MERCY PHILBRICK'S CHOICE. 

1876

I. 

_To one who found us on a starless night, All helpless, groping in a dangerous way, Where countless treacherous hidden pitfalls lay, And, seeing all our peril, flashed a lightTo show to our bewildered, blinded sight, By one swift, clear, and piercing ray, The safe, sure path, --what words could reach the heightOf our great thankfulness? And yet, at most, The most he saved was this poor, paltry lifeOf flesh, which is so little worth its cost, Which eager sows, but may not stay to reap, And so soon breathless with the strain and strife, Its work half-done, exhausted, falls asleep. _

II. 

_But unto him who finds men's souls astrayIn night that they know not is night at all, Walking, with reckless feet, where they may fallEach moment into deadlier deaths than slayThe flesh, --to him whose truth can rend awayFrom such lost souls their moral night's black pall, --Oh, unto him what words can hearts recallWhich their deep gratitude finds fit to say?No words but these, --and these to him are best:--That, henceforth, like a quenchless vestal flame, His words of truth shall burn on Truth's pure shrine;His memory be truth worshipped and confessed;Our gratitude and love, the priestess line, Who serve before Truth's altar, in his name. _

Mercy Philbrick's Choice. 

Chapter I. 

It was late in the afternoon of a November day. The sky had worn all daythat pale leaden gray color, which is depressing even to the leastsensitive of souls. Now, at sunset, a dull red tint was slowly stealingover the west; but the gray cloud was too thick for the sun to pierce, andthe struggle of the crimson color with the unyielding sky only made theheavens look more stern and pitiless than before. 

Stephen White stood with his arms folded, leaning on the gate which shutoff, but seemed in no wise to separate, the front yard of the house inwhich he lived from the public highway. There is something always patheticin the attempt to enforce the idea of seclusion and privacy, by building afence around houses only ten or twelve feet away from the public road, andonly forty or fifty feet from each other. Rows of picketed palings andgates with latches and locks seem superfluous, when the passer-by canlook, if he likes, into the very centre of your sitting-room, and yourneighbors on the right hand and on the left can overhear every word yousay on a summer night, where windows are open. 

One cannot walk through the streets of a New England village, withoutbeing impressed by a sense of this futile semblance of barrier, thistouching effort at withdrawal and reticence. Often we see the tacitrecognition of its uselessness in an old gate shoved back to its farthest, and left standing so till the very grass roots have embanked themselves oneach side of it, and it can never again be closed without digging away thesods in which it is wedged. The gate on which Stephen White was leaninghad stood open in that way for years before Stephen rented the house; hadstood open, in fact, ever since old Billy Jacobs, the owner of the house, had been carried out of it dead, in a coffin so wide that at first thebearers had thought it could not pass through the gate; but by huddlingclose, three at the head and three at the feet, they managed to tug theheavy old man through without taking down the palings. This was so longago that now there was nobody left who remembered Billy Jacobs distinctly, except his widow, who lived in a poor little house on the outskirts of thetown, her only income being that derived from the renting of the largehouse, in which she had once lived in comfort with her husband and son. The house was a double house; and for a few years Billy Jacobs's twinbrother, a sea captain, had lived in the other half of it. But Mrs. Billycould not abide Mrs. John, and so with a big heart wrench the twobrothers, who loved each other as only twin children can love, hadseparated. Captain John took his wife and went to sea again. The ship wasnever heard of, and to the day of Billy Jacobs's death he never forgavehis wife. In his heart he looked upon her as his brother's murderer. Verymuch like the perpetual presence of a ghost under her roof it must havebeen to the woman also, the unbroken silence of those untenanted rooms, and that never opened door on the left side of her hall, which she mustpass whenever she went in or out of her house. There were those who saidthat she was never seen to look towards that door; and that whenever anoise, as of a rat in the wall, or a blind creaking in the wind, came fromthat side of the house, Mrs. Billy turned white, and shuddered. Well shemight. It is a fearful thing to have lying on one's heart in this life theconsciousness that one has been ever so innocently the occasion, if notthe cause, of a fellow-creature's turning aside into the path which wasdestined to take him to his death. 

The very next day after Billy Jacobs's funeral, his widow left the house. She sold all the furniture, except what was absolutely necessary for avery meagre outfitting of the little cottage into which she moved. Themiserly habit of her husband seemed to have suddenly fallen on her like amantle. Her life shrank and dwindled in every possible way; she almoststarved herself and her boy, although the rent of her old homestead wasquite enough to make them comfortable. In a few years, to complete thepoor woman's misery, her son ran away and went to sea. The sea-farer'sstories which his Uncle John had told him, when he was a little child, had never left his mind; and the drearier his mother made life for him onland, the more longingly he dwelt on his fancies of life at sea, till atlast, when he was only fifteen, he disappeared one day, leaving a note, not for his mother, but for his Sunday-school teacher, --the only humanbeing he loved. This young woman carried the note to Mrs. Jacobs. She readit, made no comment, and handed it back. Her visitor was chilled andterrified by her manner. 

"Can I do any thing for you, Mrs. Jacobs?" she said. "I do assure you Isympathize with you most deeply. I think the boy will soon come back. Hewill find the sea life very different from what he has dreamed. "

"No, you can do nothing for me, " replied Mrs. Jacobs, in a voice asunmoved as her face. "He will never come back. He will be drowned. " Andfrom that day no one ever heard her mention her son. It was believed, however, that she had news from him, and that she sent him money; for, although the rents of her house were paid to her regularly, she grew ifpossible more and more penurious every year, allowing herself barelyenough food to support life, and wearing such tattered and patched clothesthat she was almost an object of terror to children when they met her inlonely fields and woods, bending down to the ground and searching forherbs like an old witch. At one time, also, she went in great haste to alawyer in the village, and with his assistance raised three thousanddollars on a mortgage on her house, mortgaging it very nearly to its fullvalue. In vain he represented to her that, in case the house should chanceto stand empty for a year, she would have no money to pay the interest onher mortgage, and would lose the property. She either could notunderstand, or did not care for what he said. The house always had broughther in about so many dollars a year; she believed it always would; at anyrate, she wanted this money. And so it came to pass that the mortgage onthe old Jacobs house had come into Stephen White's hands, and he was nowliving in one half of it, his own tenant and landlord at once, as he oftenlaughingly said. 

These old rumors and sayings about the Jacobs's family history wererunning in Stephen's head this evening, as he stood listlessly leaning onthe gate, and looking down at the unsightly spot of bare earth still leftwhere the gate had so long stood pressed back against the fence. 

"I wonder how long it'll take to get that old rut smooth and green likethe rest of the yard, " he thought. Stephen White absolutely hatedugliness. It did not merely irritate and depress him, as it does everybodyof fine fastidiousness: he hated not only the sight of it, he hated itwith a sort of unreasoning vindictiveness. If it were a picture, he wantedto burn the picture, cut it, tear it, trample it under foot, get it offthe face of the earth immediately, at any cost or risk. It had no businessto exist: if nobody else would make way with it, he must. He often sawplaces that he would have liked to devastate, to blot out of existence ifhe could, just because they were barren and unsightly. Once, when he was avery little child, he suddenly seized a book of his father's, --an old, shabby, worn dictionary, --and flung it into the fire with uncontrollablepassion; and, on being asked why he did it, had nothing to say injustification of his act, except this extraordinary statement: "It was anugly book; it hurt me. Ugly books ought to go in the fire. " What the childsuffered, and, still more, what the man suffered from this hatred ofugliness, no words could portray. Ever since he could remember, he hadbeen unhappy from the lack of the beautiful in the surroundings of hisdaily life. His father had been poor; his mother had been an invalid; andneither father nor mother had a trace of the artistic temperament. Fromwhat long-forgotten ancestor in his plain, hard-working family had comeStephen's passionate love of beauty, nobody knew. It was the despair ofhis father, the torment of his mother. From childhood to boyhood, fromboyhood to manhood, he had felt himself needlessly hurt and perverselymisunderstood on this one point. But it had not soured him: it had onlysaddened him, and made him reticent. In his own quiet way, he went slowlyon, adding each year some new touch of simple adornment to their home. Every dollar he could spare out of his earnings went into something forthe eye to feast on; and, in spite of the old people's perpetual grumblingand perpetual antagonism, it came about that they grew to be, in a surlyfashion, proud of Stephen's having made their home unlike the homes oftheir neighbors. 

"That's Stephen's last notion. He's never satisfied without he's stickingup suthin' new or different, " they would say, as they called attention tosome new picture or shelf or improvement in the house. "It's alltom-foolery. Things was well enough before. " But in their hearts they weresecretly a little elate, as in latter years they had come to know, bybooks and papers which Stephen forced them to hear or to read, that he wasreally in sympathy with well-known writers in this matter of the adornmentof homes, the love of beautiful things even in every-day life. 

A little more than a year before the time at which our story begins, Stephen's father had died. On an investigation of his affairs, it wasfound that after the settling of the estate very little would remain forStephen and his mother. The mortgage on the old Jacobs house was thegreater part of their property. Very reluctantly Stephen decided thattheir wisest--in fact, their only--course was to move into this house tolive. Many and many a time he had walked past the old house, and thought, as he looked at it, what a bare, staring, hopeless, joyless-looking oldhouse it was. It had originally been a small, square house. The additionwhich Billy Jacobs had made to it was oblong, running out to the south, and projecting on the front a few feet beyond the other part. Thisobtrusive jog was certainly very ugly; and it was impossible to conceiveof any reason for it. Very possibly, it was only a carpenter's blunder;for Billy Jacobs was, no doubt, his own architect, and left all details ofthe work to the builders. Be that as it may, the little, clumsy, meaningless jog ruined the house, --gave it an uncomfortably awry look, like a dining-table awkwardly pieced out for an emergency by another tablea little too narrow. 

The house had been for several years occupied by families of milloperatives, and had gradually acquired that indefinable, but unmistakabletenement-house look, which not even neatness and good repair can whollybanish from a house. The orchard behind the house had so run down for wantof care that it looked more like a tangle of wild trees than like anything which had ever been an orchard. Yet the Roxbury Russets and Baldwinsof that orchard had once been Billy Jacobs's great pride, the one point ofhospitality which his miserliness never conquered. Long after it wouldhave broken his heart to set out a generous dinner for a neighbor, hewould feast him on choice apples, and send him away with a big basket fullin his hands. Now every passing school-boy helped himself to the wan, withered, and scanty fruit; and nobody had thought it worth while to mendthe dilapidated fences which might have helped to shut them out. 

Even Mrs. White, with all her indifference to externals, rebelled at firstat the idea of going to live in the old Jacobs house. 

"I'll never go there, Stephen, " she said petulantly. "I'm not going tolive in half a house with the mill people; and it's no better than a barn, the hideous, old, faded, yellow thing!"

If it crossed Stephen's mind that there was a touch of late retributionin his mother's having come at last to a sense of suffering because shemust live in an unsightly house, he did not betray it. 

He replied very gently. He was never heard to speak other than gently tohis mother, though to every one else his manner was sometimes brusque anddictatorial. 

"But, mother, I think we must. It is the only way that we can be sure ofthe rent. And, if we live ourselves in one half of it, we shall find itmuch easier to get good tenants for the other part. I promise you none ofthe mill people shall ever live there again. Please do not make it hardfor me, mother. We must do it. "

When Stephen said "must, " his mother never gainsaid him. He was onlytwenty-five, but his will was stronger than hers, --as much stronger as histemper was better. Persons judging hastily, by her violent assertions andvehement statements of her determination, as contrasted with Stephen'sgentle, slow, almost hesitating utterance of his opinions or intentions, might have assumed that she would always conquer; but it was not so. Inall little things, Stephen was her slave, because she was a sufferinginvalid and his mother. But, in all important decisions, he was themaster; and she recognized it, and leaned upon it in a way which wasalmost ludicrous in its alternation with her petulance and perpetualdictating to him in trifles. 

And so they went to live in the old Jacobs house. They took the northernhalf of it, the part in which the sea captain and his wife had lived. This half of the house was not so pleasant as the other, had less sun, andhad no door upon the street; but it was smaller and better suited to theirneeds, and moreover, Stephen said to his mother, --

"We must live in the half we should find it hardest to rent to a desirabletenant. "

For the first six months after they moved in, the "wing, " as Mrs. Whitepersisted in calling it, though it was larger by two rooms than the partshe occupied herself, stood empty. There would have been plenty ofapplicants for it, but it had been noised in the town that the Whites hadgiven out that none but people as good as they were themselves would beallowed to rent the house. This made a mighty stir among the milloperatives and the trades-people, and Stephen got many a sour look andshort answer, whose real source he never suspected. 

"Ahem! there he goes with his head in the clouds, damn him!" mutteredBarker the grocer, one day, as Stephen in a more than ordinarilyabsent-minded fit had passed Mr. Barker's door without observing that Mr. Barker stood in it, ready to bow and smile to the whole world. Mr. Barker's sister had just married an overseer in the mill; and they hadbeen very anxious to set up housekeeping in the Jacobs house, but had beenprevented from applying for it by hearing of Mrs. White's determination tohave no mill people under the same roof with herself. 

"Mill people, indeed!" exclaimed Jane Barker, when her lover told her, inno very guarded terms, the reason they could not have the house on whichshe had set her heart. 

"Mill people, indeed! I'd like to know if they're not every whit's good'san old shark of a lawyer like Hugh White was! I'll be bound, if poor oldgranny Jacobs hadn't lost what little wit she ever had, it 'ud be verysoon seen whether Madam White's got the right to say who's to come andwho's to go in that house. It's a nasty old yaller shell anyhow, not tosay nothin' o' it's bein' haunted, 's like 's not. But there ain't noother place so handy to the mill for us, an' I guess our money's good ezany lawyer's money, o' the hull on 'em any day. Mill people, indeed! I'lljest give Steve White a piece o' my mind, the first time I see him on thestreet. "

Jane and her lover were sitting on the tops of two barrels just outsidethe grocery door, when this conversation took place. Just as the lastwords had left her lips, she looked up and saw Stephen approaching at avery rapid pace. The unusual sight of two people perched on barrels on thesidewalk roused Stephen from the deep reverie in which he habituallywalked. Lifting his hat as courteously as if he were addressing the mostdistinguished of women, he bowed, and said smiling, "How do you do, MissJane?" and "Good-morning, Mr. Lovejoy, " and passed on; but not before JaneBarker had had time to say in her gentlest tones, "Very well, thank you, Mr. Stephen, " while an ugly sneer spread over the face of Reuben Lovejoy. 

"Woman all over!" he muttered. "Never saw one on ye yet thet wasn'tcaught by a bow from a palaverin' fool. "

Jane laughed nervously. She herself felt ashamed of having so soon giventhe lie to her own words of bravado; but she was woman enough not to admither mortification. 

"I know he's a palaverin' fool's well's you do; but I reckon I've got somemanners o' my own, 's well's he. When a man bids me a pleasantgood-mornin', I ain't a-goin' to take that time to fly out at him, howevermuch I've got agin him. "

And Reuben was silenced. The under-current of ill-feeling against Stephenand his mother went steadily on increasing. There is a wonderful force inthese slow under-currents of feeling, in small communities, for or againstindividuals. After they have once become a steady tide, nothing can checktheir force or turn their direction. Sometimes they can be traced back totheir spring, as a stream can: one lucky or unlucky word or deed, yearsago, made a friend or an enemy of one person, and that person's influencehas divided itself again and again, as brooks part off and divide intocountless rivulets, and water whole districts. But generally one finds itimpossible to trace the like or dislike to its beginning. A stranger, asking the reason of it, is answered in an off-hand way, --"Oh, everybody'll tell you the same thing. There isn't a soul in the town buthates him;" or, "Well, he's just the most popular man in the town. You'llnever hear a word said against him, --never; not if you were to settleright down here, and live. "

It was months before Stephen realized that there was slowly forming in thetown a dislike to him. He was slow in discovering it, because he hadalways lived alone; had no intimate friends, not even when he was a boy. His love of books and his passionate love of beauty combined with hispoverty to hedge him about more effectually than miles of desert couldhave done. His father and mother had lived upon fairly good terms with alltheir neighbors, but had formed no very close bonds with any. In theordinary New England town, neighborhood never means much: there is adismal lack of cohesion to the relations between people. The community isloosely held together by a few accidental points of contact or commoninterest. The individuality of individuals is, by a strange sort ofparadox, at once respected and ignored. This is indifference rather thanconsideration, selfishness rather than generosity; it is an unsuspectedroot of much of our national failure, is responsible for much of ournational disgrace. Some day there will come a time when it will havecrystallized into a national apathy, which will perhaps cure itself, orhave to be cured, as indurations in the body are, by sharp crises or bysurgical operations. In the mean time, our people are living, on thewhole, the dullest lives that are lived in the world, by the so-calledcivilized; and the climax of this dulness of life is to be found in justsuch a small New England town as Penfield, the one of which we are nowspeaking. 

When it gradually became clear to Stephen that he and his mother wereunpopular people, his first feeling was one of resentment, his second ofcalm acquiescence: acquiescence, first, because he recognized in a measurethe justice of it, --they really did not care for their neighbors; whyshould their neighbors care for them? secondly, a diminished familiarityof intercourse would have to him great compensations. There were fewpeople in the town, whose clothes, whose speech, whose behavior, did notjar upon his nerves. On the whole, he would be better content alone; andif his mother could only have a little more independence of nature, moreresource within herself, "The less we see of them, the better, " saidStephen, proudly. 

He had yet to learn the lesson which, sooner or later, the proudest, mostscornful, most self-centred of human souls must learn, or must die ofloneliness for the want of learning, that humanity is one and indivisible;and the man who shuts himself apart from his fellows, above all, the manwho thus shuts himself apart because he thinks of his fellows with pityingcondescension as his inferiors, is a fool and a blasphemer, --a fool, because he robs himself of that good-fellowship which is the leaven oflife; a blasphemer, because he virtually implies that God made men unfitfor him to associate with. Stephen White had this lesson yet to learn. 

The practical inconvenience of being unpopular, however, he began to feelkeenly, as month after month passed by, and nobody would rent the otherhalf of the house in which he and his mother lived. Small as the rentwas, it was a matter of great moment to them; for his earnings as clerkand copyist were barely enough to give them food. He was still retained byhis father's partner in the same position which he had held during hisfather's life. But old Mr. Williams was not wholly free from the generalprejudice against Stephen, as an aristocratic fellow, given to dreams andfancies; and Stephen knew very well that he held the position only as itwere on a sort of sufferance, because Mr. Williams had loved his father. Moreover, law business in Penfield was growing duller and duller. Ayounger firm in the county town, only twelve miles away, was robbing themof clients continually; and there were many long days during which Stephensat idle at his desk, looking out in a vague, dreamy way on the streetbelow, and wondering if the time were really coming when Mr. Williamswould need a clerk no longer; and, if it did come, what he could possiblyfind to do in that town, by which he could earn money enough to supporthis mother. At such times, he thought uneasily of the possibility offoreclosing the mortgage on the old Jacobs house, selling the house, andreinvesting the money in a more advantageous way. He always tried to putthe thought away from him as a dishonorable one; but it had a fatalpersistency. He could not banish it. 

