the kitchen seemed to have lost something of theexcited alarm that had prevailed in the night. Courthope arose; thegarments which he had donned in the night with frantic speed clothed butdid not adorn him; he knew that he must present a wild appearance, andthe domestic clothes-line, bound round and round his arms, prevented himfrom so much as pushing back the locks of hair which straggled upon hisbrow. He was rendered on the whole helpless; however murderous might behis heart, a tolerably safe companion. He interested himself byconsidering how Samson-like he could be in breaking the cords, or, eventied, how vigorously he could kick Morin, if he were not a girl'sprisoner. He reflected with no small admiration upon the quick resourceand decision that she had displayed; how, in spite of her almostchild-like frankness, she had beguiled him into turning his back to thenoose when a supposed necessity pressed her. He meditated for a fewminutes upon other girls for whom he had experienced a more or lessparticular admiration, and it seemed to him that the characters of thesedamsels became wan and insipid by comparison. He began to have apresentiment that Love was now about to strike in earnest upon the harpof his life, but he could not think that the circumstances of thispresent attraction were propitious. What could he say to this girl, soadorably strong-minded, to convince her of his claim to be again treatedas a man and a brother? Letters? He had offered them to her last night, and she had replied that any one could write letters. Should he showthat he was not penniless? She might tell him in the same tone that itwas wealth ill-gotten. It was no doubt her very ignorance of the worldthat, when suspicion had once occurred, made her reject as unimportantthese evidences of his respectability, but he had no power to give herthe eyes of experience. 

These thoughts tormented him as he stood looking out of the window atthe ever-increasing volume of the snow. How long would he be detained aprisoner in this house, and, when the roads were free, how could he findfor Madge any absolute proof of his innocence? The track of the midnightthief was lost for ever in the snow; if he had succeeded in escaping asmysteriously as he had come--but here Courthope's mind refused again toenter upon the problem of the fiend-like enemy and the impassablesnowfields, which in the hours of darkness he had already given up, perceiving the futility of his speculation until further facts wereknown. 

Courthope strolled through the rooms, the doors of which were now open. Morin permitted this scant liberty chiefly, the prisoner thought, because of a wholesome fear of being kicked. In the library at the backof the drawing-room he found amusement in reading the titles of thebooks down one long shelf and up another. Every book to which Madge hadhad access had an interest for him. Three cases were filled with booksof law and history; there was but one from which the books had of latebeen frequently taken. It was filled with romance and poetry, nothing solate as the middle of the present century, nothing that had not someclaim upon educated readers, and yet it was a motley collection. Uponthe front rim of the upper shelf some one, perhaps the dead father inhis invalid days, had carved a motto with a knife, the motto that isalso that of the British arms. It might have been done out of merepatriotism; it might have had reference to this legacy of books left tothe child-maidens, for whom, it seemed, other companionship had not beenprovided. 

At length Courthope realised that there was one book which he greatlydesired to take from the shelf. The Morin daughter was dusting in theroom, and, with some blandishments, he succeeded in persuading her tolay it open upon the table where he could peruse it. To his greatamusement he observed that she was very careful not to come within ayard or two of him, darting back when he approached, evidently thinkingthat the opening of the book might be a ruse to attack her by a suddenspring. At first the curious consciousness produced by this damsel'sawkward gambols of fear so absorbed him that he could not fix hisattention upon the book; flashes of amusement and of grave annoyancechased themselves through his mind like sunshine and shadow overmountains on a showery day; he knew not which was the more rationalmood. Then, attempting the book again, and turning each leaf with a gooddeal of contortion and effort, he became absorbed. It was the _Lettersof a Portuguese Nun_, and in the astonishment of its perusal he forgotthe misfortune that had befallen the household, and his own discomfortand ignominy. The Morin girl had left him in the room, shutting thedoor. 

An hour passed--it might have been about nine of the clock--whenCourthope began to be roused from his absorption in the book by a soundin the next room. It was a low uncertain sound, but evidently that ofsobbing and tears. He stopped, listened; his heart was wrung with pity. It was not the sharp little Eliz who cried like that! He knew such sobsdid not come from the stormy and uncontrolled bosoms of the Frenchservants. He was convinced that it was Madge who was weeping, that shewas in the long drawing-room, where the portrait of the judge hung nearthe door. 

He went nearer the door. His excited desire to offer her some sympathy, to comfort, or if possible to help, became intolerable. So conscious washe of a common interest between them that not for a moment did the senseof prying enter his mind. 

He heard then a few words whispered as if to the portrait: 'Father, oh, father, we were so happy with him! It is almost the only time that wehave been quite happy since you went away. '

The sense of the broken whispers came tardily to Courthope'sunderstanding through the smothering door. The handle of the door was ona level with the hands that were bound to his sides; he turned himselfin order to bring his fingers near it. 

Before he touched it he heard Madge sob and whisper again: 'I was sohappy, father; I thought it was such fun he had come. I like gentlemen, and we never, never see any except the ones that come out of books. '

To Courthope it suddenly seemed that the whole universe must have beenoccupied with purpose to bring him here in order to put an end to hergloom and flood her life with sunshine; the universe could not be foiledin its attempt. Young love argues from effect to cause, and so limitlessseemed the strength of his sentiment that the simplicity of her mind andthe susceptibility of her girlhood were to him like some epic poem whicharouses men to passion and strong deeds. Ignominiously bound as he was, his heart lightened; all doubt of his mission to love her and itsultimate success passed from him. He turned the handle and pushed thedoor half open. 

The long drawing-room was almost dark; the shutters had not been opened;the furniture remained as it had stood when the brilliant assembly ofthe previous evening had broken up; the large fireplace was full ofashes; the atmosphere was deadly cold. Courthope stood in the streak oflight which entered with him. Upon the floor, crouching, her cheekleaning against the lower part of her father's picture, was Madge King. She was dressed in a blanket coat; moccasins were upon her feet; a furcap lay upon the ground beside her. At the instant of his entrance shelifted her bare head, and across the face flushed with tears and prayersthere flashed the look of haughty intolerance of his presence. She hadthought that he was locked up in one of the kitchens; she told him so, intensely offended that he should see her tears. It was for that reasonthat she did not rise or come to the light, only commanding andimploring him to be gone. 

'I am quite helpless, even if I wanted to harm you. ' He spokereproachfully, knowing instinctively that if she pitied him she wouldaccept his pity. 

'You have harmed us enough already, ' she sighed; 'all the rest of oursilver, all my dear father's silver is gone. We found that out thismorning, for what we had used for the feast had been put in a basketuntil we could store it away; it is all taken. '

He was shocked and enraged to hear of this further loss. He did notattempt to reason with her; he had ceased to reason with himself. 

'You trusted me when you let me in last night, ' he said. 'Don't youthink that you would have had some perception of it last night if I hadbeen entirely unworthy? Think what an utter and abominable villain Imust be to have accepted your hospitality--to have been so very happywith you----' So he went on appealing to her heart from the sentimentsthat arose in his own. 

Madge listened only for a reasonable period; she rose to her feet. 'Imust go, ' she said. 

He found that she proposed to walk on snow-shoes three miles to thenearest house, which belonged to a couple of parish priests, where shewould be certain of obtaining a messenger to carry the news of therobbery to the telegraph station. She could not be brought even todiscuss the advisability of her journey; Morin could not be sent, forthe servants and Eliz would go mad with terror if left alone. 

To Courthope's imagination her journey seemed to be an abandonment ofherself to the utmost danger. If between the two houses she failed tomake progress over high drifts and against a heavy gale, what was tohinder her from perishing? Then, too, there was that villain, who hadseemed to stalk forth from the isolated house afar into the howlingnight as easily as the Frankenstein demon, and might even now beskulking near--a dangerous devil--able to run where others must trudgetoilsomely. 

Madge, it seemed, had only come to that room to make her confession andinvoke protection at the shrine of the lost father; she was ready to setforth without further delay. She would not, in spite of his mosteloquent pleading, set Courthope at liberty to make of him eithermessenger or companion. 

'The evidence, ' she said sadly, 'is all against you. I am very sorry. '

A wilder unrest and vexation at his position returned upon his heartbecause of the lightening that had come with the impulse of love. Thatimpulse still remained, an under-current of calm, a knowledge that hiswill and the power of the world were at one, such as men only feel whenthey yield themselves to some sudden conversion; but above thisnew-found faith the cross-currents of strife now broke forth again. Thushe raged--

'What was the use of my coming here? Why should the Fates have sent mehere if I cannot go this errand for you, or if I cannot go with you toprotect you? If this beast is walking about on snow-shoes, how do youknow that he will not attack you as soon as you are out of sight of thehouse?'

She seemed to realise that it was strange to be discussing her ownsafety with her prisoner. Very curious was the conflict in her face; herstrong natural companionableness, her suspicion of him, and her sense ofthe dignity which her situation demanded, contending together. It seemedeasier for her to disregard his words than to give all the answers whichher varying feelings would prompt. She was tying on a mink cap bywinding a woollen scarf about her head. 

'Miss Madge! Miss King! It is perfectly intolerable! It--it isintolerable!' He stepped nearer as he spoke. A thought came over himthat even the conventional title of 'Miss' which he had given her waswholly inappropriate in a situation so strong--that he and she, merelyas man and woman, as rational beings, were met together in a wildernesswhere conventions were folly. 'I cannot allow you to risk your life inthis way. ' There was a tense emphasis in his words; he felt the naturalauthority of the protector over the tender thing to be protected, theintimate authority which stress of circumstance may give. 

She dropped her hands from tying the scarf under her chin, returning forhis words a look of mingled curiosity, indecision, and distrust. 

Quick as she looked upon him, his mind's eye looked upon himself; therehe stood in grotesque undress, bound around with the cords of anextraordinary disgrace. He blamed himself at the moment for not havinghad his hair cut more recently, for he knew that it stood in a wildshock above his head, and he felt that it dangled in his eyes. Then agust of emotion, the momentary desire for laughter or groans ofvexation, rose and choked his utterance, and in the minute that he wasmute the girl, sitting down upon a low stool, began tightening thestrings of her moccasins, which, after the first putting on, had relaxedwith the warmth of the feet. Her business-like preparations for the roadmaddened him. 

'Don't you see, ' he said, 'what disgrace you are heaping upon me? Whatright have you to deny to me, a gentleman and your guest, the right toserve and protect you? Consider to what wretchedness you consign me if Iam left here to think of you fighting alone with this dangerous storm, or attacked by blackguards who we know may not be far away!'

She said in a quiet, practical, girlish way, 'It was I who wasresponsible for letting you in last night, and then this happened--thismost unheard-of thing. We never heard of any but a petty theft evercommitted in this whole region before. Now I am bound to keep you hereuntil we can hear where father's silver is. '

'You don't believe that I have done it! I am sure you do not' (hebelieved what he said). 'Why haven't you the courage to act upon yourconviction? You will never regret it. '

'Eliz says that she saw you quite distinctly. '

'Eliz is a little fool, ' were the words that arose within him, but whathe said was, 'Your sister is excitable and nervous; she saw the thiefundoubtedly, and by some miserable freak of fortune he may haveresembled me. '

'Does that seem at all likely?'

'Well, then, there was no resemblance, and she fancied it. '

She stood up, looking harassed, but without relenting. 'I must go--thereis nothing else to be done. Do you think I would stay here when a daymight make all the difference in recovering the things which belonged tomy father? Do you think that I am going to lose the things that belongedto him just because I am too much of a coward to go out and give thealarm?'

She walked away from him resolutely, but the thought of the losttreasures and all the dear memories that in her mind were identifiedwith them seemed to overcome her. She drew her hand hastily across hereyes, and then, to his dismay, the sorrow for her loss emphasised herwavering belief in his guilt; for the first time he realised how strongthat sorrow was. Impelled by emotion she turned again and cameshrinkingly back into his presence. 

'I have not reproached you, ' she said, 'because I thought it would bemean in case you had not done it; but it seems that you must have doneit. Won't you tell me where the other man has taken our things? Theycannot be of any value to you compared with their value to us; and, oh, indeed I would much rather give you as much money as you could possiblymake out of them, and more too, if you would only tell me which way thisman has gone, and send word to him that he must give them back! I willpledge you my word of honour that----'

For the first time he was offended with her. He stepped back with agesture of pride, which in a moment he saw she had construed intounwillingness to give the booty up. 

'I could promise to give you the money; I could promise that you shouldnot be tracked and arrested. I have enough in the savings-bank of my ownthat I could get out without our lawyer or mamma knowing, and you don'tknow how dear, how very dear, everything that belonged to father is toEliz and me. If you wait here tied until my stepmother comes she willnot give any money to get the things back; she would not care if youkept them, so long as she could punish you. '

Every word of her gentle pleading made the insult deeper and more gross, and the fact that she was who she was only made the hurt to his pridethe sorer. He would not answer; he would not explain; he would let herthink what she liked; it is the way of the injured heart. 

Angry, and confirmed in her suspicion, she too turned proudly away. Hesaw her, as she crossed the hall, take up a pair of snow-shoes that shehad left leaning against the wall, and without further farewell to anyone turn toward the front door. 

He knew then what he must do. Without inward debate, without evenweighing what his act's ultimate consequences might be, he followed her. 

'I will do what you ask. I give you my word of honour--and there ishonour, you know, even among thieves--that I will do all in my power tobring back everything that has been stolen. Give me snow-shoes. Keep myhorse and my watch and my luggage as surety that I mean what I say. Icannot promise that I can get back the silver from the other man, but Iwill do far more than you can do. I will do more than any one else coulddo. If it is within my power I will bring it back to you. '

She considered for a little time whether she would trust him or not. Itseemed, curiously enough, that from first to last she had neverdistrusted her first instinct with regard to his character, but that herchild-like belief that in the unknown world all things were possible, allowed her to believe also in his criminality. Now that he had, as shethought, made his confession and promised restitution, it was perhapsthe natural product of her conflicting thoughts and feelings that sheshould trust to his oft-repeated vows, and make the paction with him. 