"Poor, half-witted old woman! she might a great deal better be in thepoor-house. "

"There is no reason why we should lose our interest, for the sake ofkeeping her along. "

"The mortgage was for too large a sum. I doubt if the old house couldsell to-day for enough to clear it, anyhow. " These were some of thesuggestions which the devil kept whispering into Stephen's ear, in theselong hours of perplexity and misgiving. It was a question of casuistrywhich might, perhaps, have puzzled a finer moral sense than Stephen's. Whyshould he treat old Mrs. Jacobs with any more consideration than he wouldshow to a man under the same circumstances? To be sure, she was a helplessold woman; but so was his own mother, and surely his first duty was tomake her as comfortable as possible. 

Luckily for old Mrs. Jacobs, a tenant appeared for the "south wing. " Afriend of Stephen's, a young clergyman living in a seaport town on CapeCod, had written to him, asking about the house, which he knew Stephen wasanxious to rent. He made these inquiries on behalf of two women, parishioners of his, who were obliged to move to some inland town onaccount of the elder woman's failing health. They were mother anddaughter, but both widows. The younger woman's marriage had been atragically sad one, her husband having died suddenly, only a few daysafter their marriage. She had returned at once to her mother's house, widowed at eighteen; "heart-broken, " the young clergyman wrote, "but themost cheerful person in this town, --the most cheerful person I ever knew;her smile is the sunniest and most pathetic thing I ever saw. "

Stephen welcomed most gladly the prospect of such tenants as these. Thenegotiations were soon concluded; and at the time of the beginning of ourstory the two women were daily expected. 

A strange feverishness of desire to have them arrive possessed Stephen'smind. He longed for it, and yet he dreaded it. He liked the stillness ofthe house; he felt a sense of ownership of the whole of it: both of thesesatisfactions were to be interfered with now. But he had a singularconsciousness that some new element was coming into his life. He did notdefine this; he hardly recognized it in its full extent; but if abystander could have looked into his mind, following the course of hisreverie distinctly, as an unbiassed outsider might, he would have said, "Stephen, man, what is this? What are these two women to you, that yourimagination is taking these wild and superfluous leaps into theirhistory?"

There was hardly a possible speculation as to their past history, as totheir looks, as to their future life under his roof, that Stephen did notindulge in, as he stood leaning with his folded arms on the gate, in thegray November twilight, where we first found him. His thoughts, as wasnatural, centred most around the younger woman. 

"Poor thing! That was a mighty hard fate. Only nineteen years oldnow, --six years younger than I am; and how much more she must know of lifethan I do. I suppose she can't be a lady, exactly, --being a sea captain'swife. I wonder if she's pretty? I think Harley might have told me moreabout her. He might know I'd be very curious. 

"I wonder if mother'll take to them? If she does, it will be a greatcomfort to her. She 's so alone. " And Stephen's face clouded, as hereflected how very seldom the monotony of the invalid's life was brokennow by a friendly visit from a neighbor. 

"If they should turn out really social, neighborly people that we liked, we might move away the old side-board from before the hall door, and go inand out that way, as the Jacobses used to. It would be unlucky though, Ireckon, to use that door. I guess I'll plaster it up some day. " Like allpeople of deep sentiment, Stephen had in his nature a vein of somethingwhich bordered on superstition. 

The twilight deepened into darkness, and a cold mist began to fall inslow, drizzling drops. Still Stephen stood, absorbed in his reverie, andunmindful of the chill. 

The hall door opened, and an old woman peered out. She held a lamp in onehand; the blast of cold air made the flame flicker and flare, and, as sheput up one hand to shade it, the light was thrown sharply across herfeatures, making them stand out like the distorted features of a hideousmask. 

"Steve! Steve!" she called, in a shrill voice. "Supper's been waitin' more'n half an hour. Lor's sake, what's the boy thinkin' on now, I wonder?"she muttered in an impatient lower tone, as Stephen turned his headslowly. 

"Yes, yes, Marty. Tell my mother I will be there in a moment, " repliedStephen, as he walked slowly toward the house; even then noting, with thekeen and relentless glance of a beauty-worshipper, how grotesquely uglythe old woman's wrinkled face became, lighted up by the intensecross-light. Old Marty's face had never looked other than lovingly intoStephen's since he first lay in her arms, twenty-five years ago, when shecame, a smooth-cheeked, rosy country-woman of twenty-five, to nurse hismother at the time of his birth. She had never left the home since. With afaithfulness and devotion only to be accounted for by the existence ofrare springs of each in her own nature, surely not by any uncommonlovableness in either Mr. Or Mrs. White, or by any especial comforts inher situation, she had stayed on a quarter of a century, in the hardposition of woman of all work in a poor family. She worshipped Stephen, and, as I said, her face had never once looked other than lovingly intohis; but he could not remember the time when he had not thought herhideous. She had a big brown mole on her chin, out of which grew a fewbristling hairs. It was an unsightly thing, no doubt, on a woman's chin;and sometimes, when Marty was very angry, the hairs did actually seem tobristle, as a cat's whiskers do. When Stephen could not speak plain, heused to point his little dimpled finger at this mole and say, "Do doeaway, --doe away;" and to this day it was a torment to him. His eyes seemedmorbidly drawn toward it at times. . When he was ill, and poor Marty bentover his bed, ministering to him as no one but a loving old nurse can, hesaw only the mole, and had to make an effort not to shrink from her. To-night, as she lingered on the threshold, affectionately waiting tolight his path, he was thinking only of her ugliness. But when sheexclaimed, with the privileged irritability of an old servant, --

"Jest look at your feet, Steve! they're wet through, an' your coat too, astandin' out in that drizzle. Anybody 'ud think you hadn't common sense, "he replied with perfect good nature, and as heartily loving a tone as ifhe had been feasting on her beauty, instead of writhing inwardly at herugliness, --

"All right, Marty, --all right. I'm not so wet as I look. I'll change mycoat, and come in to supper in one minute. Don't you fidget about me so, good Marty. " Never was Stephen heard to speak discourteously or evenungently to a human being. It would have offended his taste. It was not amatter of principle with him, --not at all: he hardly ever thought ofthings in that light. A rude or harsh word, a loud, angry tone, jarred onhis every sense like a discord in music, or an inharmonious color; so henever used them. But as he ran upstairs, three steps at a time, after hiskind, off-hand words to Marty, he said to himself, "Good heavens! I dobelieve Marty gets uglier every day. What a picture Rembrandt would havemade of her old face peering out into the darkness there to-night! Shewould have done for the witch of Endor, watching to see if Samuel werecoming up. " And as he went down more slowly, revolving in his mind whatplausible excuse he could give to his mother for his tardiness, hethought, "Well, I do hope she'll be at least tolerably good-looking. "

Already the younger of the two women who were coming to live under hisroof was "she, " in his thoughts. 

Chapter II. 

In the mean time, the young widow, Mercy Philbrick, and her old and almostchildish mother, Mercy Carr, were coming by slow and tiring stage journeysup the dreary length of Cape Cod. For thirty years the elder woman hadnever gone out of sight of the village graveyard in which her husband andfour children were buried. To transplant her was like transplanting an oldweather-beaten tree, already dead at the top. Yet the physicians had saidthat the only chance of prolonging her life was to take her away from thefierce winds of the sea. She herself, while she loved them, shrank fromthem. They seemed to pierce her lungs like arrows of ice-cold steel, atonce wounding and benumbing. Yet the habit and love of the seashore lifewere so strong upon her that she would never have been able to tearherself away from her old home, had it not been for her daughter'sdetermined will. Mercy Philbrick was a woman of slight frame, gentle, laughing, brown eyes, a pale skin, pale ash-brown hair, a small nose; asweet and changeful mouth, the upper lip too short, the lower lip much toofull; little hands, little feet, little wrists. Not one indication ofgreat physical or great mental strength could you point out in MercyPhilbrick; but she was rarely ill; and she had never been known to giveup a point, small or great, on which her will had been fully set. Even thecheerfulness of which her minister, Harley Allen, had written to Stephen, was very largely a matter of will with Mercy. She confronted grief as shewould confront an antagonist force of any sort: it was something to bebattled with, to be conquered. Fate should not worst her: come what might, she would be the stronger of the two. When the doctor said to her, --

"Mrs. Philbrick, I fear that your mother cannot live through anotherwinter in this climate, " Mercy looked at him for a moment with anexpression of terror. In an instant more, the expression had given placeto one of resolute and searching inquiry. 

"You think, then, that she might be well in a different climate?"

"Perhaps not well, but she might live for years in a dryer, milder air. There is as yet no actual disease in her lungs, " the doctor replied. 

Mercy interrupted him. 

"You think she might live in comparative comfort? It would not be merelyprolonging her life as a suffering invalid?" she said; adding in anundertone, as if to herself, "I would not subject her to that. "

"Oh, yes, undoubtedly, " said the doctor. "She need never die ofconsumption at all, if she could breathe only inland air. She will neverbe strong again, but she may live years without any especial liability tosuffering. "

"Then I will take her away immediately, " replied Mercy, in as confidentand simple a manner as if she had been proposing only to move her from oneroom into another. It would not seem so easy a matter for two lonelywomen, in a little Cape Cod village, without a male relative to help them, and with only a few thousand dollars in the world, to sell their house, break up all their life-long associations, and go out into the world tofind a new home. Associations crystallize around people in lonely and outof the way spots, where the days are all alike, and years follow years inan undeviating monotony. Perhaps the process might be more aptly calledone of petrifaction. There are pieces of exquisite agate which were oncesoft wood. Ages ago, the bit of wood fell into a stream, where the waterwas largely impregnated with some chemical matter which had the power toeat out the fibre of the wood, and in each spot thus left empty to deposititself in an exact image of the wood it had eaten away. Molecule bymolecule, in a mystery too small for human eye to detect, even had awatchful human eye been lying in wait to observe, the marvellous processwent on; until, after the lapse of nobody knows how many centuries, thewood was gone, and in its place lay its exact image in stone, --rings ofgrowth, individual peculiarities of structure, knots, broken slivers andchips; color, shape, all perfect. Men call it agatized wood, by a feebleeffort to translate the mystery of its existence; but it is not wood, except to the eye. To the touch, and in fact, it is stone, --hard, cold, unalterable, eternal stone. The slow wear of monotonous life in a setgroove does very much such a thing as this to human beings. To the eyethey retain the semblance of other beings; but try them by touch, that isby contact with people, with events outside their groove, and they arestone, --agatized men and women. Carry them where you please, after theyhave reached middle or old age, and they will not change. There is nomagic water, a drop of which will restore to them the vitality andpliability of their youth. They last well, such people, --as well, almost, as agatized wood on museum shelves; and the most you can do for them is tokeep them well dusted. 

Old Mrs. Carr belonged, in a degree, to this order of persons. Only thecoming of Mercy's young life into the feeble current of her own had savedit from entire stagnation. But she was already past middle age when Mercywas born; and the child with her wonderful joyousness, and the maiden withher wondrous cheer, came too late to undo what the years had done. Themost they could do was to interrupt the process, to stay it at that point. The consequence was that Mrs. Carr at sixty-five was a placid sort ofmiddle-aged old lady, very pleasant to talk with as you would talk with achild, very easy to take care of as you would take care of a child, but, for all purposes of practical management or efficient force, as helplessas a baby. 

When Mercy told her what the doctor had said of her health, and that theymust sell the house and move away before the winter set in, she literallyopened her mouth too wide to speak for a minute, and then gasped out likea frightened child, --

"O Mercy, don't let's do it!"

As Mercy went on explaining to her the necessity of the change, and thearrangements she proposed to make, the poor old woman's face grew longerand longer; but, some time before Mercy had come to the end of herexplanation, the childish soul had accepted the whole thing as fixed, hadbegun already to project itself in childish imaginations of detail; and toMercy's infinite relief and half-sad amusement, when she ceased speaking, her mother's first words were, eagerly, --

"Well, Mercy, if we go 'n the stage, 'n' I s'pose we shall hev to, don'tye think my old brown merino'll do to wear?"

Fortune favored Mercy's desire to sell the house. Stephen's friend, theyoung minister, had said to himself many times, as he walked up to itsdoor between the quaint, trim beds of old-fashioned pinks and ladies'delights and sweet-williams which bordered the little path, "This is theonly house in this town I want to live in. " As soon as he heard that itwas for sale, he put on his hat, and fairly ran to buy it. Out of breath, he took Mercy's hands in his, and exclaimed, --

"O Mercy, do you really want to sell this house?"

Very unworldly were this young man and this young woman, in the matter ofsale and purchase. Adepts in traffic would have laughed, had theyoverheard the conversation. 

"Yes, indeed, Mr. Allen, I do. I must sell it; and I am afraid I shallhave to sell it for a great deal less than it is worth, " replied Mercy. 

"No, you sha'n't, Mercy! I'll buy it myself. I've always wanted it. Butwhy in the world do you want to sell it? Where will you live yourself?There isn't another house in the village you'd like half so well. Is ittoo large for you?" continued Mr. Allen, hurriedly. Then Mercy told himall her plans, and the sad necessity for her making the change. The youngminister did not speak for some moments. He seemed lost in thought. Thenhe exclaimed, --

"I do believe it's a kind of Providence!" and drew a letter from hispocket, which he had only two days before received from Stephen White. "Mercy, " he went on, "I believe I've got the very thing you want righthere;" and he read her the concluding paragraph of the letter, in whichStephen had said: "Meantime, I am waiting as patiently as I can for atenant for the other half of this house. It seems to be very hard to findjust the right sort of person. I cannot take in any of the milloperatives. They are noisy and untidy; and the bare thought of their beingjust the other side of the partition would drive my mother frantic. I wishso much I could get some people in that would be real friends for her. Sheis very lonely. She never leaves her bed; and I have to be away all day. "

Mercy's face lighted up. She liked the sound of each word that thisunknown man wrote. Very eagerly she questioned Mr. Allen about the town, its situation, its healthfulness, and so forth. As he gave her detailafter detail, she nodded her head with increasing emphasis, and finallyexclaimed: "That is precisely such a spot as Dr. Wheeler said we ought togo to. I think you're right, Mr. Allen. It's a Providence. And I'd be soglad to be good to that poor old woman, too. What a companion she'd be formother! that is, if I could keep them from comparing notes for ever abouttheir diseases. That's the worst of putting invalid old women together, "laughed Mercy with a kindly, merry little laugh. 

Mr. Allen had visited Penfield only once. When he and Stephen were boys atschool together, he had passed one of the short vacations at Stephen'shouse. He remembered very little of Stephen's father and mother, or oftheir way of life. He was at the age when house and home mean little toboys, except a spot where shelter and food are obtained in the enforcedintervals between their hours of out-door life. But he had never forgottenthe grand out-look and off-look from the town. Lying itself high up on thewestern slope of what must once have been a great river terrace, itcommanded a view of a wide and fertile meadow country, near enough to be amost beautiful feature in the landscape, but far enough away to preventany danger from its moisture. To the south and south-west rose a finerange of mountains, bold and sharp-cut, though they were not very high, and were heavily wooded to their summits. The westernmost peak of thisrange was separated from the rest by a wide river, which had cut its waythrough in some of those forgotten ages when, if we are to believe thegeologists, every thing was topsy-turvy on this now meek andwell-regulated planet. 

The town, although, as I said, it lay on the western slope of a greatriver terrace, held in its site three distinctly marked plateaus. From thetwo highest of these, the views were grand. It was like living on amountain, and yet there was the rich beauty of coloring of the riverinterval. Nowhere in all New England was there a fairer country than thisto look upon, nor a goodlier one in which to live. 

Mr. Allen's enthusiasm in describing the beauties of the place, andMercy's enthusiasm in listening, were fast driving out of their minds thethought of the sale, which had been mentioned in the beginning of theirconversation. Mercy was the first to recall it. She blushed and hesitated, as she said, --

"But, Mr. Allen, we can't go, you know, until I have sold this house. Didyou really want to buy it? And how much do you think I ought to ask forit?"

"To be sure, to be sure!" exclaimed the young minister. "Dear me, whatchildren we are! Mercy, I don't honestly know what you ought to ask forthe house. I'll find out. "

"Deacon Jones said he thought, taking in the cranberry meadow, it wasworth three thousand dollars, " said Mercy; "but that seems a great deal tome: though not in a good cranberry year, perhaps, " added she, ingenuously, "for last year the cranberries brought us in seventy-five dollars, besidespaying for the picking. "

"And the meadow ought to go with the house, by all means, " said Mr. Allen. "I want it for color in the background, when I look at the house as Icome down from the meeting-house hill. I wouldn't like to have anybodyelse own the canvas on which the picture of my home will be oftenestpainted for my eyes. I'll give you three thousand dollars for the house, Mercy. I can only pay two thousand down, and pay you interest on the otherthousand for a year or two. I'll soon clear it off. Will that do?"

"Oh, thank you, thank you, Mr. Allen. It will more than do, " said poorMercy, who could not believe in such sudden good fortune; "but do youthink you ought to buy it so quick? Perhaps it wouldn't bring so muchmoney as that. I had not asked anybody except Deacon Jones. "

Mr. Allen laughed. "If you don't look out for yourself sharper than this, Mercy, " he said, "in the new place 'where you're going to live, you'llfare badly. Perhaps it may be true, as you say, that nobody else wouldgive you three thousand dollars for the house, because nobody might happento want to live in it. But Deacon Jones knows better than anybody else thevalue of property here, and I am perfectly willing to give you the pricehe set on the place. I had laid by this two thousand dollars towards myhouse; and I could not build such a house as this, to-day, for threethousand dollars. But really, Mercy, you must look 'out for yourselfbetter than this. "

"I don't know, " replied Mercy, looking out of the window, with an earnestgaze, as if she were reading a writing a great way off, --"I don't knowabout that. I doubt very much if looking out for one's self, as you callit, is the best way to provide for one's self. "

That very night Mr. Allen wrote to Stephen; in two weeks, the whole matterwas settled, and Mercy and her mother had set out on their journey. Theycarried with them but one small valise. The rest of their simple wardrobehad gone in boxes, with the furniture, by sailing vessel, to a city whichwas within three hours by rail of their new home. This was the feature ofthe situation which poor Mrs. Carr could not accept. In the bottom of herheart, she fully believed that they would never again see one of thoseboxes. The contents of some which she had herself packed were of a mostmotley description. In the beginning of the breaking up, while Mercy wasat her wits' end, with the unwonted perplexities of packing the wholebelongings of a house, her mother had tormented her incessantly bybringing to her every few minutes some utterly incongruous and frequentlyworthless article, and begging her to put it in at once, whatever shemight be packing. Any one who has ever packed for a long journey, with aneager and excited child running up every minute with more and morecumbrous toys, dogs, cats, Noah's arks, and so on, to be put in amongbooks and under-clothing, can imagine Mercy's despair at her mother'srestless activity. 