She did not consult the Morins; perhaps she knew that she would onlyprovoke their opposition, or perhaps she knew that they would only betoo glad to get rid of the man they feared, caring for nothing but theactual safety of the lives in the household. She brought him his coatand cap and also a man's moccasins and snow-shoes. With a courage that, because somewhat shy and trembling, evoked all the more his admiration, she untied the first knot of his rope, unwound the coil, and then untiedthe last knot. The process was slow because of the trembling of herfingers, which he felt but could not see. She stood resolute, making himdress for the storm upon the threshold of the door. He did not know howto strap on the snow-shoes. She watched his first attempt with greatcuriosity; looking up, he was made the more determined to succeed withthem by seeing the pain of incredulity returning to her eyes. 

'How do you expect me to know how to manage things that I have neverhandled in my life before?'

'But if you don't know how to put them on how can you walk in them?'

'I have seen men walk in them, and there are a great many things we cando when something depends upon it. '

She directed him how to cross and tie the straps; she continued to watchhim, increasing anxiety betraying itself in her face. 

The snow was so light that even the snow-shoes sank some four or fiveinches. It was just below the porch that he had tied his straps, andwhen he first moved forward he trod with one shoe on the top of theother. He had not expected this; he felt that no further progress waswithin the bounds of possibility. For some half minute he stood, hisback to the door, his face turned to the illimitable region of driftsand feathery air, unable to conceive how to go forward and without athought of turning back. When his pulses were surging and tingling withthe discomfort of her gaze, he heard the door shut sharply. Perhaps shethought that he was shamming and was determined not to yield again;perhaps--and this seemed even worse--she had been overcome in the midstof her stern responsibility by the powers of laughter; perhaps, horridthought, she had gone for Morin to bid him again throw the noose overhis treacherous shoulders. The last thought pricked him into motion. Bymeans of his reason he discovered that if he was to make progress at allthe rackets must not overlap one another as he trod; his next effort wasnaturally to walk with his feet so wide apart that the rackets at theirbroadest could not interfere. The result was that in a few moments hebecame like a miniature Colossus of Rhodes, fixed again so that he couldnot move, his feet upon platforms at either side of a harbour of snow. 

He heard the door open now again sharply, and he felt certain, yes, certain, that the lasso was on its way through the air; this time he wasnot going to submit. As men do unthinkingly what they could in no way doby thought, he found himself facing the door, his snow-shoes trulyinextricably mixed with one another, but still he had turned round. There was no rope, no Morin; Madge was standing alone upon the outerstep of the porch, her face aflame with indignation. 

'This is either perfect folly or you have deceived me, ' she cried. 

'I shall learn how to use them in a minute, ' he said humbly. He wasconscious as he spoke that his twisted legs made but an unsteadypedestal, that the least push would have sent him headlong into thedrift. 

'How could you say that you would go?' she asked fiercely. 

He looked down at his feet as schoolboys do when chidden, but foranother reason. The question as to whether or not he could get hissnow-shoes headed again in the right direction weighed like lead uponhis heart. 

'I thought that I could walk upon these things, ' he said, and he added, with such determination as honour flying from shame only knows, 'and Iwill walk on them and do your errand. '

With that, by carefully untwisting his legs, he faced again in the rightdirection, but, having lifted his right foot too high in the untwistingprocess, he found that the slender tail of its snow-shoe stuck down inthe snow, setting the shoe pointing skyward and his toe, tied by thethongs, held prisoner about a foot above the snow. He tried to kick, butthe shoe became more firmly embedded. He lost his balance, and only by awild fling of his body, in which his arms went up into the air, did heregain his upright position. The moment of calm which succeeded producedfrom him another remark. 

'It seems to me that you have got me now in closer bonds than before. 'As he spoke he turned his glance backward and saw that comment of hiswas needless. 

The girl had at last yielded to laughter. Worn out, no doubt, by along-controlled excitement, laughter had now entirely overcome her. Leaning her head on her hand and her shoulders against a pillar of theporch, she was shaking visibly from head to foot, and the effort shemade to keep the sound of her amusement within check only seemed to makeits hold upon her more absolute. 

'I don't wonder you laugh, ' he said, feebly beginning to laugh himself alittle. 

But she did not make the slightest reply. Her face was crimson; theripples of her laughter went over her form as ripples of wind over ayoung tree. 

He was forced to leave her thus. By a miracle of determination, as itseemed, he freed his right shoe and made slow and wary strides forward. He saw that he had exaggerated the width of his snow-shoes, but hisprogress now was still made upon the plan of keeping his feet wideapart, although not too wide for motion. He knew that this was not theright method; he knew that she peered at him between her fingers and wasmore convulsed with laughter at his every step. He was thankful to thinkthat the falling flakes must soon begin to obscure his figure, but hedid not dare to try another plan of walking while she watched, lest sheshould see him stop again. 

CHAPTER V

Courthope had struck across to the main road at right angles to thepoplar avenue. The poplars stood slim, upright, more like a stiff andregular formation of feathery seaweed growing out of a frozen ocean thanlike trees upon a plain. He was nearing a grove of elm and birch whichhe had not seen the evening before; by the almost hidden rails of thefence there were half-buried shrubs. So dry, so hard, so absolutelywithout bud or sere leaf was the interlacing outline of the trees andshrubs, that they too seemed to be some strange product of this new sortof ocean; they did not remind him of verdant glades. Not that beauty wasabsent, nor charm, but the scene was strange, very strange; the domainof the laughing princess, on whom he had turned his back, was, in thedaylight, more than ever an enchanted land which he could fancy to beunknown in story and until now unexplored by man. Such ideas only cameto him by snatches; the rest of him, mind and body, was summed up in afierce determination to catch the thief and bring back his spoils. Whether by this he would prove himself honest or guilty, he neither knewnor felt that he cared. 

Gradually, as he thought less about his snow-shoes, he found that thewide lateral swing which he had been giving to his leg was unneeded. Strange as it seemed, the large rackets did not interfere when he tookan ordinary step. Having made this pleasant discovery he quickenedspeed. He did not know whether the girl had stopped laughing and hadgone into the house again, but he knew that the falling snow and thebranches of the trees must now hinder her from seeing him distinctly. 

In a moment he was glad of this, for, becoming incautious, he fell. 

Both arms, put out to save himself, were embedded to the very shoulderstraight down in snow that offered no bottom to his touch; when his nextimpulse was to move knees and feet he found that the points of hissnow-shoes were dug deep, and his toes, tied to them, held the soles ofhis feet in the same position. 

What cursed temerity had made him confess to a criminal act in order tobe allowed to come on this fool's errand? Fool, indeed, had he been tosuppose that he could walk upon a frozen cloud without falling through!Such were Courthope's reflections. 

By degrees he got himself up, but only by curling himself round andtaking off his snow-shoes. By degrees he got the snow-shoes put onagain, and mounted out of the hole which he had made, with snowadhering to all his garments and snow melting adown his neck and wrists. He now realised that he had spent nearly half an hour in walking not aquarter of a mile. With this cheerless reflection as a companion he wentdoggedly on, choosing now the drifted main road for a path. 

Having left behind him the skeleton forms of the trees, he was trudgingacross an open plain, flat almost as the surface of the lake which hehad traversed yesterday. Sometimes the fences at the side of the roadwere wholly hidden, more often they showed the top of their posts orupper bar; sometimes he could see cross-fences, as if outlining fields, so that he supposed he still walked through lands farmed from the lonelystone house, that he was still upon his lady's domain. He meditated uponher, judging that she was sweet beyond compare, although why he thoughtso, after her mistrust and derision, was one of those secrets which thedimpled Cupid only could explain. He was forced to acknowledge the factthat thus he did think, because here he was walking, whither he hardlyknew, how he hardly knew, battling with the gale, hustled roughly by itswhite wings, in danger at every turn of falling off the two small movingrafts of his shoes into a sea in which no man could swim very long. Hewondered, should his snow-shoes break, if he would be able to flounderto the rim of the fence? How long could he sit there? Certainly it wouldseem, looking north and south and east and west, that he would need tosit as long as the life in him might endure the frost. 

At length a shed or small barn met his eye. His own approach seemed tohave been heard and answered from within; the neigh of a horse greetedhim. At first he supposed that some horses belonging to the house werestabled here, and neglected because the roads were impassable; then hejudged that so slight a shed could not be intended for a stable. 

He answered the animal's cry by seeking the door. Against it the driftwas not deep, for, as it opened on the sheltered side, he had only thesnowfall to scrape away. The door, which had very recently been freedfrom its crust of frost, yielded easily. He found a brown shaggy horsetied within, and beside it a sleigh, such as he had frequently seen, amere platform of wood upon runners. Otherwise the shed was empty. Courthope was quickly struck by the recognition of something which sethis memory working. The old buffalo-skin on the sleigh was such as wascommon, but the way it was stretched upon a heap of sacks made himremember the sleigh that he had yesterday passed upon the river, and thekeen sinister face of the driver, which had ill contrasted with hisapparent sleep and stupidity. 

Courthope tossed aside the skin with a jerk. A rum bottle, a small hoardof frozen bread and bacon, a heavy blanket folded beneath, all seemed toprove that the driver had made provision for a longer journey. The horsehad no food before it; no blanket was upon its back. Probably its driverhad not intended to leave it here so long. Where was the driver? Thisquickly became in Courthope's mind the all-important question. Why hadhe been skulking on the most lonely part of the lake? And now, recallingagain the man's face, he believed that he had had an evil design. 

Courthope pursued his way; for, whether the thief had gone farther orremained in this vicinity, it was evidently desirable to have help fromthe nearest neighbours to seek and capture him. Courthope soon reachedwhat seemed to be a dip or hollow in the plain; in this the wind hadbeen very busy levelling the surface with the higher ground. At first hesupposed that, for some reason, road and fences had come to an abruptending; then he discovered that he merely walked higher above thenatural level. The thought came to him that if here he should break hissnow-shoes there would not even be the neighbouring fence-top on whichto perch and freeze. 

Suddenly all his attention was concentrated upon a dark something, likea bit of cloth fallen in the snow. As he came close and touched thecloth he found it to be the covering of a basket almost buried; pushingaway the snow-crusted covering and feeling with eager fingers among theicy contents, he quickly knew that this was no other than the stolensilver of which he was in quest. A thrill of gratitude to Fortune for sokindly a freak had hardly passed through his mind before his eye soughta depression in the snow just beyond. He saw now that a man was lyingthere. The head resting upon an arm was but slightly covered with snow;the whole form had sunk by its own heat into a cavity like a grave. 

Courthope lifted the head; the face was that of the man whom he had seenyesterday upon the river. The arms, when he raised them, fell again tothe snow like lead, yet he perceived that life was not extinct. Even inthe frost the odour of rum was to be perceived, and breath, although sofeeble as to be unseen, still passed in and out of the tightly-drawnnostrils. The touch, that would have been reverent to a corpse, was nowrough. He shook the fallen man and shouted. He raised him to a sittingposture, but finding that, standing as he did upon soft snow, to lifthim was impossible, he laid him again in the self-made grave. Thatposture at least would be most conducive to the continued motion of theheart. 

Standing upon the other side of the body, Courthope's shoe struck uponanother hard object which he found to be a case, stolen locked as itwas, which contained, no doubt, the other valuables whose loss Madge hadfirst discovered. The wretch, weighted by a burden in each hand, hadapparently missed his way when endeavouring to return to the shed inwhich he had left his horse, and wandering in circles, perhaps forhours, had evidently succumbed to drink and to cold, caught as in a trapby the unusual violence of the storm. 

There was nothing to be done but return to the house for Morin's aid, and, lifting the handles of basket and case in either hand, Courthopedoubled back upon his own track, thankful that he had already attainedto some skill in snow-shoeing. As he neared the house his heart beathigh at the excitement of seeing Madge's delight. He closely scanned thewindows, even the tiny windows in the pointed tin roof, but no eagereyes were on the look-out. 

Loudly he thumped upon the heavy front door. There was somewhat of abustle inside at the knock. The snow-bound household collected quicklyat the welcome thought of a message from the outside world. When thedoor was opened Madge and the Morins were there to behold Courthopecarrying the plunder. He perceived at once that his guilt, if doubtedbefore, was now proved beyond all doubt. There was a distinct measure ofreserve in the satisfaction they expressed. Madge especially was verygrave, with a strong flavour of moral severity in her words anddemeanour. 

Courthope explained to her that the other man was dying in the snow, that if his life was to be saved no time must be lost. She repeated thestory in French to Morin, and thereupon arose high words from theFrenchman. Madge looked doubtfully at Courthope, and then sheinterpreted. 

It seemed that the Frenchman's desire was to put him out again and lockup the house, leaving the two accomplices to shift for themselves asbest they might. Courthope urged motives of humanity. He described theman and his condition. 

At length he prevailed. Madge insisted that if Morin did not go shewould. In a few moments both she and Morin were preparing to set out. 

It seemed useless for Courthope to precede them; he went into thedining-room, demanding food of Madam Morin. 

He found that Eliz had been carried down and placed in her chair in themidst of domestic activities. 

As soon as she spied him, being in a nervous, hysterical state, sheopened her mouth and shrieked sharply; the shriek at this time had morethe tone of a child's anger than of a woman's fear. With a strong senseof humour he sat down at the table, and she, realising that he was notimmediately dangerous, railed upon him. 

'Viper in the bosom!' said Eliz. 

Courthope, almost famished, ate fast. 

'Daughter of the horse-leech crying "give, " and sucking blood from thehand it gives!' she continued. 

'Sir Charles Grandison would never have kicked a man when he was down, 'he said. 'He would have tried to do good even to the viper he hadnourished. '

The memory of Sir Charles's well-known method even with the mostvillainous, appeared to distract her attention for a moment. 

'And then they all sent for him and confessed and made amends, just as Ihave done, ' Courthope went on; but the fact that a laugh was gleaming inhis eyes enraged the little cripple. 

'How dare you talk to me, sitting there pretending to be a gentleman!'

'I would rather be allowed to make a better toilet if my reputation wereto rest upon a pretence. I never heard of a gentlemanly villain who wentabout without collar and cuffs, and had not been allowed access to hishair-brush. '

'A striped jacket and shaved head is generally what he goes about inafter he's unmasked. If I had been Madge I would not have let you off. '

'Come, remember how sorry Elizabeth Bennett was when she found she hadgiven way to prejudice. If I remember right she lay awake many nights. '

'Are you adding insult to injury by insinuating that either of us mightbestow upon you----?'