"Oh, mother, not in this box! Not in with the china!" would groan poorMercy, as her mother appeared with armfuls of ancient relics from thegarret, such as old umbrellas, bonnets, bundles of old newspapers, brokenspinning-wheels, andirons, and rolls of remains of old wall-paper, thelast of which had disappeared from the walls of the house, long beforeMercy was born. No old magpie was ever a more indiscriminate hoarder thanMrs. Carr had been; and, among all her hoardings, there was none moreamusing than her hoarding of old wall-papers. A scrap a foot square seemedto her too precious to throw away. "It might be jest the right size tocover suthin' with, " she would say; and, to do her justice, she did use inthe course of a year a most unexampled amount of such fragments. She had amania for papering and repapering and papering again every shelf, everybox, every corner she could get hold of. The paste and brush were liketoys to her; and she delighted in gay combinations, sticking on old bitsof borders in fantastic ways, in most inappropriate situations. 

"I do believe you'll paper the pigsty next, mother, " said Mercy one day:"there's nothing left you can paper except that. " Mrs. Carr took thesuggestion in perfect good faith, and convulsed Mercy a few days later byentering the kitchen with the following extraordinary remark, --

"I don't believe it's worth while to paper the pigsty. I've been lookingat it, and the boards they're so rough, the paper wouldn't lay smooth, anyhow; and I couldn't well get at the inside o' the roof, while the pig'sin. It would look real neat, though. I'd like to do it. "

Mercy endured her mother's help in packing for one day. Then thedesperateness of the trouble suggested a remedy. Selecting a large, strongbox, she had it carried into the garret. 

"There, mother, " she said, "now you can pack in this box all the oldlumber of all sorts which you want to carry. And, if this box isn't largeenough, you shall have two more. Don't tire yourself out: there's plentyof time; and, if you don't get it all packed by the time I am done, I canhelp you. "

Then Mercy went downstairs feeling half-guilty, as one does when one haspractised a subterfuge on a child. 

How many times that poor old woman packed and unpacked that box, nobodycould dream. All day long she trotted up and down, up and down; ransackingclosets, chests, barrels; sorting and resorting, and forgetting as fast asshe sorted. Now and then she would come across something which would rousean electric chain of memories in the dim chambers of her old, worn-outbrain, and she would sit motionless for a long time on the garret floor, in a sort of trance. Once Mercy found her leaning back against a beam, with her knees covered by a piece of faded blue Canton crape, on which hereyes were fastened. She did not speak till Mercy touched her shoulder. 

"Oh, my! how you scared me, child!" she exclaimed. "D'ye see this ere bluestuff? I hed a gown o' thet once: it was drefful kind o' clingy stuff. Inever felt exzackly decent in it, somehow: it hung a good deal like anight-gownd; but your father he bought it for the color. He traded offsome shells for it in some o' them furrin places. You wouldn't think itnow, but it used to be jest the color o' a robin's egg or a light-blue'bachelor's button;' and your father he used to stick one o' them in mybelt whenever they was in blossom, when I hed the gownd on. He hed a heapo' notions about things matchin'. He brought me that gownd the v'yage hemade jest afore Caleb was born; and I never hed a chance to wear it much, the children come so fast. It warn't re'ly worn at all, 'n' I hed it dyedblack for veils arterwards. "

It was from this father who used to "stick" pale-blue flowers in hiswife's belt, and whose love of delicate fabrics and tints made himcourageous enough to lead her draped in Canton crape into the unpaintedCape Cod meeting-house, where her fellow-women bristled in homespun, thatMercy inherited all the artistic side of her nature. She knew thisinstinctively, and all her tenderest sentiment centred around the vaguememory she retained of a tall, dark-bearded man, who, when she was onlythree years old, lifted her in his arms, called her his "little Mercy, "and kissed her over and over again. She was most loyally affectionate toher mother, but the sentiment was not a wholly filial one. There was toomuch reversal of the natural order of the protector and the protected init; and her life was on too different a plane of thought, feeling, andinterest from the life of the uncultured, undeveloped, childish, oldwoman. Yet no one who saw them together would have detected any trace ofthis shortcoming in Mercy's feeling towards her mother. She had in hernature a fine and lofty fibre of loyalty which could never condescend evento parley with a thought derogatory to its object; was lifted above allconsciousness of the possibility of any other course. This is a sort oforganic integrity of affection, which is to those who receive it a towerof strength, that is impregnable to all assault except that of deathitself. It is a rare type of love, the best the world knows; but the menand the women whose hearts are capable of it are often thought not to beof a loving nature. The cheaper and less lasting types of love are so muchlouder of voice and readier of phrase, as in cloths cheap fabrics, poor towear, are often found printed in gay colors and big patterns. 

The day before they left home, Mercy, becoming alarmed by a longerinterval than usual without any sound from the garret, where her motherwas still at work over her fantastic collections of old odds and ends, ranup to see what it meant. 

Mrs. Carr was on her knees before a barrel, which had held rags andpapers. The rags and papers were spread around her on the floor. She hadleaned her head on the barrel, and was crying bitterly. 

"Mother! mother! what is the matter?" exclaimed Mercy, really alarmed; forshe had very few times in her life seen her mother cry. Without speaking, Mrs. Carr held up a little piece of carved ivory. It was of a creamyyellow, and shone like satin: a long shred of frayed pink ribbon hung fromit. As she held it up to Mercy, a sunbeam flashed in at the garret window, and fell across it, sending long glints of light to right and left. 

"What a lovely bit of carving! What is it, mother? Why does it make youcry?" asked Mercy, stretching out her hand to take the ivory. 

"It's Caley's whistle, " sobbed Mrs. Carr. "We allus thought PatienceSwift must ha' took it. She nussed me a spell when he was a little feller, an' jest arter she went away we missed the whistle. Your father he broughtthat hum the same v'yage I told ye he brought the blue crape. He knowed Iwas a expectin' to be sick, and he was drefful afraid he wouldn't get humin time; but he did. He jest come a sailin' into th' harbor, with everymite o' sail the old brig 'd carry, two days afore Caley was born. An' thenext mornin', --oh, dear me! it don't seem no longer ago 'nyesterday, --while he was a dressin', an' I lay lookin' at him, he tossedthat little thing over to me on the bed, 'n' sez he, --"

"T 'll be a boy, Mercy, I know 'twill; an' here's his bos'u'n's whistleall ready for him, ' an' that night he bought that very yard o' pinkrebbin, and tied it on himself, and laid it in the upper drawer into oneo' the little pink socks I'd got all ready. Oh, it don't seem any longerago 'n yesterday! An' sure enough it was a boy; an' your father he allusused to call him 'Bos'u'n, ' and he'd stick this ere whistle into his mouthan' try to make him blow it afore he was a month old. But by the time hewas nine months old he'd blow it ez loud ez I could. And his father he'djust lay back 'n his chair, and laugh 'n' laugh, 'n' call out, 'Blow away, my hearty!' Oh, my! it don't seem any longer ago'n yesterday. I wish I'dha' known. I wa'n't never friends with Patience any more arter that. Inever misgave me but what she'd got the whistle. It was such a curiouscut thing, and cost a heap o' money. Your father wouldn't never tell whathe gin for 't. Oh, my! it don't seem any longer ago 'n yesterday, " and theold woman wiped her eyes on her apron, and struggling up on her feet tookthe whistle again from Mercy's hands. 

"How old would my brother Caley be now, if he had lived, mother?" saidMercy, anxious to bring her mother gently back to the present. 

"Well, let me see, child. Why, Caley--Caley, he'd be--How old am I, Mercy?Dear me! hain't I lost my memory, sure enough, except about these ere oldthings? They seem's clear's daylight. "

"Sixty-five last July, mother, " said Mercy. "Don't you know I gave youyour new specs then?"

"Oh, yes, child, --yes. Well, I'm sixty-five, be I? Then Caley, --Caley, he'd be, let me see--you reckon it, Mercy. I wuz goin' on nineteen whenCaley was born. "

"Why, mother, " exclaimed Mercy, "is it really so long ago? Then my brotherCaleb would be forty-six years old now!" and mercy took again in her handthe yellow ivory whistle, and ran her fingers over the faded and frayedpink ribbon, and looked at it with an indefinable sense of its being astrange link between her and a distant past, which, though she had nevershared it, belonged to her by right. Hardly thinking what she did, sheraised the whistle to her lips, and blew a loud, shrill whistle on it. Hermother started. "O Mercy, don't, don't!" she cried. "I can't bear to hearit. "

"Now, mother, don't you be foolish, " said Mercy, cheerily. "A whistle's awhistle, old or young, and made to be whistled with. We'll keep this toamuse children with: you carry it in your pocket. Perhaps we shall meetsome children on the journey; and it'll be so nice for you to pop this outof your pocket, and give it to them to blow. "

"So it will, Mercy, I declare. That 'ud be real nice. You're amaster-piece for thinkin' o' things. " And, easily diverted as a child, theold woman dropped the whistle into her deep pocket, and, forgetting allher tears, returned to her packing. 

Not so Mercy. Having attained her end of cheering her mother, her ownthoughts reverted again and again all day long, and many times in afteryears, whenever she saw the ivory whistle, to the strange picture of thelonely old woman in the garret coming upon her first-born child's firsttoy, lost for forty years; the picture, too, of the history of the quaintpiece of carving itself; the day it was slowly cut and chiselled by apatient and ill-paid toiler in some city of China; its voyage in thekeeping of the ardent young husband hastening home to welcome his firstchild; its forty years of silence and darkness in the old garret; and thenits return to life and light and sound, in the hands and lips of newgenerations of children. 

The journey which Mercy had so much dreaded was unexpectedly pleasant. Mrs. Carr proved an admirable traveller with the exception of herincessant and garrulous anxiety about the boxes which had been left behindon the deck of the schooner "Maria Jane, " and could not by anypossibility overtake them for three weeks to come. She was, in fact, somuch of a child that she was in a state of eager delight at every newscene and person. Her childishness proved the best of claims upon everyone's courtesy. Everybody was ready to help "that poor sweet old woman;"and she was so simply and touchingly grateful for the smallest kindnessthat everybody who had helped her once wanted to help her again. More thanone of their fellow-travellers remembered for a long time the bright-facedyoung woman with her childish mother, and wondered where they could havebeen going, and what was to be their life. 

On the fourth day, just as the sun was sinking behind the hills, theyentered the beautiful river interval, through which the road to their newhome lay. Mercy sat with her face almost pressed against the panes of thecar-windows, eagerly scanning every feature of the landscape, to her sonew and wonderful. To the dweller by the sea, the first sight of mountainsis like the sight of a new heavens and a new earth. It is a revelation ofa new life. Mercy felt strangely stirred and overawed. She looked aroundin astonishment at her fellow-passengers, not one of whom apparentlyobserved that on either hand were stretching away to the east and the westfields that were, even in this late autumn, like carpets of gold andgreen. Through these fertile meadows ran a majestic river, curving anddoubling as if loath to leave such fair shores. The wooded mountainschanged fast from green to purple, from purple to dark gray; and almostbefore Mercy had comprehended the beauty of the region, it was lost fromher sight, veiled in the twilight's pale, indistinguishable tints. Hermother was fast asleep in her seat. The train stopped every few moments atsome insignificant station, of which Mercy could see nothing but a narrowplatform, a dim lantern, and a sleepy-looking station-master. Slowly, oneor two at a time, the passengers disappeared, until she and her motherwere left alone in the car. The conductor and the brakeman, as they passedthrough, looked at them with renewed interest: it was evident now thatthey were going through to the terminus of the road. 

"Goin' through, be ye?" said the conductor. "It'll be dark when we get in;an' it's beginnin' to rain. 'S anybody comin' to meet ye?"

"No, " said Mercy, uneasily. "Will there not be carriages at the depot? Weare going to the hotel. I believe there is but one. "

"Well, there may be a kerridge down to-night, an' there may not: there'sno knowin'. Ef it don't rain too hard, I reckon Seth'll be down. "

Mercy's sense of humor never failed her. She laughed heartily, as shesaid, --

"Then Seth stays away, does he, on the nights when he would be sure ofpassengers?"

The conductor laughed too, as he replied, ---

"Well, 'tisn't quite so bad's that. Ye see this here road's only a pieceof a road. It's goin' up through to connect with the northern roads; butthey 've come to a stand-still for want o' funds, an' more 'n half thetime I don't carry nobody over this last ten miles. Most o' the peoplefrom our town go the other way, on the river road. It's shorter, an' somecheaper. There isn't much travellin' done by our folks, anyhow. We're amighty dead an' alive set up here. Goin' to stay a spell?" he continued, with increasing interest, as he looked longer into Mercy's face. 

"Probably, " said Mercy, in a grave tone, suddenly recollecting that sheought not to talk with this man as if he were one of her own villagepeople. The conductor, sensitive as are most New England people, spite oftheir apparent familiarity of address, to the least rebuff, felt thechange in Mercy's tone, and walked away, thinking half surlily, "Sheneedn't put on airs. A schoolma'am, I reckon. Wonder if it can be herthat's going to teach the Academy?"

When they reached the station, it was, as the conductor had said, verydark; and it was raining hard. For the first time, a sense of herunprotected loneliness fell upon Mercy's heart. Her mother, buthalf-awake, clung nervously to her, asking purposeless and incoherentquestions. The conductor, still surly from his fancied rebuff at Mercy'shands, walked away, and took no notice of them. The station-master wasnowhere to be seen. The two women stood huddling together under oneumbrella, gazing blankly about them. 

"Is this Mrs. Philbrick?" came in clear, firm tones, out of the darknessbehind them; and, in a second more, Mercy had turned and looked up intoStephen White's face. 

"Oh, how good you were to come and meet us!" exclaimed Mercy. "You are Mr. Allen's friend, I suppose. "

"Yes, " said Stephen, curtly. "But I did not come to meet you. You must notthank me. I had business here. However, I made the one carriage which thetown boasts, wait, in case you should be here. Here it is!" And, beforeMercy had time to analyze or even to realize the vague sense ofdisappointment she felt at his words, she found herself and her motherplaced in the carriage, and the door shut. 

"Your trunks cannot go up until morning, " he said, speaking through thecarriage window; "but, if you will give me your checks, I will see thatthey are sent. "

"We have only one small valise, " said Mercy: "that was under our seat. Thebrakeman said he would take it out for us; but he forgot it, and so didI. "

The train was already backing out of the station. Stephen smothered somevery unchivalrous words on his lips, as he ran out into the rain, overtookthe train, and swung himself on the last car, in search of the "one smallvalise" belonging to his tenants. It was a very shabby valise: it had mademany a voyage with its first owner, Captain Carr. It was a very littlevalise: it could not have held one gown of any of the modern fashions. 

"Dear me, " thought Stephen, as he put it into the carriage at Mercy'sfeet, "what sort of women are these I've taken under my roof! I expectthey'll be very unpleasing sights to my eyes. I did hope she'd begood-looking. " How many times in after years did Stephen recall withlaughter his first impressions of Mercy Philbrick, and wonder how he couldhave argued so unhesitatingly that a woman who travelled with only onesmall valise could not be good-looking. 

"Will you come to the house to-morrow?" he asked. 

"Oh, no, " replied Mercy, "not for three or four weeks yet. Our furniturewill not be here under that time. "

"Ah!" said Stephen, "I had not thought of that. I will call on you at thehotel, then, in a day or two. "

His adieus were civil, but only civil: that most depressing of all thingsto a sensitive nature, a kindly indifference, was manifest in every wordhe said, and in every tone of his voice. 

Mercy felt it to the quick; but she was ashamed of herself for thefeeling. "What business had I to expect that he was going to be ourfriend?" she said in her heart. "We are only tenants to him. "

"What a kind-spoken young man he is, to be sure, Mercy!" said Mrs. Carr. 

So all-sufficient is bare kindliness of tone and speech to the unsensitivenature. 

"Yes, mother, he was very kind, " said Mercy; "but I don't think we shallever know him very well. "

"Why, Mercy, why not?" exclaimed her mother. "I should say he was mostuncommon friendly for a stranger, running back after our valise in therain, and a goin' to call on you to oncet. "

Mercy made no reply. The carriage rolled along over the rough and muddyroad. It was too dark to see any thing except the shadowy black shapes ofhouses, outlined on a still deeper blackness by the light streaming fromtheir windows. There is no sight in the world so hard for lonely, homelesspeople to see, as the sight of the lighted windows of houses afternightfall. Why houses should look so much more homelike, so much moresuggestive of shelter and cheer and companionship and love, when thecurtains are snug-drawn and the doors shut, and nobody can look in, thoughthe lights of fires and lamps shine out, than they do in broad daylight, with open windows and people coming and going through open doors, and ageneral air of comradeship and busy living, it is hard to see. But thereis not a lonely vagabond in the world who does not know that they do. Onemay see on a dark night many a wistful face of lonely man or lonely woman, hurrying resolutely past, and looking away from, the illumined houseswhich mean nothing to them except the keen reminder of what they arewithout. Oh, the homeless people there are in this world! Did anybody everthink to count up the thousands there are in every great city, who live inlodgings and not in homes; from the luxurious lodger who lodges in thecostliest rooms of the costliest hotel, down to the most poverty-strickenlodger who lodges in a corner of the poorest tenement-house? Homeless allof them; their common vagabondage is only a matter of degrees of decency. All honor to the bravery of those who are homeless because they must be, and who make the best of it. But only scorn and pity for those who arehomeless because they choose to be, and are foolish enough to like it. 

Mercy had never before felt the sensation of being a homeless wanderer. She was utterly unprepared for it. All through the breaking up of theirhome and the preparations for their journey, she had been buoyed up byexcitement and anticipation. Much as she had grieved to part from some ofthe friends of her early life, and to leave the old home in which she wasborn, there was still a certain sense of elation in the prospect of newscenes and new people. She had felt, without realizing it, a mostunreasonable confidence that it was to be at once a change from one hometo another home. In her native town, she had had a position of importance. Their house was the best house in the town; judged by the simple standardsof a Cape Cod village, they were well-to-do. Everybody knew, and everybodyspoke with respect and consideration, of "Old Mis' Carr, " or, as she wasperhaps more often called, "Widder Carr. " Mercy had not thought--in herutter inexperience of change, it could not have occurred to her--what avery different thing it was to be simply unknown and poor people in astrange place. The sense of all this smote upon her suddenly and keenly, as they jolted along in the noisy old carriage on this dark, rainy night. Stephen White's indifferent though kindly manner first brought to her thethought, or rather the feeling, of this. Each new glimmer of thehome-lights deepened her sense of desolation. Every gust of rain that beaton the carriage roof and windows made her feel more and more like anoutcast. She never forgot these moments. She used to say that in them shehad lived the whole life of the loneliest outcast that was ever born. Longyears afterward, she wrote a poem, called "The Outcast, " which was sointense in its feeling one could have easily believed that it was writtenby Ishmael. When she was asked once how and when she wrote this poem, shereplied, "I did not write it: I lived it one night in entering a strangetown. " In vain she struggled against the strange and unexpected emotion. Anervous terror of arriving at the hotel oppressed her more and more;although, thanks to Harley Allen's thoughtfulness, she knew that theirrooms were already engaged for them. She felt as if she would rather driveon and on, in all the darkness and rain, no matter where, all night long, rather than enter the door of the strange and public house, in which shemust give her name and her mother's name on the threshold. 