'Oh! certainly not, I merely wish to suggest that a young ladypossessing lively talents and "remarkably fine eyes" might yet makegreat mistakes in her estimate of the masculine character. '

The cripple, who perhaps had never before heard her one beautifulfeature praised by masculine lips, was obliged to harden herself. 

'Accomplished wretch!' she cried, in accents worthy of an irate Pamela. 

'Do you suppose it was the last time I was serving my term in gaol thatI read our favourite novels?' he asked. 

By this time Morin had passed out of the door to put on his snow-shoes, and Courthope, who had swallowed only as much food as was necessary tokeep him from starvation, turned out to repeat the process of putting onhis, this time more deftly. 

Morin had a toboggan upon which were piled such necessaries as Madge hadcollected. They began their march three abreast into the storm. 

They went a long way without conversation, and yet Courthope found inthis march keen enjoyment. His heart was absurdly light. To haveperformed so considerable a service for Madge, now to be walking besideher on an errand of mercy, was as much joy as the present hour couldhold. 

It was difficult for him to keep up with the others, yet in doing sothere was the pleasure of the athlete in having acquired a new masteryover his muscles; and the fascination of being at home in the snow as asea-bird is at home in the surf, which is the chief element of delightin all winter sports, was his for the first time. With the drunkenwretch who was almost frozen he felt small sympathy, but he had thesense that all modern men have on such occasions, that he ought to beconcerned, which kept him grave. 

The other two were not light-hearted. Morin, dragging the tobogganbehind him and walking with his grey head bent forward to the gale, wassullen at being driven in the service of thieves; afraid lest somesinister design was still intended, he cast constant glances of cunningsuspicion at Courthope. As for Madge, she appeared grave andpre-occupied beyond all that was natural to her, suffering, he feared, from the pain of her first disillusionment. This was a suffering that hewas hardly in a position to take seriously, and yet his heart yearnedover her. He thought also that she was pondering over the problem ofher next responsibility, and the evidence of this came sooner than hehad expected. 

When they got to the place where his first track diverged straight tothe shed, she and Morin stopped to exchange remarks; they evidentlyperceived in this the clearest evidence of all against him. Had he notgone straight to the place where the accomplice had agreed to wait? ThenMadge fell back a little to where he was now plodding in the rear. Sheaccosted him in the soft tones that had from the first so charmed him, contrasting with her sister's voice as the tones of a reed-pipe contrastwith those from metal, or as the full voice of the cuckoo with theshrill chirp of the sparrow. The soft voice was very serious, the mannermore than sedate, the words studied. 

'I am afraid that nothing that I can say will persuade you to alter away of life which you seem to have chosen, but it seems to me very sadthat one of your ability should so degrade himself. '

She stopped with a little gasp for breath, as if frightened at her ownaudacity. Her manner and phrases were an evident imitation of the way inwhich she had heard advice bestowed upon vagrant or criminal by thebenevolent judge whose memory she so tenderly cherished. It was secondnature to her to act as she fancied he would have acted. Courthopecomposed himself to receive the judicial admonition with becominghumility; his whole sympathy was with her, his mind was aglow with thequaint humour of it. 

'You must know, ' rebuked Madge, 'how very wrong it is; and it is notpossible that you could have difficulty in getting some honestemployment. '

'It is very kind of you to interest yourself in me. ' He kept his eyesupon the ground. 

'I do not know, of course, what led you to begin a life of crime, or inwhat way you found out what houses in this country were worth robbing, but I fear you must have led a wicked life for a long time' (she wasvery severe now). 'You are young yet; why should you carry on yournefarious schemes in a new country, where, if you would, you couldeasily reform?' (Again a little gasp for breath. ) 'I have promised tolet you go without giving you into the hands of the law. I am afraid Idid a selfish and weak thing, because others may suffer from yourcrimes, and I wish you could take this opportunity, which my leniencygives you, and try to reform before you have lost your reputation aswell as your character. '

'It is very kind of you, ' he murmured again; and still as he walked helooked upon his feet. He had no thought now of again denying his guilt;having denied and, as she thought, confessed, he felt that to changeonce more would only evoke her greater scorn. 'Let be, ' his heart said. 'Let come what will, I will not confuse her further to-day. '

CHAPTER VI

They passed the shed, making a straight march, as swift as might be, forthe fallen man; but before they reached him they saw some one coming, ablack, increasing form in the snowy distance. Morin hesitated. If thethief had arisen, strong and able-bodied, it was clear that they hadagain been tricked for an evil purpose. Even Madge looked alarmed, andthey both raised a halloo in the _patois_ of the region. The answer thatcame across the reach of the storm cheered them. 

The new-comer, a messenger from the nearest village, became voluble assoon as he was within speaking distance. He addressed Madge in brokenEnglish, but so quickly and with so strong a French accent thatCourthope only gathered part of his errand. He had come, it seemed, fromthe stepmother to tell something concerning a certain Xavier, who hadbeen sent to them the evening before. Before he had finished calling, Madge and Morin had come to the place where the thief lay, and, lookingdown upon him, Madge gave a little cry. 

The new-comer came up. He looked as if he might be of the grade of anotary's clerk or a country chemist. He did not seem surprised to seewho the man was. He began at once with great activity to chafe his handsand face with handfuls of the snow. Madge and Morin were also activewith the restoratives. The thief was lifted and laid upon the toboggan. They trod the snow all about to know that nothing remained, and foundonly a corkless flask containing a few drops of rum. They were all sobusy that Courthope had little to do; he stood aside, wondering aboveall at the way they rubbed the man with the snow, and at theastonishment that Madge expressed. The stranger was very nimble and verytalkative; pouring out words now in French to Madge, he walked with herin all haste to the shed from which the horse again whinnied. Morin, awakening to a sense of urgency, started at a trot, dragging thetoboggan behind him; it sank heavily in snow so light. Courthope lent ahand to the loop of rope by which it was drawn. He too essayed the trotof the Canadian. He was growing proficient, and if he did not succeed inkeeping up the running pace, he managed to go more quickly than before. They made fair progress. Looking back, Courthope saw Madge and thestranger emerge upon the road with the little horse. He had not time tolook back often to see how they helped it to make its way. They werestill some distance behind when he and Morin reached the house. 

The man called Xavier was carried into the kitchen amid wildexclamations from the Morin women. As they all continued the work ofrestoring him with a hearty goodwill and an experience of whichCourthope could not boast, he was glad to betake himself to his ownroom, wondering whether he was now a thief or a gentleman in the eyes ofthis small snow-bound world. There was, in any case, no one at leisureto prohibit him from making free with his own possessions. 

When he was dressed a certain shyness prohibited him from entering thedining-room in which he heard Madge, Eliz, and the stranger talkingFrench together. He betook himself to the library, to the _Letters ofthe Portuguese Nun_ and an easy-chair. They might oust him withseverity, but it was as well to enjoy a short interval of luxury. Theroom was warmed with a stove; the book was in the old-fashioned type; analmost sleepless night was behind him; soon he slept. 