When the carriage stopped, she moved so slowly to alight that her motherexclaimed petulantly, --

"Dear me, child, what's the matter with you? Ain't you goin' to git out?Ain't this the tavern?"

"Yes, mother, this is our place, " said Mercy, in a low voice, unlike herusual cheery, ringing tones, as she assisted her mother down the clumsysteps from the old-fashioned, high vehicle. "They're expecting us: it isall right. " But her voice and face belied her words. She moved allthrough the rest of the evening like one in a dream. She said little, butbusied herself in making her mother as comfortable as it was possible tobe in the dingy and unattractive little rooms; and, as soon as the tiredold woman had fallen asleep, Mercy sat down on the floor by the window, and leaning her head on the sill cried hard. 

Chapter III. 

The next morning the sun shone, and Mercy was herself again. Herdepression of the evening before seemed to her so causeless, soinexplicable, that she recalled it almost with terror, as one might atemporary insanity. She blushed to think of her unreasonable sensitivenessto the words and tones of Stephen White. "As if it made any sort ofdifference to mother and to me whether he were our friend or not. He cando as he likes. I hope I'll be out when he calls, " thought Mercy, as shestood on the hotel piazza, after breakfast, scanning with a keen and eagerglance every feature of the scene. To her eyes, accustomed to the broad, open, leisurely streets of the Cape Cod hamlet, its isolated little houseswith their trim flower-beds in front and their punctiliously kept fencesand gates, this somewhat untidy and huddled town looked unattractive. Thehotel stood on the top of one of the plateaus of which I spoke in the lastchapter. The ground fell away slowly to the east and to the south. Apoorly kept, oblong-shaped "common, " some few acres in extent, lay just infront of the hotel: it had once been fenced in; but the fences were sadlyout of repair, and two cows were grazing there this morning, ascomposedly as if there were no town ordinance forbidding all running ofcattle in the streets. A few shabby old farm-wagons stood here and thereby these fences; the sleepy horses which had drawn them thither havingbeen taken out of the shafts, and tethered in some mysterious way to thehinder part of the wagons. A court was in session; and these were thewagons of lawyers and clients, alike humble in their style of equipage. Onthe left-hand side of the hotel, down the eastern slope of the hill ran anirregular block of brick buildings, no two of a height or size, The blockhad burned down in spots several times, and each owner had rebuilt as muchor as little as he chose, which had resulted in as incoherent a bit ofarchitecture as is often seen. The general effect, however, was of atendency to a certain parallelism with the ground line: so that the blockitself seemed to be sliding down hill; the roof of the building farthesteast being not much above the level of the first story windows in thebuilding farthest west. To add to the queerness of this "Brick Row, " as itwas called, the ingenuity of all the sign-painters of the region had beencalled into requisition. Signs alphabetical, allegorical, and symbolic;signs in black on white, in red on black, in rainbow colors on tin; signshigh up, and signs low down; signs swung, and signs posted, --made thewhole front of the Row look at a little distance like a wall ofadvertisements of some travelling menagerie. There was a painted yellowhorse with a fiery red mane, which was the pride of the heart of SethNims, the livery-stable keeper; and a big black dog's head with a gaycollar of scarlet and white morocco, which was supposed to draw the customof all owners of dogs to "John Locker, harness-maker. " There was abarber's pole, and an apothecary's shop with the conventional globes ofmysterious crimson and blue liquids in the window; and, to complete thelist of the decorations of this fantastic front, there had been paintedmany years ago, high up on the wall, in large and irregular letters, thesign stretching out over two-thirds of the row, "Miss Orra White'sSeminary for Young Ladies. " Miss Orra White had been dead for severalyears; and the hall in which she had taught her school, having passedthrough many successive stages of degradation in its uses, had come atlast to be a lumber-room, from which had arisen many a waggish saying asto the similarity between its first estate and its last. 

On the other side of the common, opposite the hotel, was a row ofdwelling-houses, which owing to the steep descent had a sunken look, as ifthey were slipping into their own cellars. The grass was too green intheir yards, and the thick, matted plantain-leaves grew on both edges ofthe sodden sidewalk. 

"Oh, dear, " thought Mercy to herself, "I am sure I hope our house is notthere. " Then she stepped down from the high piazza, and stood for a momenton the open space, looking up toward the north. She could only see for ashort distance up the winding road. A high, wood-crowned summit rosebeyond the houses, which seemed to be built higher and higher on theslope, and to be much surrounded by trees. A street led off to the westalso: this was more thickly built up. To the south, there was again aslight depression; and the houses, although of a better order than thoseon the eastern side of the common, had somewhat of the same sunken air. Mercy's heart turned to the north with a sudden and instinctiverecognition. "I am sure that is the right part of the town for mother, "she said. "If Mr. White's house is down in that hollow, we'll not live init long. " She was so absorbed in her study of the place, and in herconjectures as to their home, that she did not realize that she herselfwas no ordinary sight in that street: a slight, almost girlish figure, ina plain, straight, black gown like a nun's, with one narrow fold oftransparent white at her throat, tied carelessly by long floating ends ofblack ribbon; her wavy brown hair blown about her eyes by the wind, hercheeks flushed with the keen air, and her eyes bright with excitement. Mercy could not be called even a pretty woman; but she had times andseasons of looking beautiful, and this was one of them. The hostler, whowas rubbing down his horses in the door of the barn, came outwide-mouthed, and exclaimed under his breath, --

"Gosh! who's she?" with an emphasis on that feminine, personal pronounwhich was all the bitterer slur on the rest of womankind in thatneighborhood, that he was so unconscious of the reflection it conveyed. The cook and the stable-boy also came running to the kitchen door, onhearing the hostler's exclamation; and they, too, stood gazing at theunconscious Mercy, and each, in their own way, paying tribute to herappearance. 

"That's the gal thet comed last night with her mother. Darned sightbetter-lookin' by daylight than she wuz then!" said the stable-boy. 

"Hm! boys an' men, ye 're all alike, --all for looks, " said the cook, whowas a lean and ill-favored spinster, at least fifty years old. "The galisn't any thin' so amazin' for good looks, 's I can see; but she's gotmighty sarchin' eyes in her head. I wonder if she's a lookin' for somebodythey're expectin'. "

"Steve White he was with 'em down to the depot, " replied the stable-boy. "Seth sed he handed on 'em into the kerridge, 's if they were regulartopknots, sure enough. "

"Hm! Seth Quin 's a fool, 'n' always wuz, " replied the cook, with aseemingly uncalled-for acerbity of tone. "I've allus observed that themthat hez the most to say about topknots hez the least idea of whattopknots really is. There ain't a touch o' topknot about that ere girl:she's come o' real humbly people. Anybody with half an eye can see that. Good gracious! I believe she's goin' to stand still, and let old manWheeler run over her. Look out there, look out, gal!" screamed the cook, and pounded vigorously with her rolling-pin on the side of the door torouse Mercy's attention. Mercy turned just in time to confront a stout, red-faced, old gentleman with a big cane, who was literally on the pointof walking over her. He was so near that, as she turned, he started backas if she had hit him in the breast. 

"God bless my soul, God bless my soul, miss!" he exclaimed, in hisexcitement, striking his cane rapidly against the ground. "I beg yourpardon, beg pardon, miss. Bad habit of mine, very bad habit, --walk alongwithout looking. Walked on a dog the other day; hurt dog; tumbled downmyself, nearly broke my leg. Bad habit, miss, --bad habit; too old tochange, too old to change. Beg pardon, miss. "

The old gentleman mumbled these curt phrases in a series of inarticulatejerks, as if his vocal apparatus were wound up and worked with a crank, but had grown so rusty that every now and then a wheel would catch on acog. He did not stand still for a moment, but kept continually stepping, stepping, without advancing or retreating, striking his heavy cane on theground at each step, as if beating time to his jerky syllables. He hadtwinkling blue eyes, which were half hid under heavy, projecting eyebrows, and shut up tight whenever he laughed. His hair was long and thin, andwhite as spun glass. Altogether, except that he spoke with an unmistakableYankee twang, and wore unmistakable Yankee clothes, you might have fanciedthat he was an ancient elf from the Hartz Mountains. 

Mercy could not refrain from laughing in his face, as she retreated a fewsteps towards the piazza, and said, --

"It is I who ought to beg your pardon. I had no business to be standingstock-still in the middle of the highway like a post. "

"Sensible young woman! sensible young woman! God bless my soul! don't knowyour face, don't know your face, " said the old gentleman, peering outfrom under the eaves of his eyebrows, and scrutinizing Mercy as a childmight scrutinize a new-comer into his father's house. One could not resentit, any more than one could resent the gaze of a child. Mercy laughedagain. 

"No, sir, you don't know my face. I only came last night, " she said. 

"God bless my soul! God bless my soul! Fine young woman! fine young woman!glad to see you, --glad, glad. Girls good for nothing, nothing, nothing atall, nowadays, " jerked on the queer old gentleman, still shifting rapidlyfrom one foot to the other, and beating time continuously with his cane, but looking into Mercy's face with so kindly a smile that she felt herheart warm with affection towards him. 

"Your father come with you? Come to stay? I'd like to know ye, child. Likeyour face, --good face, good face, very good face, " continued theinexplicable old man. "Don't like many people. People are wolves, wolves, wolves. 'D like to know you, child. Good face, good face. "

"Can he be crazy?" thought Mercy. But the smile and the honest twinkle ofthe clear blue eye were enough to counterbalance the incoherent talk: theold man was not crazy, only eccentric to a rare degree. Mercy feltinstinctively that she had found a friend, and one whom she could trustand lean on. 

"Thank you, sir, " she said. "I'm very glad you like my face. I like yours, too, --you look so merry. I think I and my mother will be very glad to knowyou. We have come to live here in half of Mr. Stephen White's house. "

"Merry, merry? Nobody calls me merry. That's a mistake, child, --mistake, mistake. Mistake about the house, too, --mistake. Stephen White hasn't anyhouse, --no, no, hasn't any house. My name's Wheeler, Wheeler. Good enoughname. 'Old Man Wheeler' some think's better. I hear 'em: my cane don'tmake so much noise but I hear 'em. Ha! ha! wolves, wolves, wolves! Peopleare all wolves, all alike, all alike. Got any money, child?" With thislast question, the whole expression of his face changed; the very featuresseemed to shrink; his eyes grew dark and gleaming as they fastened onMercy's face. 

Even this did not rouse Mercy's distrust. There was something inexplicablein the affectionate confidence she felt in this strange, old man. 

"Only a little, sir, " she said. "We are not rich; we have only a little. "

"A little's a good deal, good deal, good deal. Take care of it, child. People'll git it away from you. They're nothing but wolves, wolves, wolves;" and, saying these words, the old man set off at a rapid pace downthe street, without bidding Mercy good-morning. 

As she stood watching him with an expression of ever-increasingastonishment, he turned suddenly, planted his stick in the ground, andcalled, --

"God bless my soul! God bless my soul! Bad habit, bad habit. Never do saygood-morning, --bad habit. Too old to change, too old to change. Bad habit, bad habit. " And with a nod to Mercy, but still not saying good-morning, he walked away. 

Mercy ran into the house, breathless with amusement and wonder, and gaveher mother a most graphic account of this strange interview. 

"But, for all his queerness, I like him, and I believe he'll be a greatfriend of ours, " she said, as she finished her story. 

Mrs. Carr was knitting a woollen stocking. She had been knitting woollenstockings ever since Mercy could remember. She always kept several on handin different stages of incompletion: some that she could knit on in thedark, without any counting of stitches; others that were in the process ofheeling or toeing, and required the closest attention. She had beensetting a heel while Mercy was speaking, and did not reply for a moment. Then, pushing the stitches all into a compact bunch in the middle of oneneedle, she let her work fall into her lap, and, rolling the disengagedknitting-needle back and forth on her knee to brighten it, looked at Mercyreflectively. 

"Mercy, " said she, "queer people allers do take to each other. I don'tbelieve he's a bit queerer 'n you are, child. " And Mrs. Carr laughed alittle laugh, half pride and half dissatisfaction. "You're jest like yourfather: he'd make friends with a stranger, any day, on the street, in twojiffeys, if he took a likin' to him; and there might be neighbors a livin'right long 'side on us, for years an' years, thet he'd never any more 'njest pass the time o' day with, 'n' he wa'n't a bit stuck up, either. Iused ter ask him, often 'n' often, what made him so offish to sum folks, when I knew he hadn't the least thing agin 'em; and he allers said, sezhe, 'Well, I can't tell ye nothin' about it, only jest this is the way 'tis: I can't talk to 'em; they sort o' shet me up, like. I don't feelnateral, somehow, when they're round!'"

"O mother!" exclaimed Mercy, "I think I must be just like father. That isexactly the way I feel so often. When I get with some people, I feel justas if I had been changed into somebody else. I can't bear to open mymouth. It is like a bad dream, when you dream you can't move hand norfoot, all the time they're in the room with me. "

"Well, I thank the Lord, I don't never take such notions about people, "said Mrs. Carr, settling herself back in her chair, and beginning to makeher needles fly. "Nobody don't never trouble me much, one way or theother. For my part, I think folks is alike as peas. We shouldn't hardlyknow 'em apart, if 't wa'n't for their faces. "

Mercy was about to reply, "Why, mother, you just said that I was queer;and this old man was queer; and my father must have been queer, too. " Butshe glanced at the placid old face, and forbore. There was a truth as wellas an untruth in the inconsistent sayings, and both lay too deep for thechildish intellect to grasp. 

Mercy was impatient to go at once to see their new home; but she could notinduce her mother to leave the house. 

"O Mercy!" she exclaimed pathetically, "ef yer knew what a comfort 't wasto me jest to set still in a chair once more. It seems like heaven, arterthem pesky joltin' cars. I ain't in no hurry to see the house. It can'trun away, I reckon; and we're sure of it, ain't we? There ain't any thingthat's got to be done, is there?" she asked nervously. 

"Oh, no, mother. It is all sure. We have leased the house for one year;and we can't move in until our furniture comes, of course. But I do longto see what the place is like, don't you?" replied Mercy, pleadingly. 

"No, no, child. Time enough when we move in. 'T ain't going to make anyodds what it's like. We're goin' to live in it, anyhow. You jest go byyourself, ef you want to so much, an' let me set right here. It don't seemto me 's I'll ever want to git out o' this chair. " At last, veryunwillingly, late in the afternoon, Mercy went, leaving her mother alonein the hotel. 

Without asking a question of anybody, she turned resolutely to the north. 

"Even if our house is not on this street, " she said to herself, "I amgoing to see those lovely woods;" and she walked swiftly up the hill, withher eyes fixed on the glowing dome of scarlet and yellow leaves whichcrowned it. The trees were in their full autumnal splendor: maples, crimson, scarlet, and yellow; chestnuts, pale green and yellow; beeches, shining golden brown; and sumacs in fiery spikes, brighter than all therest. There were also tall pines here and there in the grove, and theirgreen furnished a fine dark background for the gay colors. Mercy hadoften read of the glories of autumn in New England's thickly woodedregions; but she had never dreamed that it could be so beautiful as this. Rows of young maples lined the street which led up to this wooded hill. Each tree seemed a full sheaf of glittering color; and yet the path belowwas strewn thick with fallen leaves no less bright. Mercy walkedlingeringly, each moment stopping to pick up some new leaf which seemedbrighter than all the rest. In a very short time, her hands were too full;and in despair, like an over-laden child, she began to scatter them alongthe way. She was so absorbed in her delight in the leaves that she hardlylooked at the houses on either hand, except to note with an unconscioussatisfaction that they were growing fewer and farther apart, and thatevery thing looked more like country and less like town than it had donein the neighborhood of the hotel. 

Presently she came to a stretch of stone wall, partly broken down, infront of an old orchard whose trees were gnarled and moss-grown. Blackberry-vines had flung themselves over this wall, in and out among thestones. The leaves of these vines were almost as brilliant as the leavesof the maple-trees. They were of all shades of red, up to the deepestclaret; they were of light green, shading into yellow, and curiouslymottled with tiny points of red; all these shades and colors sometimesbeing seen upon one long runner. The effect of these wreaths and tanglesof color upon the old, gray stones was so fine that Mercy stood still andinvoluntarily exclaimed aloud. Then she picked a few of the mostbeautiful vines, and, climbing up on the wall, sat down to arrange themwith the maple-leaves she had already gathered. She made a mostpicturesque picture as she sat there, in her severe black gown and quaintlittle black bonnet, on the stone wall, surrounded by the bright vines andleaves; her lap full of them, the ground at her feet strewed with them, her little black-gloved hands deftly arranging and rearranging them. Shelooked as if she might be a nun, who had run away from her cloister, andcoming for the first time in her life upon gay gauds of color, in strangefabrics, had sat herself down instantly to weave and work with them, unaware that she was on a highway. 

This was the picture that Stephen White saw, as he came slowly up the roadon his way home after an unusually wearying day. He slackened his pace, and, perceiving how entirely unconscious Mercy was of his approach, deliberately studied her, feature, dress, attitude, --all, asscrutinizingly as if she had been painted on canvas and hanging on a wall. 

"Upon my word, " he said to himself, "she isn't bad-looking, after all. I'mnot sure that she isn't pretty. If she hadn't that inconceivable bonnet onher head, --yes, she is very pretty. Her mouth is bewitching. I declare, Ibelieve she is beautiful, " were Stephen's successive verdicts, as he drewnearer and nearer to Mercy. Mercy was thinking of him at that verymoment, --was thinking of him with a return of the annoyance andmortification which had stung her at intervals all day, whenever sherecalled their interview of the previous evening. Mercy combined, in avery singular manner, some of the traits of an impulsive nature with thoseof an unimpulsive one. She did things, said things, and felt things withthe instantaneous intensity of the poetic temperament; but she was quitecapable of looking at them afterward, and weighing them with the cool andunbiassed judgment of the most phlegmatic realist. Hence she often hadmost uncomfortable seasons, in which one side of her nature took the otherside to task, scorned it and berated it severely; holding up its actionsto its remorseful view, as an elder sister might chide a younger one, whowas incorrigibly perverse and wayward. 