It was almost midday when he slept; the afternoon was advancing when heawakened. Madam Morin was standing beside him arranging a tray of foodupon the table. 

'Eh!' she said, and smiled upon him. 

Then she pointed to the food, and demanded in pantomime if it suitedhim. Courthope concluded that he had ceased to be in disgrace. He wouldrather, much rather, have been summoned to a family meal, but that wasnot his lot. He had taken many things philosophically in the course ofrecent hours, and he took this also. What right had he to intrudehimself? He ate his meal alone. His roving glance soon brought himpleasure, for he found that some one had tip-toed into the room while heslept and laid the choicest volumes of romance near his chair. 

The wind had dropped, the snow had ceased falling. Before Courthope hadfinished his luncheon the young man who looked like a notary's clerkcame in, using his broken English. He remarked that the storm was overand that they were now going to get out a double team to plough throughthe road. He suggested that Courthope should help him to drive it, andto transport the prisoner to the gaol in the village. One man must beleft to protect the young ladies and the house; one man must help himwith the team and its burden. The speaker shrugged his shoulders, suggesting that it would be more suitable for Morin to remain, and saidthat for his part he would be much obliged and honoured if Courthopewould accompany him. Here some plain and easy compliments were thrown inabout Courthope's strength and the generous activity he had displayed, but not a word concerning his temporary disgrace; if this man knew of ithe did not regard it as of any importance. 

He was a matter-of-fact young man, not much interested in Courthope as astranger, immensely interested in the fact of the theft and all thatconcerned it. At the slightest question he poured out excitedinformation. Xavier had been a servant in the house. Mrs. King, who wasreligious and zealous, had found in him a convert. He had become aProtestant to please her. (At this point the narrator shrugged hisshoulders again. ) Then Xavier had asked higher wages; upon that therewas a quarrel, and he had left. 

The speaker's scanty English was of the simplest. He said, 'Xavier is avery bad man, much worse than our people usually are. This winter hewent to the city and got his wits sharpened, and when he came back hemade a scheme. He sent word to Mrs. King that his old father was dyingand would like to be converted too. Mrs. King travels at once with ahorse and the strongest servant-man. The old father takes a long time todie, so Xavier comes here yesterday to say she will stay all night; butwhen he did not come back, his wife she got frightened, and she toldthat the old man was not going to die, that she was afraid there was ascheme. Now we have Xavier very safe. He may get five years. '

Upon Courthope's inquiring after the health of the thief, he was toldthat beyond being severely frost-bitten he was little the worse. He wasagain drunk with the stimulants that the Morins had poured down histhroat. The visitor ended the interview by saying that if Courthopewould be good enough to drive the team through the drifts his own horseand sleigh would be sent after him the next day. Courthope inquired whatwas the wish of the young mistress of the house. The other replied thatmademoiselle approved of his plan. It was evident that poor Madge was nolonger the mistress; the clerk was an emissary of Mrs. King's, and assuch he had taken the control. Still, as he was an amiable and capableperson, Courthope fell in with his suggestion, inwardly vowing that soonof some domain, if not of this one, Madge should again be queen. 

Courthope received a message to the effect that the young ladies wishedto see him. There was something in the formal wording of this message, coming after his solitary meal, which made him know that they were illat ease, that they had taken their mistake more deeply to heart than hewould have wished. He had no sooner entered the room where Madge stoodthan he wished he were well out of it again, so far did his sympathywith her discomfort transcend his own pleasure at being in herpresence. 

Madge stood, as upon the first night, behind her sister's chair. Elizlooked frightened and excited, yet as half enjoying the novelexcitement. Madge, pale-faced and distressed, showed only too plainlythat she had need of all the courage she possessed to lift her eyes tohis. Yet she was not going to shirk her duty; she was going to make herapology, and the apology of the household, just as the judge, herfather, would have wished to have it made. 

It was a little speech, conned beforehand, which she spoke--a quaintmixture of her own girlish wording and the formal phrases which she feltthe occasion demanded. Courthope never knew precisely what she said. Hisfeelings were up and in tumult, like the winds on a gusty day, and hewas embarrassed for her embarrassment, while he smiled for the very joyof it all. 

Madge confessed with grief that Eliz had mistaken Xavier for Courthope. She said the man from the village had shown them what folly it was tosuppose that the gentleman could be Xavier's accomplice. She begged thatsame gentleman's pardon very humbly. At the end he heard some wordsfaltered: she wished it was in their power 'to make any amends. '

Almost before she ceased speaking he took up the word, and his own voicesounded to him merry and bold in comparison with her soft distressfulspeech; but he could not help that, he must speak with such powers asnature gave him. 

'There are two ways by which you can make amends, and first I would begthat none of our friends who were here last night should be told of it. I should not like to think that Emma and Elizabeth, and Evelina orMarianna Alcoforado should ever hear that I was taken for a thief. '

'You are laughing at us, ' said Eliz sharply. 'We know that you will goaway and make fun of us to all your friends. '

'If I do you will have one way of punishing me that would give me morepain than I could well endure, you can shut me out next time I come toask for shelter. '

'Oh, but you can't come again, ' said Eliz, with vibrating note of fiercediscontent; 'our stepmother will be here. '

He looked at Madge. 

'I was going to say that the other way in which you could make amendswould be to give me leave to come back; and if _you_ give me leave Iwill come, even if it be necessary, to that end, to get an introductionfrom all the clergy in Great Britain, or from the Royal Family. '

A ray of hope shot into Madge's dark eyes, the first glimmer of a smilebegan to show through her distress. 

'It is an old adage that "where there is a will there is a way, " and didI not walk on your most impossible snow-shoes and bring back yoursilver?'

Madge looked down, a pretty red began to mantle her pale face, and, asif the angels who manage the winds and clouds did not wish that theblush of so dear a maiden should betray too much, a ray of scarlet lightfrom the sinking sun just then came winging through the dispersingstorm-clouds and caused all the white snow-world to redden, and dyed thefrost-flowers on the window-pane, and, entering where the pane was bare, lit all the room with soft vermilion light. So, in the wondrous blush ofthe white world, the girl's cheeks glowed and yet did not confess toomuch. 

'You will allow me to send in your compliments and inquire after Mr. Woodhouse as I pass?' This was Courthope's farewell to Eliz, and shecalled joyfully in reply:--

'You need not send back his message, for we shall know that they are"all very indifferent. "'

Into the scarlet shining of the western sun, an omen of fair weather anddelight, Courthope set forth again from the square tin-roofed house, 'leaving, ' as the saying is, 'his heart behind him. ' The largefarm-horses, restive from long confinement and stimulated by the frost, shook their bells with energy. The Morin women displayed such goodwilland even tenderness in their attentions to the comfort of the secondprisoner, in whom they had found an old friend, that, tied in a blanketand lying full length on the straw of a box-sleigh, he looked contentwith himself and the world, albeit he had not as yet returned from thehappy roving-places of the drunken brain. The talkative clerk was gladenough to give Courthope the reins of the masterful horses; he sat onone edge of the blue-painted box and Courthope on the other; thus theystarted, bravely plunging into the drifts between the poplars. Thedrifts were all tinged with pink; the poplars, intercepting the redlight upon their slender upright boughs, cast, each of them, a clearshadow that seemed to lie in endless length athwart the glowing sward. 