"It was about as silly a thing as you ever did in your life. He must havethought you a perfect fool to have supposed he had come down to meet you, "she was saying to herself at the very moment when the sound of Stephen'sfootsteps first reached her ear, and caused her to look up. The sight ofhis face at that particular moment was so startling and so unpleasant toher that it deprived her of all self-possession. She gave a low cry, herface was flooded with crimson, and she sprang from the wall so hastilythat her leaves and vines flew in every direction. 

"I am very sorry I frightened you so, Mrs. Philbrick, " said Stephen, quiteunconscious of the true source of her confusion. "I was just on the pointof speaking, when you heard me. I ought to have spoken before, but youmade so charming a picture sitting there among the leaves and vines that Icould not resist looking at you a little longer. "

Mercy Philbrick hated a compliment. This was partly the result of thesecluded life she had led; partly an instinctive antagonism in herstraightforward nature to any thing which could be even suspected of notbeing true. The few direct compliments she had received had been from menwhom she neither respected nor trusted. These words, coming from StephenWhite, just at this moment, were most offensive to her. 

Her face flushed still deeper red, and saying curtly, --"You frightened mevery much, Mr. White; but it is not of the least consequence, " she turnedto walk back to the village. Stephen unconsciously stretched out his handto detain her. 

"But, Mrs. Philbrick, " he said eagerly, "pray tell me what you think ofthe house. Do you think you can be contented in it?"

"I have not seen it, " replied Mercy, in the same curt tone, still movingon. 

"Not seen it!" exclaimed Stephen, in a tone which was of such intenseastonishment that it effectually roused Mercy's attention. "Not seen it!Why, did you not know you were on your own stone wall? There is thehouse;" and Mercy, following the gesture of his hand, saw, not more thantwenty rods beyond the spot where she had been sitting, a shabby, faded, yellow wooden house, standing in a yard which looked almost as neglectedas the orchard, from which it was only in part separated by a tumblingstone wall. 

Mercy did not speak. Stephen watched her face in silence for a moment;then he laughed constrainedly, and said, --

"Don't be afraid, Mrs. Philbrick, to say outright that it is thedismallest old barn you ever saw. That's just what I had said about ithundreds of times, and wondered how anybody could possibly live in it. Butnecessity drove us into it, and I suppose necessity has brought you to it, too, " added Stephen, sadly. 

Mercy did not speak. Very deliberately her eyes scanned the building. Anexpression of scorn slowly gathered on her face. 

"It is not so forlorn inside as it is out, " said Stephen. "Some of therooms are quite pleasant. The south rooms in your part of the house arevery cheerful. "

Mercy did not speak. Stephen went on, beginning to be half-angry with thislittle, unknown woman from Cape Cod, who looked with the contemptuousglance of a princess upon the house in which he and his mother dwelt, --

"You are quite at liberty to throw up your lease, Mrs. Philbrick, if youchoose. It was, perhaps, hardly fair to have let you hire the housewithout seeing it. "

Mercy started. "I beg your pardon, Mr. White. I should not think of such athing as giving up the lease. I am very sorry you saw how ugly I think thehouse. I do think it is the very ugliest house I ever saw, " she continued, speaking with emphatic deliberation; "but, then, I have not seen manyhouses. In our village at home, all the houses are low and broad andcomfortable-looking. They look as if they had sat down and leaned backto take their ease; and they are all neat and clean-looking, and have rowsof flower-beds from the gate to the front door. I never saw a house builtwith such a steep angle to its roof as this has, " said Mercy, looking upwith the instinctive dislike of a natural artist's eye at the ridgepole ofthe old house. 

"We have to have our roofs at a sharp pitch, to let the snow slide off inwinter, " said Stephen, apologetically, "we have such heavy snows here; butthat doesn't make the angle any less ugly to look at. "

"No, " said Mercy; and her eyes still roved up and down and over the house, with not a shadow of relenting in their expression. It was Stephen's turnto be silent now. He watched her, but did not speak. 

Mercy's face was not merely a record of her thoughts: it was a photographof them. As plainly as on a written page held in his hand, Stephen Whiteread the successive phases of thought and struggle which passed throughMercy's mind for the next five minutes; and he was not in the leastsurprised when, turning suddenly towards him with a very sweet smile, shesaid in a resolute tone, --

"There! that's done with. I hope you will forgive my rudeness, Mr. White;but the truth is I was awfully shocked at the first sight of the house. Itisn't your house, you know, so it isn't quite so bad for me to say so; andI'm so glad you hate it as much as I do. Now I am never going to thinkabout it again, --never. "

"Why, can you help it, Mrs. Philbrick?" asked Stephen, in a wonderingtone. "I can't. I hate it more and more, I verily believe, each time Icome home; and I think that, if my mother weren't in it, I should burn itdown some night. "

Mercy looked at him with a certain shade of the same contempt with whichshe had looked at the house; and Stephen winced, as she said coolly, --

"Why, of course I can help it. I should be very much ashamed of myself ifI couldn't. I never allow myself to be distressed by things which I can'thelp, --at least, that sort of thing, " added Mercy, her face clouding withthe sudden recollection of a grief that she had not been able to riseabove. "Of course, I don't mean real troubles, like grief about any oneyou love. One can't wholly conquer such troubles as that; but one can do agreat deal more even with these than people usually suppose. I am not surethat it is right to let ourselves be unhappy about any thing, even theworst of troubles. But I must hurry home now. It is growing late. "

"Mrs. Philbrick, " exclaimed Stephen, earnestly: "please come into thehouse, and speak to my mother a moment. You don't know how she has beenlooking forward to your coming. "

"Oh, no, I cannot possibly do that, " replied Mercy. "There is no reasonwhy I should call on your mother, merely because we are going to live inthe same house. "

"But I assure you, " persisted Stephen, "that it will give her the greatestpleasure. She is a helpless cripple, and never leaves her bed. She hasprobably been watching us from the window. She always watches for me. Shewill wonder if I do not bring you in to see her. Please come, " he saidwith a tone which it was impossible to resist; and Mercy went. 

Mrs. White had indeed been watching them from the window; but Stephen hadreckoned without his host, or rather without his hostess, when he assuredMercy that his mother would be so glad to see her. The wisest and thetenderest of men are continually making blunders in their relations withwomen; especially if they are so unfortunate as to occupy in any sense aposition involving a relation to two women at once. The relation may beever so rightful and honest to each woman; the women may be good women, and in their right places; but the man will find himself perpetuallygetting into most unexpected hot water, as many a man could testifypathetically, if he were called upon. 

Mrs. White had been watching her son through the whole of his conversationwith Mercy. She could see only dimly at such a distance; but she haddiscerned that it was a woman with whom he stood talking so long. It wasnearly half an hour past supper-time, and supper was Mrs. White's onefestivity in the course of the day. Their breakfast and their mid-daydinner were too hurried meals for enjoyment, because Stephen was obligedto make haste to the office; but with supper there was nothing tointerfere. Stephen's work for the day was done: he took great pains totell her at this time every thing which he had seen or heard which couldgive her the least amusement. She looked forward all through her longlonely days to the evenings, as a child looks forward to Saturdayafternoons. Like all invalids whose life has been forced into grooves, shewas impatient and unreasonable when anybody or any thing interfered withher routine. A five minutes' delay was to her a serious annoyance, anddemanded an accurate explanation. Stephen so thoroughly understood thisexactingness on her part that he adjusted his life to it, as aconscientious school-boy adjusts his to bells and signals, and nevertrespassed knowingly. If he had dreamed that it was past tea-time, on thisunlucky night, he would never have thought of asking Mercy to go in andsee his mother. But he did not; and it was with a bright and eager facethat he threw open the door, and said in the most cordial tone, --

"Mother, I have brought Mrs. Philbrick to see you. "

"How do you do, Mrs. Philbrick?" was the rejoinder, in a tone and with alook so chilling that poor Mercy's heart sank within her. She had allalong had an ideal in her own mind of the invalid old lady, Mr. White'smother, to whom she was to be very good, and who was to be her mother'scompanion. She pictured her as her own mother would be, a good deal olderand feebler, in a gentle, receptive, patient old age. Of so repellent, aggressive, unlovely an old woman as this she had had no conception. Itwould be hard to do justice in words to Mrs. White's capacity to bedisagreeable when she chose. She had gray eyes, which, though they had avery deceptive trick of suffusing with tears as of great sensibility onoccasion, were capable of resting upon a person with a positively unhumancoldness; her voice also had at these times a distinctly unhuman qualityin its tones. She had apparently no conception of any necessity ofcontrolling her feelings, or the expression of them. If she were pleased, if all things went precisely as she liked, if all persons ministered toher pleasure, well and good, --she would be graciously pleased to smile, and be good-humored. If she were displeased, if her preferences were notconsulted, if her plans were interfered with, woe betide the first personwho entered her presence; and still more woe betide the person who wasresponsible for her annoyance. 

As soon as Stephen's eyes fell on her face, on this occasion, he felt witha sense of almost terror that he had made a fatal mistake, and he knewinstantly that it must be much later than he had supposed; but he plungedbravely in, like a man taking a header into a pool he fears he may drownin, and began to give a voluble account of how he had found Mrs. Philbricksitting on their stone wall, so absorbed in looking at the bright leavesthat she had not even seen the house. He ran on in this strain for someminutes, hoping that his mother's mood might soften, but in vain. Shelistened with the same stony, unresponsive look on her face, never takingthe stony, unresponsive eyes from his face; and, as soon as he stoppedspeaking, she said in an equally stony voice, --

"Mrs. Philbrick, will you be so good as to take off your bonnet and taketea with us? It is already long past our tea-hour!"

Mercy sprang to her feet, and said impulsively, "Oh, no, I thank you. Idid not dream that it was so late. My mother will be anxious about me. Imust go. I am very sorry I came in. Good-evening. "

"Good-evening, Mrs. Philbrick, " in the same slow and stony syllables, camefrom Mrs. White's lips, and she turned her head away immediately. 

Stephen, with his face crimson with mortification, followed Mercy to thedoor. In a low voice, he said, "I hope you will be able to make allowancesfor my mother's manner. It is all my fault. I know that she can never bearto have me late at meals, and I ought never to allow myself to forget thehour. It is all my fault"

Mercy's indignation at her reception was too great for her sense ofcourtesy. 

"I don't think it was your fault at all, Mr. White, " she exclaimed. "Good-night, " and she was out of sight before Stephen could think of aword to say. 

Very slowly he walked back into the sitting-room. He had seldom been soangry with his mother; but his countenance betrayed no sign of it, and hetook his seat opposite her in silence. Silence, absolute, unconquerablesilence, was the armor which Stephen White wore. It was like thoseinvisible networks of fine chains worn next the skin, in which many men inthe olden time passed unscathed through years of battles, and won thereputation of having charmed lives. No one suspected the secret. To theordinary beholder, the man seemed accoutred in the ordinary fashion ofsoldiers; but, whenever a bullet struck him, it glanced off harmlessly asif turned back by a spell. It was so with Stephen White's silence: inordinary intercourse, he was social genial; he talked more than averagemen talk; he took or seemed to take, more interest than men usually takein the common small talk of average people; but the instant there was amanifestation of anger, of discord of any thing unpleasant, he entrenchedhimself in silence. This was especially the case when he was reproached oraroused by his mother. It was often more provoking to her than any amountof retort or recrimination could have been. She had in her nature acertain sort of slow ugliness which delighted in dwelling upon a smalloffence, in asking irritating questions about it, in reiterating itsdetails; all the while making it out a matter of personal unkindness orindifference to her that it should have happened. When she was in thesemoods, Stephen's silence sometimes provoked her past endurance. 

"Can't you speak, Stephen?" she would exclaim. 

"What would be the use, mother?" he would say sadly. "If you do not knowthat the great aim of my life is to make you happy, it is of no use for meto keep on saying it. If it would make you any happier to keep ondiscussing and discussing this question indefinitely, I would endure eventhat; but it would not. "

To do Mrs. White justice, she was generally ashamed of these ebullitionsof unreasonable ill-temper, and endeavored to atone for them afterward bybeing more than ordinarily affectionate and loving in her manner towardsStephen. But her shame was short-lived, and never made her any the lessunreasonable or exacting when the next occasion occurred; so that, although Stephen received her affectionate epithets and caresses withfilial responsiveness, he was never in the slightest degree deluded bythem. He took them for what they were worth, and held himself no whitfreer from constraint, no whit less ready for the next storm. By the veryfact of the greater fineness of his organization, this tyrannical womanheld him chained. His submission to her would have seemed abject, if ithad not been based on a sentiment and grounded in a loyalty whichcompelled respect. He had accepted this burden as the one great duty ofhis life; and, whatever became of him, whatever became of his life, theburden should be carried. This helpless woman, who stood to him in therelation of mother, should be made happy. From the moment of his father'sdeath, he had assumed this obligation as a sacrament; and, if it lastedhis life out, he would never dream of evading or lessening it. In thisfine fibre of loyalty, Stephen White and Mercy Philbrick were alike:though it was in him more an exalted sentiment; in her, simply an organicnecessity. In him, it would always have been in danger of taking morbidshapes and phases; of being over-ridden and distorted at any time byselfishness or wickedness in its object, as it had been by his selfishmother. In Mercy, it was on a higher and healthier plane. Without being ashade less loyal, she would be far clearer-sighted; would render, but notsurrender; would give a lifetime of service, but not a moment ofsubjection. There was a shade of something feminine in Stephen's loyalty, of something perhaps masculine in Mercy's; but Mercy's was the best, thetruest. 

"I wouldn't allow my mother to treat a stranger like that, " she thoughtindignantly, as she walked away after Mrs. White's inhospitable invitationto tea. "I wouldn't allow her. I would make her see the shamefulness ofit. What a weak man Mr. White must be!"

Yet if Mercy could have looked into the room she had just left, and haveseen Stephen listening with a face unmoved, save for a certain compressionof the mouth, and a look of patient endurance in the eyes, to a torrent ofill-nature from his mother, she would have recognized that he hadstrength, however much she might have undervalued its type. 

"I should really think that you might have more consideration, Stephen, than to be so late to tea, when you know it is all I have to look forwardto, all day long. You stood a good half hour talking with that woman, Didyou not know how late it was?"

"No, mother. If I had, I should have come in. "

"I suppose you had your watch on, hadn't you?"

"Yes, mother. "

"Well, I'd like to know what excuse there is for a man's not knowing whattime it is, when he has a watch in his pocket? And then you must needsbring her in here, of all things, --when you know I hate to see peoplenear my meal-times, and you must have known it was near supper-time. Atany rate, watch or no watch, I suppose you didn't think you'd started tocome home in the middle of the afternoon, did you? And what did you wanther to come in for, anyhow? I'd like to know that. Answer me, will you?"

"Simply because I thought that it would give you pleasure to see some one, mother. You often complain of being so lonely, of no one's coming in, "replied Stephen, in a tone which was pathetic, almost shrill, from itseffort to be patient and calm. 

"I wish, if you can't speak in your own voice, you wouldn't speak at all, "said the angry woman. "What makes you change your voice so?"

Stephen made no reply. He knew very well this strange tone which sometimescame into his voice, when his patience was tried almost beyond endurance. He would have liked to avoid it; he was instinctively conscious that itoften betrayed to other people what he suffered. But it was beyond hiscontrol: it seemed as if all the organs of speech involuntarily clenchedthemselves, as the hand unconsciously clenches itself when a man isenraged. 

Mrs. White persisted. "Your voice, when you're angry, 's enough to driveanybody wild. I never heard any thing like it. And I'm sure I don't seewhat you have to be angry at now. I should think I was the one to beangry. You're all I've got in the world, Stephen; and you know what a lifeI lead. It isn't as if I could go about, like other women; then Ishouldn't care where you spent your time, if you didn't want to spend itwith me. " And tears, partly of ill-temper, partly of real grief, rolleddown the hard, unlovely, old face. 

This was only one evening. There are three hundred and sixty-five in ayear. Was not the burden too heavy for mortal man to carry?

Chapter IV. 

Mercy said nothing to her mother of Mrs. White's rudeness. She merelymentioned the fact of her having met Mr. White near the house, and havinggone with him, at his request, to speak to his mother. 

"What's she like, Mercy?" asked Mrs. Carr, eagerly. "Is she goin' to becompany for me?"

"I could not tell, mother, " replied Mercy, indifferently; "for it was justtheir tea-hour, and I did not stay a minute, --only just to say, How d'yedo, and Good-evening. But Mr. White says she is very lonely; people don'tgo to see her much: so I should think she would be very glad of somebodyher own age in the house, to come and sit with her. She looks very ill, poor soul. She hasn't been out of her bed, except when she was lifted, foreight years. "

"Dear me! dear me!" exclaimed Mrs. Carr. "Oh, I hope I'll never be thatway. What'u'd you ever do child, if I'd get to be like that?"

"No danger, mother dear, of your ever being like Mrs. White, " said Mercy, with an incautious emphasis, which, however, escaped Mrs. Carr'srecognition. 

"Why, how can you be so sure I mightn't ever get into jest so bad a way, child? There's none of us can say what diseases we're likely to hev ornot to hev. Now there's never been a case o' lung trouble in our familyafore mine, not 's fur back 's anybody kin trace it out; 'n' there's beentwo cancers to my own knowledge; 'n' I allus hed a most awful dread o'gettin' a cancer. There ain't no death like thet. There wuz my mother'shalf-sister, Keziah, --she that married Elder Swift for her second husband. She died o' cancer; an' her oldest boy by her first husband he hed it inhis face awful. But he held on ter life 's ef he couldn't say die, nohow;and I tell yer, Mercy, it wuz a sight nobody'd ever forget, to see himgoin' round the street with one side o' his face all bound up, and hiswell eye a rolling round, a-doin' the work o' two. He got so he couldn'tsee at all out o' either eye afore he died, 'n' you could hear hisscreeches way to our house. There wouldn't no laudalum stop the pain amite. "

"Oh, mother! don't! don't!" exclaimed Mercy. "It is too dreadful to talkabout. I can't bear to think that any human being has ever suffered so. Please don't ever speak of cancers again. "

Mrs. Carr looked puzzled and a little vexed, as she answered, "Well, Ireckon they've got to be talked about a good deal, fust and last, 's long's there's so many dies on 'em. But I don't know 's you 'n' I've got anycall to dwell on 'em much. You've got dreadful quick feelin's, Mercy, ain't you? You allus was orful feelin' for everybody when you wuz little, 'n' I don't see 's you've outgrowed it a bit. But I expect it's thet makesyou sech friends with folks, an' makes you such a good gal to your poorold mother. Kiss me, child, " and Mrs. Carr lifted up her face to bekissed, as a child lifts up its face to its mother. She did this manytimes a day; and, whenever Mercy bent down to kiss her, she put her handson the old woman's shoulders, and said, "Dear little mother!" in a tonewhich made her mother's heart warm with happiness. 