Courthope looked back at the house which had been so dim andphantom-like the night before; the red sun lit the icicles that hungfrom eaves and lintels, tinged the drifts, glowed upon the windows as ifwith light from within, and turned the steep tin roof into a giganticrose; but all his glance was centred upon his lady-love, who stood, regardless of the cold, at the entrance of the drift-encircled porch andwatched them as long as the sunlight lay upon the land. Was she lookingat the plunging sleigh and at its driver, or at the chasms of light inthe rent cloud beyond? His heart told him, as he drove on into the verymidst of the sunset which had embraced the glistening land, that themaid, although not regardless of the outer glory, only rejoiced in itsbeauty because the vision of her heart was focused upon him. His heart, in telling him this, taught him no pride, for had he not learned in thesame small space of time only to count himself rich in what she gave?

Slow was the progress of the great horses; they passed the grove of highelms and birches that, dressed in the snowflakes that had lodged inboughs and branches when the wind dropped, stood up clear against thegulfs of blue that now opened above and beyond. Then the house washidden, and after that, by degrees, the light of the sunset passed away. 

THE END. 

Printed by R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, Edinburgh

 * * * * *

ADVERTISEMENTS

A MAN OF HONOUR. 

H. C. IRWIN. 

Crown 8vo, cloth, price 6s. 

'We have read many and many a story of the Indian Mutiny, but Mr. Irwin's tale has novelty all its own. '--_Glasgow Herald. _

'Much good and careful work marks "A Man of Honour. " H. C. Irwin is awriter of thought and culture, who uses his experience of foreign travelto admirable purpose in an interesting book. '--_Black and White. _

'All the characters are clearly presented, and you have no difficulty inknowing whether you like them or not; and that is a commendation initself. '--_National Observer. _

'The novel is well written, vigorous, and interesting, and will wellrepay reading, especially to those who like breezy, outdoor, activeexistence. '--_Scotsman. _

'The interest is well sustained throughout, and once fairly embarked onthe story, it requires no slight moral effort to lay down the bookbefore finishing it. '--_Literary World. _

'The description of Indian politics and events during the Mutiny yearsis well done, and the account of the battle of Chillianwallah and thetime immediately preceding it is excellent'--_Standard. _

'The literary qualities of the book are high, and the story itself hasgreat merit and power, and can be heartily recommended as a book verywell worth reading. '--_Aberdeen Free Press. _

'Essentially interesting and well written. '--_British Review. _

'A cleaner book, and one more free, in spite of its _motif_, from thetrail of the sex-serpent, we scarcely remember to have read. . . . We needmore such idealists . . . To show us some of the good that is left in theworld. '--_Blackwood's Magazine. _

'The picture furnished of India, of its people and their ways, and ofthe terrible experiences of the Mutiny period, is an admirable bit ofstrong literary work. '--_Belfast News Letter. _

'It is a platitude that, to be worth reading, a Mutiny story must beunquestionably good. The standard is high, but Mr. Irwin's book comes upto it, and fully satisfies the most exacting test'--_The Pioneer, Allahabad. _

A. & C. BLACK, SOHO SQUARE, LONDON. 

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THE LIFEGUARDSMAN. 

ADAPTED FROM SCHIMMEL'S 'DE KAPTEIN VAN DE LIJFGARDE. '

Crown 8vo, cloth, price 6s. 

'It is a work of remarkable power and sustained interest. Right to theend the interest is maintained, and it is not over-estimating the workto say that few historical novels published within recent years aresuperior to this adaptation of the Dutchman's story. '--_Scotsman. _

'It is primarily a romance, a story of thrilling adventure, and movesforward with dramatic spirit from point to point. '--_Illustrated LondonNews. _

'We have no other novel giving so intimate an account of how things fellout, and what obscure events and persons helped and hindered theoverthrow of James II. But the chief interest of the book turns roundthe private person, the Lifeguardsman, not all a hero, mistaken, erring, unfortunate, yet a brave man, and of the kind that stirs our sympathiesmore than do immaculate heroes. '--_Bookman. _

'The work is characterised by great dash and vigour, and the principalcharacters in the story are strongly drawn, while the incidents arewoven so skilfully together that the reader is carried with absorbinginterest to the close. '--_Western Times. _

'English readers are under a considerable debt of gratitude to theanonymous translator who has given them a version in the vernacular ofSchimmel's "De Kaptein van de Lijfgarde. " "The Lifeguardsman" is ahistorical novel of very unusual power and fidelity. In detail and habitthe scenes and people of that troublous period are "reconstituted" herewith remarkable skill. '--_Belfast Northern Whig. _

'We do not often get the pleasure of handling such a lively andthrilling story, and can feel a due measure of gratitude for theanonymous "mere adapter" to whose discernment and enterprise we areindebted for having brought it to our notice. '--_Literary World. _

A. & C. BLACK, SOHO SQUARE, LONDON. 

 * * * * *

A JAPANESE MARRIAGE

BY DOUGLAS SLADEN. 

FIFTH THOUSAND. 

Crown 8vo, boards, price 2s. ; or in cloth, price 2s. 6d. 

I. ZANGWILL, _Pall Mall Magazine_, says: 'Bryn, theheroine, is a charming creature, and some of the scenes with herhalf-crazed dying sister reveal strong imaginative power. '

MRS LYNN LINTON, in the _Queen_, says: 'Another Little Dearhas for her main quality unselfishness, penetrated through and throughby love. Such a character is Mary Avon in Douglas Sladen's strikingnovel, "A Japanese Marriage. "'

SILAS K. HOCKING, in the _Family Circle_: 'The stupidity, notto say immorality, of the English law, which prevents marriage with thedeceased wife's sister, has rarely been more strikingly illustrated thanin Mr. Douglas Sladen's clever novel, "A Japanese Marriage. " I couldwish the whole bench of bishops would read, mark, learn, and inwardlydigest this sparkling and entertaining story. '

HELEN MATHERS, in the _Literary World_, writes: 'Philip andBryn--these two are so interesting and so true to life, the Japanesebackground against which they move in such noble but intensely humanfashion is so exquisite, that the dullest of us must feel keen pleasurewhen we mingle intimately with the little people who have quite recentlyasserted their right to be reckoned with the greatest upon earth. '

G. A. , in the _Westminster Gazette_, says: 'Mr. Douglas Sladen's firstnovel is a distinct success. To begin with, he has managed to capture areal live heroine, as charming and convincing a pretty girl as we havemet with for years. Her flesh-and-blood reality is quite undeniable. Sheimposes herself upon one from the very first; she is winning andgenuine, and as fresh as a daisy. '

GILBERT BURGESS, in the _Illustrated London News_: 'This timeit is the woes of the deceased wife's sister which are brought before usin a narrative that is invariably picturesque, and, especially as to thelatter half of the volume, is of considerable humour and pathos. '

NORMAN GALE, in the _Literary World_: 'Bryn, a girl beautifulexceedingly, only a little past twenty years of age--"sweet and twenty"indeed!--loving Philip purely, and purely loved by him in return, livingalone with a young widower. The moment when Bryn proves her love is amost exciting one, and shows that Mr. Sladen is a master of vividrecital. '

JAS. STANLEY LITTLE, in the _Academy_: 'He writes withknowledge and freshness of a country and a people as full of interest asJapan and the Japanese. '

MARION HEPWORTH DIXON, in the _Englishwoman_: 'A storystrikingly told and animated with the doings of English residents inJapan. '

RICHARD LE GALLIENNE, in the _Star_: 'An exceedingly sprightlyand readable novel. '

A. & C. BLACK, SOHO SQUARE, LONDON. 

 * * * * *

MERE STORIES. 