It is a very beautiful thing to see just this sort of relation between anaged parent and a child, the exact reversal of the bond, and the bond soabsolutely fulfilled. It seems to give a new and deeper sense to the word"filial, " and a new and deeper significance to the joy of motherhood orfatherhood. Alas, that so few sons and daughters are capable of it! so fewhelpless old people know the blessedness of it! No little child six yearsold ever rested more entirely and confidingly in the love and kindness andshelter and direction of its mother than did Mrs. Carr in the love andkindness and shelter and direction of her daughter Mercy. It had begun tobe so, while Mercy was yet a little girl. Before she was fifteen yearsold, she felt a responsibility for her mother's happiness, a watchfulnessover her mother's health, and even a care of her mother's clothes. Witheach year, the sense of these responsibilities grew deeper; and after hermarriage, as she was denied the blessing of children, all the deepmaternal instincts of her strong nature flowed back and centred anewaround this comparatively helpless, aged child whom she called mother, andtreated with never-failing respect. 

When Mrs. Carr first saw the house they were to live in, she exclaimed, --

"O Lor', Mercy! Is thet the house?" Then, stepping back a few steps, shoving her spectacles high on her nose, and with her head well thrownback, she took a survey of the building in silence. Then she turned slowlyaround, and, facing Mercy, said in a droll, dry way, not uncommon withher, --

"'Bijah Jenkins's barn!"

Mercy laughed outright. 

"So it is, mother. I hadn't thought of it. It looks just like that oldbarn of Deacon Jenkins's. "

"Yes, " said Mrs. Carr. "That's it, exzackly. Well, I never thought o'offerin' to hire a barn to live in afore, but I s'pose 't'll do till wecan look about. Mebbe we can do better. "

"But we've taken it for a year, mother, " said Mercy, a little dismayed. 

"Oh, hev we? Well, well, I daresay it's comfortable enough; so the sunshines in mornin's, thet's the most I care for. You'll make any kind o'house pooty to look at inside, an' I reckon we needn't roost on the fencesoutside, a-lookin' at it, any more'n we choose to. It does look, for allthe world though, like 'Bijah Jenkins's old yaller barn; 'n' thet therejog's jest the way he jined on his cow-shed. I declare it's tooredicklus. " And the old lady laughed till she had to wipe her spectacles. 

"It could be made very pretty, I think, " said Mercy, "for all it is sohideous now. I know just what I'd do to it, if it were mine. I'd throwout a big bay window in that corner where the jog is, and another on themiddle of the north side, and then run a piazza across the west side, andcarry the platform round both the bay windows. I saw a picture of a housein a book Mr. Allen had, which looked very much as this would look then. Oh, but I'd like to do it!" Mercy's imagination was so fired with thepicture she had made to herself of the house thus altered and improved, that she could not easily relinquish it. 

"But, Mercy, you don't know the lay o' the rooms, child. You don' 'no'where that ere jog comes. Your bay window mightn't come so's't would be ofany use. Yer wouldn't build one jest to look at, would you?" said hermother. 

"I'm not so sure I wouldn't, if I had plenty of money, " replied Mercy, laughing. "But I have no idea of building bay windows on other people'shouses. I was only amusing myself by planning it. I'd rather have thathouse, old and horrid as it is, than any house in the town. I like thesituation so much, and the woods are so beautiful. Perhaps I'll earn a lotof money some day, and buy the place, and make it just as we like it. "

"You earn money, child!" said Mrs. Carr, in a tone of unqualified wonder. "How could you earn money, I'd like to know?"

"Oh, make bonnets or gowns, dear little mother, or teach school, " saidMercy, coloring. "Mr. Allen said I was quite well enough fitted to teachour school at home, if I liked. "

"But, Mercy, child, you'd never go to do any such thing's thet, would yernow?" said her mother, piteously. "Don't ye hev all ye want, Mercy? Ain'tthere money enough for our clothes? I'm sure I don't need much; an' Icould do with a good deal less, if there was any thing you wanted, dear. Your father he 'd never rest in his grave, ef he thought his little Mercywas a havin' to arn money for her livin'. You didn't mean it, child, didyer? Say yer didn't mean it, Mercy, " and tears stood in the poor oldwoman's eyes. 

It is strange what a tenacious pride there was in the hearts of our oldsea-faring men of a half century ago. They had the same feeling that kingsand emperors might have in regard to their wives and daughters, that itwas a disgrace for them to be obliged to earn money. It would be aninteresting thing to analyze this sentiment, to trace it to its roots: itwas so universal among successful sea-faring men that it must have had itsorigin in some trait distinctively peculiar to their profession. All theother women in the town or the village might eke out the family incomes bywhatever devices they pleased; but the captains' wives were to be ladies. They were to wear silk gowns brought from many a land; they were to haveornaments of quaint fashion, picked up here and there; they were to havemoney enough in the bank to live on in quiet comfort during the intervalswhen the husbands sailed away to make more. So strong was this feelingthat it crystallized into a traditionary custom of life, which evenpoverty finds it hard to overcome. You shall find to-day, in any one ofthe seaport cities or towns of New England, widows and daughters ofsea-captains, living, or rather seeming to live, upon the most beggarlyincomes, but still keeping up a certain pathetic sham of appearance ofbeing at ease. If they are really face to face with probable starvation, they may go to some charitable institution where fine needlework is givenout, and earn a few dollars in that way. But they will fetch and carrytheir work by night, and no neighbor will ever by any chance surprise themwith it in their hands. Most beautifully is this surreptitious sewingdone; there is no work in this country like it. The tiny stitches bear thevery aroma of sad and lonely leisure in them; a certain fine pride, too, as if the poverty-constrained lady would in no wise condescend to departfrom her own standard in the matter of a single loop or stitch, no matterto what plebeian uses the garment might come after it should leave herhands. 

Mercy's deep blush when she replied to her mother's astonished inquiry, how she could possibly earn any money, sprung from her consciousness of asecret, --a secret so harmless in itself, that she was ashamed of havingany feeling of guilt in keeping it a secret; and yet, her fine andfastidious honesty so hated even the semblance of concealment, that themere withholding of a fact, simply because she disliked to mention it, seemed to her akin to a denial of it. If there is such a thing in a humanbeing as organic honesty, --an honesty which makes a lie not difficult, butimpossible, just as it is impossible for men to walk on ceilings likeflies, or to breathe in water like fishes, --Mercy Philbrick had it. Theleast approach to an equivocation was abhorrent to her: not that shereasoned about it, and submitting it to her conscience found it wicked, and therefore hateful; but that she disliked it instinctively, --asinstinctively as she disliked pain. Her moral nerves shrank from it, justas nerves of the body shrink from suffering; and she recoiled from thesuggestion of such a thing with the same involuntary quickness with whichwe put up the hand to ward off a falling blow, or drop the eyelid toprotect an endangered eye. Physicians tell us that there are in men andwomen such enormous differences in this matter of sensitiveness tophysical pain that one person may die of a pain which would becomparatively slight to another; and this is a fact which has to be takenvery carefully into account, in all dealing with disease in people of thegreatest capacity for suffering. May there not be equally greatdifferences in souls, in the matter of sensitiveness to moralhurt?--differences for which the soul is not responsible, any more thanthe body is responsible for its skin's having been made thin or thick. Will-power has nothing whatever to do with determining the latterconditions. Let us be careful how far we take it to task for failing tocontrol the others. Perhaps we shall learn, in some other stage ofexistence, that there is in this world a great deal of moral colorblindness, congenital, incurable; and that God has much more pity than wesuppose for poor things who have stumbled a good many times while theywere groping in darkness. 

People who see clearly themselves are almost always intolerant of thosewho do not. We often see this ludicrously exemplified, even in the trivialmatter of near-sightedness. We are almost always a little vexed, when wepoint out a distant object to a friend, and hear him reply, --

"No, I do not see it at all. I am near-sighted. "

"What! can't you see that far?" is the frequent retort, and in the pity isa dash of impatience. 

There is a great deal of intolerance in the world, which is closely akinto this; and not a whit more reasonable or righteous, though it makesgreat pretensions to being both. Mercy Philbrick was full of suchintolerance, on this one point of honesty. She was intolerant not only toothers, she was intolerant to herself. She had seasons of fierce andhopeless debating with herself, on the most trivial matters, or what wouldseem so to nine hundred and ninety-nine persons out of a thousand. Duringsuch seasons as these, her treatment of her friends and acquaintances hadodd alternations of frank friendliness and reticent coolness. A suddenmisgiving whether she might not be appearing to like her friend more thanshe really did would seize her at most inopportune moments, and make herabsent-minded and irresponsive. She would leave sentences abruptlyunfinished, --invitations, perhaps, or the acceptances of invitations, themere words of which spring readily to one's lips, and are thoughtlesslyspoken. But, in Mercy's times of conflict with herself, even these wereexaggerated in her view to monstrous deceits. She had again and againheld long conversations with Mr. Allen on this subject, but he failed tohelp her. He was a good man, of average conscientiousness and averageperception: he literally could not see many of the points which Mercy'skeener analysis ferreted out, and sharpened into weapons for her own pain. He thought her simply morbid. 

"Now, child, " he would say, --for, although he was only a few years Mercy'ssenior, he had taught her like a child for three years, --"now, child, leave off worrying yourself by these fancies. There is not the leastdanger of your ever being any thing but truthful. Nature and grace areboth too strong in you. There is no lie in saying to a person who has cometo see you in your own house, 'I am glad to see you, ' for you are glad;and, if not, you can make yourself glad, when you think how much pleasureyou can give the person by talking with him. You are glad, always, to givepleasure to any human being, are you not?"

"Yes, " Mercy would reply unhesitatingly. 

"Very well. To the person who comes to see you, you give pleasure:therefore, you are glad to see him. "

"But, Mr. Allen, " would persist poor Mercy, "that is not what the personthinks I mean. Very often some one comes to see me, who bores me so that Ican hardly keep awake. He would not be pleased if he knew that all mycordial welcome really meant was, --'I'm glad to see you, because I'm abenevolent person, and am willing to make my fellow-creatures happy at anysacrifice, even at the frightful one of entertaining such a bore as youare!' He would never come near me again, if he knew I thought that; andyet, if I do think so, and make him think I do not, is not that thebiggest sort of a lie? Why, Mr. Allen, many a time when I have seentiresome or disagreeable people coming to our house, I have run away andhid myself, so as not to be found; not in the least because I could notbear the being bored by them, but because I could not bear the thought ofthe lies I should speak, or at least act, if I saw them. "

"The interpretation a visitor chooses to put upon our kind cordiality ofmanner to him is his own affair, not ours, Mercy. It is a Christian dutyto be cordial and kindly of manner to every human being: any thing lessgives pain, repels people from us, and hinders our being able to do themgood. There is no more doubt of this than of any other first principle ofChristian conduct; and I am very sorry that these morbid notions havetaken such hold of you. If you yield to them, you will make yourself soondisliked and feared, and give a great deal of needless pain to yourneighbors. "

It was hard for Mr. Allen to be severe with Mercy, for he loved her as ifshe were his younger sister; but he honestly thought her to be in greatdanger of falling into a chronic morbidness on this subject, and hebelieved that stern words were most likely to convince her of her mistake. It was a sort of battle, however, --this battle which Mercy was forced tofight, --in which no human being can help another, unless he has first beenthrough the same battle himself. All that Mr. Allen said seemed to Mercyspecious and, to a certain extent, trivial: it failed to influence her, simply because it did not so much as recognize the point where herdifficulty lay. 

"If Mr. Allen tries till he dies, he will never convinc me that it is notdeceiving people to make them think you're glad to see them when you'renot, " Mercy said to herself often, as, with flushed cheeks and tears inher eyes, she walked home after these conversations. "He may make me thinkthat it is right to deceive them rather than to make them unhappy. Italmost seems as if it must be; yet, if we once admitted that, whereshould we ever stop? It seems to me that would be a very dangerousdoctrine. A lie's a lie, let whoever will call it fine names, and pass itoff as a Christian duty The Bible does not say, 'Thou shalt not lie, except when it is necessary to lie, to avoid hurting thy neighbor'sfeelings, ' It says, 'Thou shalt not lie. ' Oh, what a horrible word 'lie'is! It stings like a short, sharp stroke with a lash. " And Mercy wouldturn away from the thought with a shudder, and resolutely force hersef tothink of something else. Sometimes she would escape from the perplexityfor weeks: chance would so favor her, that no opportunity for what shefelt to be deceit would occur; but, in these intervals of relief, hertortured conscience seemed only to renew its voices, and spring upon herall the more fiercely on the next occasion. The effect, of all theseindecisive conflicts upon Mercy's character had not been good. They hadleft her morally bruised, and therefore abnormally sensitive to the leasttouch. She was in danger of becoming either a fanatic for truth, orindifferent to it. Paradoxcal as it may seem, she was in almost as muchdanger of the one as of the other. But always, when our hurts are fasthealing without help, the help comes. It is probable that there is to-dayon the earth a cure, either in herb or stone or spring, for every illwhich men's bodies can know. Ignorance and accident may hinder us longfrom them, but sooner or later the race shall come to possess them all. Sowith souls. There is the ready truth, the living voice, the warm hand, orthe final experience, waiting for each soul's need. We do not die till wehave found them. There were yet to enter into Mercy Philbrick's life a newlight and a new force, by the help of which she would see clearly andstand firm. 

The secret which she had now for nearly a year kept from her mother was avery harmless one. To people of the world, it would appear so trivial athing, that the conscience which could feel itself wounded by reticence onsuch a point would seem hardly worth a sneer. Mr. Allen, who had beenMercy's teacher for three years, had early seen in her a strong poeticimpulse, and had fostered and stimulated it by every means in his power. He believed that in the exercise of this talent she would find the bestpossible help for her loneliness and comfort for her sorrow. He recognizedclearly that, to so exceptional a nature as Mercy's, a certain amount ofisolation was inevitable, all through her life, however fortunate shemight be in entering into new and wider relations. The loneliness ofintense individuality is the loneliest loneliness in the world, --aloneliness which crowds only aggravate, and which even the closest andhappiest companionship can only in part cure. The creative faculty is themost inalienable and uncontrollable of individualities. It is at once itsown reward and its own penalty: until it has conquered the freedom of itsown city, in which it must for ever dwell, more or less apart, it is onlya prisoner in the cities of others. All this Mr. Allen felt for Mercy, recognized in Mercy. He felt and recognized it by the instinct of love, rather than by any intellectual perception. Intellectually, he was, inspite of his superior culture, far Mercy's inferior. He had been braveenough and manly enough to recognize this, and also to recognize what ittook still more manliness to recognize, --that she could never love a manof his temperament. It would have been very easy for him to love Mercy. Hewas not a man of a passionate nature; but he felt himself strangelystirred whenever he looked into her sensitive, orchid-like face. He feltin every fibre of him that to have the whole love of such a woman would bebewildering joy; yet never for one moment did he allow himself to think ofseeking it. "I might make her think she loved me, perhaps, " he said tohimself. "She is so lonely and sad, and has seen so few men; but it wouldbe base. She needs a nature totally different from mine, a life unlike thelife I shall lead. I will never try to make her love me. And he never did. He taught her and trained her, and developed her, patiently, exactingly, and yet tenderly as if she had been his sister; but he never betrayed toher, even by a look or tone, that he could have loved her as his wife. Nodoubt his influence was greater over her for this subtle, unacknowledgedbond. It gave to their intercourse a certain strange mixture of reticenceand familiarity, which grew more and more perilous and significant monthby month. Probably a change must have come, had they lived thus closelytogether a year or two longer. The change could have been in but onedirection. They loved each other too much to ever love less: they mighthave loved more; and Mercy's life had been more peaceful, her heart hadknown a truer content, if she had never felt any stronger emotion thanthat which Harley Allen's love would have roused in her bosom. But hisresolution was inexorable. His instinct was too keen, his will too strong:he compelled all his home-seeking, wife-loving thoughts to turn away fromMercy; and, six months after her departure, he had loyally and lovinglypromised to be the husband of another. In Mercy's future he felt anintense interest; he would never cease to watch over her, if she would lethim; he would guide, mould, and direct her, until the time came--he knewit would come--when she had outgrown his help, and ascended to a planewhere he could no longer guide her. His greatest fear was lest, from heroverflowing vitality and keen sensuous delight in all the surfaceactivities and pleasures of life, the intellectual side of her natureshould be kept in the background and not properly nourished. He hadcompelled her to study, to think, to write. Who would do this for her inthe new home? He knew enough of Stephen White's nature to fear that he, while he might be an appreciative friend, would not be a stimulating one. He was too dreamy and pleasure-loving himself to be a spur to others. Avague wonder, almost like a presentiment, haunted his thoughts continuallyas to the nature of the relation which would exist between Stephen andMercy. One day he wrote a long letter to Stephen, telling him all aboutMercy, --her history; her peculiarities, mental and moral; her great needof mental training; her wonderful natural gifts. He closed his letter inthese words:--

"There is the making of a glorious woman and, I think, a true poet in thisgirl; but whether she ever makes either will depend entirely upon thehands she falls into. She has a capacity for involuntary adaptation ofherself to any surroundings, and for an unconscious and indomitableloyalty to the every-day needs of every-day life, which rarely go with thepoetic temperament. She would contentedly make bread and do nothing else, till the day of her death, if that seemed to be the nearest and mostdemanded duty. She would be heartily faithful and joyous every day, inintercourse with only common and uncultivated people, if fate sets heramong them. She seems to me sometimes to be more literally a child of God, in the true and complete sense of the word 'child, ' than any one I everknew. She takes every thing which comes to her just as a happy and goodlittle child takes every thing that is given to him, and is pleased withall; yet she is not at all a religious person. I am often distressed byher lack of impulse to worship. I think she has no strong sense of apersonal God; yet her conscience is in many ways morbidly sensitive. Sheis a most interesting and absorbing person, --one entirely unique in myexperience. Living with her, as you will, it will be impossible for younot to influence her strongly, one way or the other; and I want to enlistyour help to carry on the work I have begun. She owes it to herself and tothe world not to let her mind be inactive. I am very much mistaken if shehas not within her the power to write poems, which shall take place amongthe work that lasts. "

Mr. Allen read this letter over several times, and then, with a gesture ofimpatience, tore the sheets down the middle, and threw them into the fire, exclaiming, --

"Pshaw! as if there were any use in sending a man a portrait of a woman heis to see every day. If Stephen is the person to amount to any thing inher life, he will recognize her. If he is not, all my descriptions of herwill be thrown away. It is best to let things take their own course. "

After some deliberation, he decided to take a step, which he would neverhave taken, had Mercy not been going away from his influence, --a stepwhich he had again and again said to himself he would hot risk, lest theeffect might be to hinder her intellectual growth. He sent two of herpoems to a friend of his, who was the editor of one of the leadingmagazines in the country. The welcome they met exceeded even hisanticipations. By the very next mail, he received a note from his friend, enclosing a check, which to Harley Allen's inexperience of such mattersseemed disproportionately large. "Your little Cape Cod girl is a wonder, indeed, " wrote the editor. "If she can keep on writing such verse as this, she will make a name for herself. Send us some more: we'll pay her wellfor it. "

Mr. Allen was perplexed. He had not once thought of the verses being paidfor. He had thought that to see her poems in print might give Mercy a newincentive to work, might rouse in her an ambition, which would in parttake the place of the stimulus which his teachings had given her. He verymuch disliked to tell her what he had done, and to give to her the moneyshe had unwittingly earned. He feared that she would resent it; he fearedthat she would be too elated by it; he feared a dozen different things inas many minutes, as he sat turning the check over and over in his hands. But his fears were all unfounded. Mercy had too genuine an artistic natureto be elated, too much simplicity to be offended. Her first emotion wasone of incredulity; her second, of unaffected and humble wonder that anyverses of hers should have been so well spoken of; and her next, ofchildlike glee at the possibility of her earning any money. She had not atrace of the false pride which had crystallized in her mother's natureinto such a barrier against the idea of a paid industry. 

"O Mr. Allen!" she exclaimed, "is it really possible? Do you think theverses were really worth it? Are you quite sure the editor did not sendthe money because the verses were written by a friend of yours?"

Harley Allen laughed. 

"Editors are not at all likely, Mercy, " he said, "to pay any more forthings than the things are worth. I think you will some day laughheartily, as you look back upon the misgivings with which you received thefirst money earned by your pen. If you will only work faithfully andpainstakingly, you can do work which will be much better paid than this. "

Mercy's eyes flashed. 

"Oh! oh! Then I can have books and pictures, and take journeys, " she saidin a tone of such ecstasy that Mr. Allen was surprised. 

"Why, Mercy, " he replied, "I did not know you were such a discontentedgirl. Have you always longed for all these things?"

"I'm not discontented, Mr. Allen, " answered Mercy, a little proudly. "Inever had a discontented moment in my life. I'm not so silly. I have neveryet seen the day which did not seem to me brimful and running over withjoys and delights; that is, except when I was for a little while boweddown by a grief nobody could bear up under, " she added, with a suddendrooping of every feature in her expressive face, as she recalled the onesharp grief of her life. "I don't see why a distinct longing for all sortsof beautiful things need be in the least inconsistent with absolutecontent. In fact, I know it isn't; for I have both. "

Mr. Allen was not enough of an idealist to understand this. He lookedpuzzled, and Mercy went on, --

"Why, Mr. Allen, I should like to have our home perfectly beautiful, justlike the most beautiful houses I have read about in books. I should liketo have the walls hung full of pictures, and the rooms filled full ofbooks; and I should like to have great greenhouses full of all the rareand exquisite flowers of the whole world. I'd like one house like thehouse you told me of, full of all the orchids, and another full of onlypalms and ferns. I should like to wear always the costliest of silks, veryplain and never of bright colors, but heavy and soft and shining; andlaces that were like fleecy clouds when they are just scattering. I shouldlike to be perfectly beautiful, and to have perfectly beautiful peoplearound me. But all this doesn't make me one bit less contented. I carejust as much for my few little, old books, and my two or three pictures, and our beds of sweet-williams and pinks. They all give me such pleasurethat I'm just glad I'm alive every minute. --What are you thinking of, Mr. Allen!" exclaimed Mercy, breaking off and coloring scarlet, as she becamesuddenly aware that her pastor was gazing at her with a scrutinizing lookshe had never seen on his face before. 

"Of your future life, Mercy, --of your future life. I am wondering what itwill be, and if the dear Lord will carry you safe through all thetemptations which the world must offer to one so sensitive as you are toall its beauties, " replied Mr. Allen, sadly. Mercy was displeased. She wasalways intolerant of this class of references to the Lord. Her sense ofhonesty took alarm at them. In a curt and half-petulant tone, sheanswered, --

"I suppose ministers have to say such things, Mr. Allen; but I wish youwouldn't say them to me. I do not think that the Lord made the beautifulthings in this world for temptations; and I believe he expects us to keepourselves out of mischief, and not throw the responsibility on to him!"

"Oh, Mercy, Mercy! don't say such things! They sound irreverent: theyshock me!" exclaimed Mr. Allen, deeply pained by Mercy's tone and words. 

"I am very sorry to shock you, Mr. Allen, " replied Mercy, in a gentlertone. "Pray forgive me. I do not think, however, there is half as muchreal irreverence in saying that the Lord expects us to look out forourselves and keep out of mischief as there is in teaching that he made awhole world full of people so weak and miserable that they couldn't lookafter themselves, and had to be lifted along all the time. "

Mr. Allen shook his head, and sighed. When Mercy was in this frame ofmind, it was of no use to argue with her. He returned to the subject ofher poetry. 

"If you will keep on reading and studying, Mercy, and will compel yourselfto write and rewrite carefully, there is no reason why you should not havea genuine success as a writer, and put yourself in a position to earnmoney enough to buy a great many comforts and pleasures for yourself, andyour mother also, " he said. 

At the mention of her mother, Mercy started, and exclaimed irrelevantly, --

"Dear me! I never once thought of mother. "

Mr. Allen looked, as well he might, mystified. "Never once thought of her!What do you mean, Mercy?"

"Why, I mean I never once thought about telling her about the money. Shewouldn't like it. "

"Why not? I should think she would not only like the money, but be veryproud of your being able to earn it in such a way. "

"Perhaps that might make a difference, " said Mercy, reflectively: "itwould seem quite different to her from taking in sewing, I suppose. "

"Well, I should think so, " laughed Mr. Allen. "Very different, indeed. "

"But it's earning money, working for money, all the same, " continuedMercy; "and you haven't the least idea how mother feels about that. Fathermust have been full of queer notions. She got it all from him. But I can'tsee that there is any difference between a woman's taking money for whatshe can do, and a man's taking money for what he can do. I can do sewing, and you can preach; and of the two, if people must go without one or theother, they could do without sermons better than without clothes, --eh, Mr. Allen?" and Mercy laughed mischievously. "But once when I told mother Ibelieved I would turn dressmaker for the town, I knew I could earn ever somuch money, besides doing a philanthropy in getting some decent gowns intothe community, she was so horrified and unhappy at the bare idea that Inever have forgotten it. It is just so with ever so many women here. Theywould rather half-starve than do any thing to earn money. For my part, Ithink it is nonsense. "

"Certainly, Mercy, --certainly it is, " replied Mr. Allen, anxious lest thisnew barrier should come between Mercy and her work. "It is only aprejudice. And you need never let your mother know any thing about it. She is so old and feeble it would not be worth while to worry her. "

Mercy's eyes grew dark and stern as she fixed them on Mr. Allen. "I wonderI believe any thing you say, Mr. Allen. How many things do you keep backfrom me, or state differently from what they are, to save my feelings? orto adapt the truth to my feebleness, which is not like the feebleness ofold age, to be sure, but is feebleness in comparison with your knowledgeand strength? I hate, hate, hate, your theories about deceiving people. Ishall certainly tell my mother, if I keep on writing, and am paid for it, "she said impetuously. 

"Very well. Of course, if you think it wrong to leave her in ignoranceabout it, you must tell her. I myself see no reason for your mentioningthe fact, unless you choose to. You are a mature and independent woman:she is old and childish. The relation between you is really reversed. Youare the mother, and she the child. Suppose she had become a writer whenyou were a little girl: would it have been her duty to tell you of it?"replied Mr. Allen. 

"I don't care! I shall tell her! I never have kept the least thing fromher yet, and I don't believe I ever will, " said Mercy. "You'll never makeme think it's right, Mr. Allen. What a good Jesuit you'd have made, wouldn't you?"

Mr. Allen colored. "Oh, child, how unjust you are!" he exclaimed. "But itmust be all my stupid way of putting things. One of these days, you'll seeit all differently. "

And she did. Firm as were her resolutions to tell her mother every thing, she could not find courage to tell her about the verses and the price paidfor them. Again and again she had approached the subject, and had beenfrightened back, --sometimes by her own unconquerable dislike to speakingof her poetry; sometimes, as in the instance above, by an outbreak on hermother's part of indignation at the bare suggestion of her earning money. After that conversation, Mercy resolved within herself to postpone the dayof the revelation, until there should be more to tell and more to show. 

"If ever I have a hundred dollars, I'll tell her then, " she thought. "Somuch money as that would make it seem better to her. And I will have agood many verses by that time to read to her. " And so the secret grewbigger and heavier, and yet Mercy grew more used to carrying it, until sheherself began to doubt whether Mr. Allen were not right, after all; and ifit would not be a pity to trouble the feeble old heart with a needlessperplexity and pain. 

Chapter V. 

When Stephen White saw his new tenants' first preparations for moving intohis house, he was conscious of a strangely mingled feeling, halfirritation, and half delight. Four weeks had passed since the unluckyevening on which he had taken Mercy to his mother's room, and he had notseen her face again. He had called at the hotel twice, but had found onlyMrs. Carr at home. Mercy had sent a messenger with only a verbal message, when she wished the key of the house. 

She had an undefined feeling that she would not come into any relationwith Stephen White, if it could be avoided. She was heartily glad that shehad not been in the house when he called. And yet, had she been in thehabit of watching her own mental states, she would have discovered thatStephen White was very much in her thoughts; that she had come towondering why she never met him in her walks; and, what was still moresignificant, to mistaking other men for him, at a distance. This is one ofthe oddest tricks of a brain preoccupied with the image of one humanbeing. One would think that it would make the eye clearer-sighted, well-nigh infallible, in the recognition of the loved form. Not at all. Waiting for her lover to appear, a woman will stand wearily watching at awindow, and think fifty times in sixty minutes that she sees him coming. Tall men, short men, dark men, light men; men with Spanish cloaks, and menin surtouts, --all wear, at a little distance, a tantalizing likeness tothe one whom they in no wise resemble. 

After such a watching as this, the very eye becomes disordered, as afterlooking at a bright color it sees a spectrum of a totally different tint;and, when the long looked-for person appears, he himself looks unnaturalat first, and strange. How well many women know this curious fact inlove's optics! I doubt if men ever watch long enough, and longinglyenough, for a woman's coming, to be so familiar with the phenomenon. Stephen White, however, had more than once during these four weeksquickened his pace to overtake some slender figure clad in black, neverdoubting that it was Mercy Philbrick, until he came so near that his eyeswere forced to tell him the truth. It was truly a strange thing that heand Mercy did not once meet during all these weeks. It was no doubt animportant element in the growth of their relation, this interval ofunacknowledged and combated curiosity about each other. Nature has amyriad of ways of bringing about her results. Seed-time and harvest areconstant, and the seasons all keep their routine; but no two fields havethe same method or measure in the summer's or the winter's dealings. Hearts lie fallow sometimes; and seeds of love swell very big in theground, all undisturbed and unsuspected. 

When Mercy and her mother drove up to the house, Stephen was standing athis mother's window. It was just at dusk. 

"Here they are, mother, " he said. "I think I will go out and meet them. "

Mrs. White lifted her eyes very slowly towards her son, and spoke in themeasured syllables and unvibrating tone which always marked her utterancewhen she was displeased. 

"Do you think you are under any obligation to do that? Suppose they hadhired a house of you in some other part of the town: would you have feltcalled upon to pay them that attention? I do not know what the usualduties of a landlord are. You know best. "

Stephen colored. This was the worst of his mother's many bad traits, --aninstinctive, unreasoning, and unreasonable jealousy of any mark ofattention or consideration shown to any other person than herself, even ifit did not in the smallest way interfere with her comfort; and this cold, sarcastic manner of speaking was, of all the forms of her ill-nature, theone he found most unbearable. He made no reply, but stood still at thewindow, watching Mercy's light and literally joyful movements, as shehelped her mother out of, and down from, the antiquated old carriage, andcarried parcel after parcel and laid them on the doorstep. 

Mrs. White continued in the same sarcastic tone, --

"Pray go and help move all their baggage in, Stephen, if it would give youany pleasure. It is nothing to me, I am sure, if you choose to be all thetime doing all sorts of things for everybody. I don't see the leastoccasion for it, that's all. "

"It seems to me only common neighborliness and friendly courtesy, mother, "replied Stephen, gently. "But you know you and I never agree upon suchpoints. Our views are radically different, and it is best not to discussthem. "

"Views!" ejaculated Mrs. White, in a voice more like the low growl of someanimal than like any sound possible to human organs. "I don't want to hearany thing about 'views' about such a trifle. Why don't you go, if you wantto, and be done with it?"

"It is too late now, " answered Stephen, in the same unruffled tone. "Theyhave gone in, and the carriage is driving off. "

"Well, perhaps they would like to have you put down their carpets forthem, or open their boxes, " sneered Mrs. White, still with the sameintolerable sarcastic manner. "I don't doubt they could find some use foryour services. "

"O mother, don't!" pleaded Stephen, "please don't. I do not wish to gonear them or ever see them, if it will make you any less happy. Do let ustalk of something else. "

"Who ever said a word about your not going near them, I'd like to know?Have I ever tried to shut you up, or keep you from going anywhere youwanted to? Answer me that, will you?"

"No, mother, " answered Stephen, "you never have. But I wish I could makeyou happier. "

"You do make me very happy, Steve, " said Mrs. White, mollified by thegentle answer. "You're a good boy, and always was; but it does vex me tosee you always so ready to be at everybody's beck and call; and, whereit's a woman, it naturally vexes me more. You wouldn't want to run anyrisk of being misunderstood, or making a woman care about you more thanshe ought. "

Stephen stared. This was a new field. Had his mother gone already thus farin her thoughts about Mercy Philbrick? And was her only thought of thepossibility of the young woman's caring for him, and not in the least ofhis caring for her?

And what would ever become of the peace of their daily life, if this kindof jealousy--the most exacting, most insatiable jealousy in theworld--were to grow up in her heart? Stephen was dumb with despair. Theapparent confidential friendliness and assumption of a tacit understandingand agreement between him and her on the matter, with which his mother hadsaid, "You wouldn't want to be misunderstood, or make a woman care morefor you than she ought, " struck terror to his very soul. The apparentamicableness of her remark at the present moment did not in the leastblind him to the enormous possibilities of future misery involved in sucha train of feeling and thought on her part. He foresaw himself involved ina perfect network of espionage and cross-questioning and suspicion, incomparison with which all he had hitherto borne at his mother's handswould seem trivial. All this flashed through his mind in the briefinstant that he hesitated before he replied in an off-hand tone, which foronce really blinded his mother, --

"Goodness, mother! whatever put such ideas into your head? Of course Ishould never run any such risk as that. "

"A man can't possibly be too careful, " remarked Mrs. White, sententiously. "The world's full of gossiping people, and women are very impressionable, especially such high-strung women as that young widow. A man can'tpossibly be too careful. Read me the paper now, Stephen. "

Stephen was only too thankful to take refuge in and behind the newspaper. A newspaper had so often been to him a shelter from his mother's eyes, aprotection from his mother's tongue, that, whenever he saw a storm or asiege of embarrassing questioning about to begin, he looked around for anewspaper as involuntarily as a soldier feels in his belt for his pistol. He had more than once smiled bitterly to himself at the consciousness ofthe flimsy bulwark; but he found it invaluable. Sometimes, it is true, herimpatient instinct made a keen thrust at the truth, and she would sayangrily, --

"Put down that paper! I want to see your face when I speak to you;" buthis reply, "Why, mother, I am reading. I was just going to read somethingaloud to you, " would usually disarm and divert her. It was one of hergreat pleasures to have him read aloud to her. It mattered little what heread: she was equally interested in the paragraphs of small local news, and in the telegraphic summaries of foreign affairs. A revolt in adistant European province, of which she had never heard even the name, wasneither more nor less exciting to her than the running away of a heiferfrom the premises of an unknown townsman. 

All through the evening, the sounds of moving of furniture, and briskgoing up and down stairs, came through the partition, and interruptedStephen's thoughts as much as they did his mother's. They had lived solong alone in the house in absolute quiet, save for the semi-occasionalstir of Marty's desultory house-cleaning, that these sounds weredisturbing, and not pleasant to hear. Stephen did not like them muchbetter than his mother did; and he gave her great pleasure by remarking, as he bade her good-night, --

"I suppose those people next door will get settled in a day or two, andthen we can have a quiet evening again. "

"I should hope so, " replied his mother. "I should think that a caravan ofcamels needn't have made so much noise. It's astonishing to me that folkscan't do things without making a racket; but I think some people feelthemselves of more consequence when they're making a great noise. "

The next morning, as Stephen was bidding his mother good-morning, heaccidentally glanced out of the window, and saw Mercy walking slowly awayfrom the house with a little basket on her arm. 

"She'll go to market every morning, " he thought to himself. "I shall seeher then. "

Not the slightest glance of Stephen's eye ever escaped his mother'snotice. 

"Ah! there goes the lady, " she said. "I wonder if she is always going downtown at this hour? You will have to manage to go either earlier or later, or else people will begin to talk about you. "

Stephen White had one rule of conduct: when he was uncertain what to do, not to do any thing. He broke it in this instance, and had reason toregret it long. He spoke impulsively on the instant, and revealed tomother his dawning interest in Mercy, and planted then and there anineffaceable germ of distrust in her mind. 

"Now, mother, " he said, "what's the use of you beginning to set up thisnew worry? Mrs. Philbrick is a widow, and very sad and lonely. She is thefriend of my friend, Harley Allen; and I am in duty bound to show her someattention, and help her if I can. She is also a bright, interestingperson; and I do not know so many such that I should turn my back on oneunder my own roof. I have not so many social pleasures that I should giveup this one, just on account of a possible gossip about it. "

Silence would have been wiser. Mrs. White did not speak for a moment ortwo; then she said, in a slow and deliberate manner, as if reflecting on aproblem, --"You enjoy Mrs. Philbrick's society, then, do you, Stephen? Howmuch have you seen of her?"

Still injudicious and unlike himself, Stephen answered, "Yes, I think Ishall enjoy it very much, and I think you will enjoy it more than I shall;for you may see great deal of her. I have only seen her once, you know. "

"I don't suppose she will care any thing about me, " replied Mrs. White, with an emphasis on the last personal pronoun which spoke volumes. "Veryfew people do. "

Stephen made no reply. It had just dawned on his consciousness that he hadbeen blundering frightfully, and his mind stood still for a moment, as aman halts suddenly, when he finds himself in a totally wrong road. To turnshort about is not always the best way of getting off a wrong road, thoughit may be the quickest way. Stephen turned short about, and exclaimed witha forced laugh, "Well, mother, I don't suppose it will make any greatdifference to you, if she doesn't. It is not a matter of any moment, anyhow, whether we see any thing of either of them or not. I thought sheseemed a bright, cheery sort of body, that's all. Good-by, " and he ran outof the house. 