BY MRS. W. K. CLIFFORD. 

Crown 8vo, paper covers, in the style of a French novel, price 2s. 

'Mrs. W. K. Clifford's "Mere Stories" is not only notable for theexcellence and uniform interest of the stories it contains, but also forthe novelty of its shape--that of the yellow French novel pure andsimple. The innovation deserves encouragement. You do not want, at thistime of day, an introduction to Mrs. Clifford's many good qualities. Shehas become one of those few writers of English fiction no one of whosebooks one can afford to leave unread. '--_Review of Reviews. _

'They are neatly and incisively written, with an unfailing strain ofhumour running through them. Altogether, this is a volume to read, andwe like its get-up--in paper covers on the French model, only neater andmore substantial. '--_Daily Mail. _

'In type, make-up, and size, it is exactly the volume to buy at thebook-stall and slip into such convenient receptacle as you may chance tocarry with you in the railway carriage. It costs you no more than a fewillustrated papers, and is more handy to bestow when you have read it. As for the contents, they are eight slight stories, in Mrs. Clifford'sbest manner. Yet, simple and unpretending as they are, they contain thereal novelist's touch. There is nature, drama, character, in these shorthistories, and, above all, that command of simple pathos which Mrs. Clifford has more than most writers. We do not know many living writerswho could have done either so well. '--_St. James's Gazette. _

 * * * * *

UNIFORM WITH 'MERE STORIES, '

THE LAST TOUCHES. 

BY MRS. W. K. CLIFFORD. 

'Much skill is devoted to the narration of all thesestories. '--_Saturday Review. _

'Many of them surpass even "Aunt Anne" and "Mrs. Keith's Crime" interseness and brilliant originality. '--_Morning Post. _

'One reads them from beginning to end enchanted. '--_National Review. _

'There is some very pretty and delicate work in them, which the literaryworld would be the poorer for losing. '--_Daily Telegraph. _

'Indeed, in every story there are touches of wonderful cleverness, signsof clear insight, of fresh and just observation. '--_Speaker. _

'Two or three of the stories reach an uncommon level of thought andexpression. '--_Standard. _

'But they are all good, all original, all distinctive, and we advisereaders to take care not to miss them. '--_Guardian. _

A. & C. BLACK, SOHO SQUARE, LONDON. 

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THE DREAM-CHARLOTTE. 

BY M. BETHAM-EDWARDS. 

Crown 8vo, cloth, price 6s. 

'Miss Betham-Edwards is on her own special ground in her new novel, which she calls "The Dream-Charlotte. " Provincial France of theRevolution time she knows with a detailed knowledge few other Englishwriters, if any, possess. It is a first-rate novel for youth, because ofits irresistible, contagious youthfulness; and its wholesomeenthusiasms. '--_The Sketch. _

'An historical novel of a thoroughly legitimate kind, for the pictureand the character are brought before us with sufficient vividness, yetmainly through the words and thoughts of the fictitious heroine, andthrough her close sympathy with her friend. '--_Athenĉum. _

'A tale of rare imaginative beauty. Needless to say, the literary charmof the book is great, and the atmosphere of the story true to itshistorical setting. '--_Dundee Advertiser. _

'No living writer is so thoroughly at home in describing French life asMiss Edwards is, or better able to give a life-like picture of thesocial condition of France at the period of Charlotte Corday's daringdeed. '--_Hastings Observer. _

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THE CURB OF HONOUR. 

BY M. BETHAM-EDWARDS. 

Crown 8vo, cloth, price 3s. 6d. 

'The descriptions of scenery in the Pyrenees are very attractive, andthe author has been most skilful in her delineations of the charactersof the leading actors. '--_Literary World. _

'The concluding chapter is a piece of masterly tragi-comedy. When I saythat this scene is suggestive of Balzac, I mean a highcompliment. '--_Academy. _

'Miss Betham-Edwards is a popular favourite of longstanding. She lovesto take her readers into some quiet corner of France, and her gift ofpicturesque description is such that her tales seldom fail to yieldinterest and recreation. '--_Times. _

A. & C. BLACK, SOHO SQUARE, LONDON. 

 * * * * *

AN ISLE IN THE WATER. 

BY KATHARINE TYNAN (MRS. HINKSON). 

AUTHOR OF 'OH, WHAT A PLAGUE IS LOVE!'

Crown 8vo, cloth, price 3s. 6d. 

'Here, among the hosts of ladies who write with care and inelegance, comes a woman artist. "An Isle in the Water" is a collection of fifteenwell-conceived and excellently-finished Irish stories, for which itwould be hard to find anything to say but praise. They are all extremelyshort for the force of their effect, and every touch tells; they aregracefully phrased without an appearance of artifice, subtly expressedwithout a suspicion of affectation. '--_Saturday Review. _

'I venture to assert that in any one of its fifteen tales there is afiner rendering of the very essence of Irish life and character than inany half-dozen of the books which are responsible for the conception ofthe conventional Pat or Biddy which has had such a long and prosperousvogue on this side of the Channel. The book owes its momentum to itsfascinating and powerful rendering of the pathos and the tragedy of thesimple lives with which the writer deals. But this fascination and powerare far too obvious to stand in need of celebration. '--_New Age. _

'Any faults the book may have are redeemed by a page torn from theauthoress's own heart. "Changing the Nurseries" is a chapter no woman, mother, or maid could read without a lump in her throat. The strongmaternal element, which is the chief virtue of the Irish, is rife in it, and the thousand and one little trivialities that our life is made up ofare admirably commented upon. '--_St. James's Budget. _

 * * * * *

OH, WHAT A PLAGUE IS LOVE!

BY KATHARINE TYNAN (MRS. HINKSON). 

Crown 8vo, cloth, price 3s. 6d. 

'This sparkling story has such freshness as suggests a draught new-drawnfrom Paphian wells. It is, in fact, a vivacious little comedy, agreeablydiversified with threatenings of tragedy, and radiant with humour fromfirst to last. '--_Daily Chronicle. _

'Mrs. Hinkson is lively and pleasant in her domestic story--purelyEnglish this time--which relates the misgivings and manoeuvrings of afamily of young grown-up people who are ever on the watch for theamorous proclivities of a light-hearted father. '--_National Observer. _

'Leigh Hunt would have delighted in Mrs. Hinkson. He knew how to valuehigh spirit in a writer, and the gaiety of this cheerful story wouldhave charmed him immensely. '--_Saturday Review. _

A. & C. Black, Soho Square, London.