Mrs. White lay for a long time with her eyes fixed on the wall. Theexpression of her face was of mingled perplexity and displeasure. After atime, these gave place to a more composed and defiant look. She had takenher resolve, had marked out her line of conduct. 

"I won't say another word to Stephen about her, " she thought. "I'll justwatch and see how things go. Nothing can happen in this house without myknowing it. "

The mischief was done; but Mrs. White was very much mistaken in the lastclause of her soliloquy. 

Meantime, Mercy was slowly walking towards the village, revolving her ownlittle perplexities, and with a mind much freer from the thought ofStephen White than it had been for four weeks. Mercy was in a dilemma. Their clock was broken, hopelessly broken. It had been packed in too fraila box; and heavier boxes placed above it had crashed through, making acomplete wreck of the whole thing, --frame, works, all. It was a high, old-fashioned Dutch clock, and had stood in the corner of theirsitting-room ever since Mercy could recollect. It had belonged to herfather's father, and had been her mother's wedding gift from him. 

"It's easy enough to get a clock that will keep good time, " thought Mercy, as she walked along; "but, oh, how I shall miss the dear old thing! Itlooked like a sort of belfry in the corner. I wonder if there are any suchclocks to be bought anywhere nowadays?" She stopped presently before ajeweller's and watchmaker's shop in the Brick Row, and eagerly scrutinizedthe long line of clocks standing in the window. Very ugly they allwere, --cheap, painted wood, of a shining red, and tawdry pictures on thedoors, which ran up to a sharp point in a travesty of the Gothic archoutline. 

"Oh, dear!" sighed Mercy, involuntarily aloud. 

"Bless my soul! Bless my soul!" fell suddenly upon her ear, in sharp, jerking syllables, accompanied by clicking taps of a cane on the sidewalk. She turned and looked into the face of her friend, "Old Man Wheeler, " whowas standing so near her that with each of his rapid shiftings from footto foot he threatened to tread on the hem of her gown. 

"Bless my soul! Bless my soul! Glad to see ye. Missed your face. How'reye gettin' on? Gone into your house? How's your mother? I'll come see you, if you're settled. Don't go to see anybody, --never go! never go! Peopleare all wolves, wolves, wolves; but I'll come an' see you. Like yourface, --good face, good face. What're you lookin' at? What're you lookin'at? Ain't goin' to buy any thin' out o' that winder, be ye? Trash, trash, trash! People are all cheats, cheats, " said the old man, breathlessly. 

"I'm afraid I'll have to, sir, " replied Mercy, vainly trying to keep themuscles of her face quiet. "I must buy a clock. Our clock got broken onthe way. "

"Broken? Clock broken? Mend it, mend it, child. I'll show you a good man, not this feller in here, --he's only good for outsides. Holler sham, hollersham! What kind o' clock was it?"

"Oh, that's the worst of it. It was an old clock my grandfather broughtfrom Holland. It reached up to the ceiling, and had beautiful carved workon it. But it's in five hundred pieces, I do believe. A heavy box crushedit. Even the brass work inside is all jammed and twisted. Our things cameby sea, " replied Mercy. 

"Bless my soul! Bless my soul! Come on, come on! I'll show you, " exclaimedthe eccentric old man, starting off at a quick pace. Mercy did not stir. Presently, he looked back, wheeled, and came again so near that he nearlytrod on her gown. 

"Bless my soul! Didn't tell her, --bad habit, bad habit. Never do makepeople understand. Come on, child, --come on! I've got a clock like yours. Don't want it. Never use it. Run down twenty years ago. Guess we can findit. Come on, come on!" he exclaimed. 

"But, Mr. Wheeler, " said Mercy, half-frightened at his manner, yettrusting him in spite of herself, "do you really want to sell the clock?If you have no use for it, I'd be very glad to buy it of you, if it lookseven a little like our old one. I will bring my mother to look at it. "

"Fine young woman! fine young woman! Good face. Never mistaken in a faceyet. Don't sell clocks: never sold a clock yet. I'll give yer the clock, if yer like it. Come on, child, --come on!" and he laid his hand on Mercy'sarm and drew her along. 

Mercy held back. "Thank you, Mr. Wheeler, " she said. "You're very kind. But I think my mother would not like to have you give us a clock. I willbuy it of you; but I really cannot go with you now. Tell me where theclock is, and I will come with my mother to see it. "

The old man stamped his foot and his cane both with impatience. "Pshaw!pshaw!" he said: "women all alike, all alike. " Then with an evident effortto control his vexation, and speak more slowly, he said, "Can't you seeI'm an old man, child? Don't pester me now. Come, on, come on! I tell youI want to show yer that clock. Give it to you 's well 's not. Stood in thelumber-room twenty years. Come on, come on! It's right up here, tensteps. " And again he took Mercy by the arm. Reluctantly she followed him, thinking to herself, "Oh, what a rash thing this is to do! How do I knowbut he really is crazy?"

He led the way up an outside staircase at the end of the Brick Row, and, after fumbling a long time in several deep pockets, produced a huge rustyiron key, and unlocked the door at the head of the stairs. A very strangelife that key had led in pockets. For many years it had slept under MissOrra White's maidenly black alpacas, and had been the token of confinementand of release to scores of Miss Orra's unruly pupils; then it had had aninterval of dignified leisure, lifted to the level of the Odd Fellowsregalia, and only used by them on rare occasions. For the last ten years, however, it had done miscellaneous duty as warder of Old Man Wheeler'slumber-room. If a key could be supposed to peep through a keyhole, andspeculate on the nature of the service it was rendering to humanity, inkeeping safe the contents of the room into which it gazed, this key mighthave indulged in fine conjectures, and have passed its lifetime in a stateof chronic bewilderment. Each time that the door of this old storehouseopened, it opened to admit some new, strange, nondescript article, bearingno relation to any thing that had preceded it. "Old Man Wheeler" added toall his other eccentricities a most eccentric way of collecting his debts. He had dealings of one sort or another with everybody. He drove hardbargains, and was inexorable as to dates. When a debtor came, pleading fora short delay on a payment, the old man had but one reply, --

"No, no, no! What yer got? what yer got? Gie me somethin', gie mesomethin'. Settle, settle, settle! Gie me any thin' yer got. Settle, settle, settle!" The consequences of twenty years' such traffic as thiscan more easily be imagined than described. The room was piled from floorto roof with its miscellaneous collections: junk-shops, pawnbrokers'cellars, and old women's garrets seemed all to have disgorged themselveshere. A huge stack of calico comforters, their tufts gray with dust andcobwebs, lay on top of two old ploughs, in one corner: kegs of nails, boxes of soap, rolls of leather, harnesses stiff and cracking with age, piles of books, chairs, bedsteads, andirons, tubs, stone ware, crockeryware, carpets, files of old newspapers, casks, feather-beds, jars ofdruggists' medicines, old signboards, rakes, spades, school-desks, --inshort, all things that mortal man ever bought or sold, --were here, packedin piles and layers, and covered with dust as with a gray coverlid. Ateach foot-fall on the loose boards of the floor, clouds of stifling dustarose, and strange sounds were heard in and behind the piles of rubbish, as if all sorts of small animals might be skurrying about, and givingalarms to each other. 

Mercy stood still on the threshold, her face full of astonishment. Thedust made her cough; and at first she could hardly see which way to step. The old man threw down his cane, and ran swiftly from corner to corner, and pile to pile, peering around, pulling out first one thing and thenanother. He darted from spot to spot, bending lower and lower, as he grewmore impatient in his search, till he looked like a sort of human weaselgliding about in quest of prey. 

"Trash, trash, nothin' but trash!" he muttered to himself as he ran. "Burnit up some day. Trash, trash!"

"How did you get all these queer things together, Mr. Wheeler?" Mercyventured to say at last "Did you keep a store?"

The old man did not reply. He was tugging away at a high stack of rolls ofundressed leather, which reached to the ceiling in one corner. He pulledthem too hastily, and the whole stack tumbled forward, and rolled heavilyin all directions, raising a suffocating dust, through which the old man'sfigure seemed to loom up as through a fog, as he skipped to the right andleft to escape the rolling bales. 

"O Mr. Wheeler!" cried Mercy, "are you hurt?"

He laughed a choked laugh, more like a chuckle than like a laugh. 

"He! he! child. Dust don't hurt me. Goin' to return to 't presently. Madeon 't! made on 't! Don't see why folks need be so 'fraid on 't! He! he! 'Tis pretty choky, though. " And he sat down on one of the leather rolls, andheld his sides through a hard coughing fit. As the dust slowly subsided, Mercy saw standing far back in the corner, where the bales of leather hadhidden it, an old-fashioned clock, so like her own that she gave a low cryof surprise. 

"Oh, is that the clock you meant, Mr. Wheeler?" she exclaimed. 

"Yes, yes, that's it. Nice old clock. Took it for debt. Cost me more'n't's wuth. As fur that matter, 'tain't wuth nothin' to me. Wouldn't hev itin the house 'n' more than I'd git the town 'us tower in for a clock. D'yelike it, child? Ye can hev it's well's not. I'd like to give it to ye. "

"I should like it very much, very much indeed, " replied Mercy. "But Ireally cannot think of taking it, unless you let us pay for it. "

The old man sprung to his feet with such impatience that the leather balerolled away from him, and he nearly lost his balance. Mercy sprang forwardand caught him. 

"Bless my soul! Bless my soul! Don't pester me, child! Don't you see I'man old man? I tell ye I'll give ye the clock, an' I won't sell it terye, --won't, won't, won't, " and he picked up his cane, and stood leaningupon it with both his hands clasped on it, and his head bent forward, eagerly scanning Mercy's face. She hesitated still, and began to speakagain. 

"But, Mr. Wheeler, "--

"Don't 'but' me. There ain't any buts about it. There's the clock. Takeit, child, --take it, take it, take it, or else leave it, just's you like. I ain't a-goin' to saddle ye with it; but I think ye'd be very silly notto take it, --silly, silly. "

Mercy began to think so too. The clock was its own advocate, almost asstrong as the old man's pleading. 

"Very well, Mr. Wheeler, " she said. "I will take the clock, though I don'tknow what my mother will say. It is a most valuable present. I hope wecan do something for you some day. "

"Tut, tut, tut!" growled the old man. "Just like all the rest o' theworld. Got no faith, --can't believe in gettin' somethin' for nothin'. You're right, child, --right, right. 'S a general thing, people are cheats, cheats, cheats. Get all your money away, --wolves, wolves, wolves! Stayhere, child, a minute. I'll get two men to carry it. " And, before Mercyrealized his intention, he had shut the door, locked it, and left heralone in the warehouse. Her first sensation was of sharp terror; but sheran to the one window which was accessible, and, seeing that it looked outon the busiest thoroughfare of the town, she sat down by it to await theold man's return. In a very few moments, she heard the sounds of steps onthe stairs, the door was thrown open, and the old man, still talking tohimself in muttered tones, pushed into the room two ragged vagabonds whomhe had picked up on the street. 

They looked as astonished at the nature of the place as Mercy had. Withgaping mouths and roving eyes, they halted on the threshold. 

"Come in, come in! What 're ye 'bout? Earn yer money, earn yer money!"exclaimed the old man, pointing to the clock, and bidding them take it upand carry it out. 

"Now mind! Quarter a piece, quarter a piece, --not a cent more. Do yeunderstand? Hark 'e! do ye understand? Not a cent more, " he said, following them out of the door. Then turning to Mercy, he exclaimed, --

"Bless my soul! Bless my soul! Forgot you, child. Come on, come on! I'llgo with you, else those rascals will cheat you. Men are wolves, wolves, wolves. They're to carry the clock up to your house for a quarter apiece. But I'll come on with you. Got half a dollar?"

"Oh, yes, " laughed Mercy, much pleased that the old man was willing sheshould pay the porters. "Oh, yes, I have my portemonnaie here, " holding itup. "This is the cheapest clock ever sold, I think; and you are very goodto let me pay the men. "

The old man looked at her with a keen, suspicious glance. 

"Good? eh! good? Why, ye didn't think I was goin' to give ye money, didye? Oh, no, no, no! Not money. Never give money. "

This was very true. It would probably have cost him a severer pang to giveaway fifty cents than to have parted with the entire contents of thestorehouse. Mercy laughed aloud. 

"Why, Mr. Wheeler, " she said, "you have given me just the same as money. Such a clock as this must have cost a good deal, I am sure. "

"No, no, child! It's very different, different. Clock wasn't any use tome, wasn't wuth any thin'. Money's of use, use, use. Can't have enoughon't. People get it all away from you. They're wolves, wolves, wolves, "replied the old man, running along in advance of Mercy, and rapping one ofthe men who were carrying the clock, sharply on his shoulder. 

"Keep your end up there! keep it up! I won't pay you, if you don't carryyour half, " he exclaimed. 

It was a droll procession, and everybody turned to look at it: the tworagged men carrying the quaint-fashioned old clock, from which the dustshook off at every jolt, revealing the carved scrolls and figures upon it:following them, Mercy, with her expressive face full of mirth andexcitement; and the old man, now ahead, now lagging behind, now talking inan eager and animated manner with Mercy, now breaking off to admonish orchastise the bearers of the clock. The eccentric old fellow used his caneas freely as if it had been a hand. There were few boys in town who hadnot felt its weight; and his more familiar acquaintances knew the touch ofit far better than they knew the grip of his fingers. It "saved steps, " heused to say; though of steps the old man seemed any thing but chary, as hewas in the habit of taking them perpetually, without advancing orretreating, changing from one foot to the other, as uneasily as a goosedoes. 

Stephen White happened to be looking out of the window, when this uniqueprocession of the clock passed his office. He could not believe what hesaw. He threw up the window and leaned out, to assure himself that he wasnot mistaken. Mercy heard the sound, looked up, and met Stephen's eye. Shecolored violently, bowed, and involuntarily quickened her pace. Hercompanion halted, and looked up to see what had arrested her attention. When he saw Stephen's face, he said, --

"Pshaw!" and turned again to look at Mercy. The bright color had not yetleft her cheek. The old man gazed at her angrily for a moment, thenstopped short, planted his cane on the ground, and said in a loud tone, all the while peering into her face as if he would read her verythoughts, --

"Don't you know that Steve White isn't good for any thin'? Poor stock, poor stock! Father before him poor stock, too. Don't you go to lettin' himhandle your money, child. Mind now! I'll be a good friend to you, ifyou'll do 's I say; but, if Steve White gets hold on you, I'll havenothin' to do with you. Mind that, eh? eh?"

Mercy had a swift sense of angry resentment at these words; but sherepelled it, as she would have resisted the impulse to be angry with alittle child. 

"Mr. Wheeler, " she said with a gentle dignity of tone, which was notthrown away on the old man, "I do not know why you should speak so to meabout Mr. White. He is almost an entire stranger to me as yet. We live inhis house; but we do not know him or his mother yet, except in the mostformal way. He seems to be a very agreeable man, " she added with a littletinge of perversity. 

"Hm! hm!" was all the old man's reply; and he did not speak again tillthey reached Mercy's gate. Here the clock-carriers were about to set theirburden down. Mr. Wheeler ran towards them with his cane outstretched. 

"Here! here! you lazy rascals! Into the house! into the house, else youdon't get any quarter!

"Well I came along, child, --well I came along. They'd ha' left it rightout doors here. Cheats! People are all cheats, cheats, cheats, " heexclaimed. 

Into the house, without a pause, without a knock, into poor bewilderedMrs. Carr's presence he strode, the men following fast on his steps, andMercy unable to pass them. 

"Where'll you have it? Where'll you have it, child? Bless my soul! where'sthat girl!" he exclaimed, looking back at Mercy, who stood on the frontdoorstep, vainly trying to hurry in to explain the strange scene to hermother. Mrs. Carr was, as usual, knitting. She rose up suddenly, confusedat the strange apparitions before her, and let her knitting fall on thefloor. The ball rolled swiftly towards Mr. Wheeler, and tangled the yarnaround his feet. He jumped up and down, all the while brandishing hiscane, and muttering, "Pshaw! pshaw! Damn knitting! Always did hate thesight on't. " But, kicking out to the right and the left vigorously, hesoon snapped the yarn, and stood free. 

"Mother! mother!" called Mercy from behind, "this is the gentleman I toldyou of, --Mr. Wheeler. He has very kindly given us this beautiful clock, almost exactly like ours. "

The sound of Mercy's voice reassured the poor bewildered old woman, and, dropping her old-fashioned courtesy, she said timidly, --

"Pleased to see you, sir. Pray take a chair. "

"Chair? chair? No, no! Never do sit down in houses, --never, never. Where'll you have it, mum? Where'll you have it?

"Don't you dare put that down! Wait till you are told to, you lazyrascals!" he exclaimed, lifting his cane, and threatening the men who wereon the point of setting the clock down, very naturally thinking they mightbe permitted at last to rest a moment. 

"Oh, Mr. Wheeler!" said Mercy, "let them put it down anywhere, please, forthe present. I never can tell at first where I want a thing to stand. Ishall have to try it in different corners before I am sure, " and Mercytook out her portemonnaie, and came forward to pay the bearers. As sheopened it, the old man stepped nearer to her, and peered curiously intoher hand. The money in the portemonnaie was neatly folded and assorted, each kind by itself, in a separate compartment. The old man nodded, andmuttered to himself, "Fine young woman! fine young woman! Business, business!--Who taught you, child, to sort your money that way?" hesuddenly asked. 

"Why, no one taught me, " replied Mercy. "I found that it saved time not tohave to fumble all through a portemonnaie for a ten-cent piece. It looksneater, too, than to have it all in a crumpled mass, " she added, smilingand looking up in the old man's face. "I don't like disorder. Such a placeas your store-room would drive me crazy. "

The old man was not listening. He was looking about the room with adissatisfied expression of countenance. In a few moments, he saidabruptly, --

"'S this all the furniture you've got?"

Mrs. Carr colored, and looked appealingly at Mercy; but Mercy laughed, and replied as she would have answered her own grandfather, --

"Oh, no, not all we have! We have five more rooms furnished. It is all wehave for this room, however. These rooms are all larger than our roomswere at home, and so the things look scanty. But I shall get more bydegrees. "

"Hm! hm! Want any thing out o' my lumber-room? Have it's well's not. Things no good to anybody. "

"Oh, no, thank you, Mr. Wheeler. We have all we need. I could not think oftaking any thing more from you. We are under great obligation to you nowfor the clock, " said Mercy; and Mrs. Carr bewilderedly ejaculated, "Oh, no, sir, --no, sir! There isn't any call for you to give us any thin'. "

While they were speaking, the old man was rapidly going out of the house;with quick, short steps like a child, and tapping his cane on the floor atevery step. In the doorway he halted a moment, and, without looking back, said, "Well, well, let me know, if you do want any thing. Have it's well'snot, " and he was gone. 

"Oh, Mercy! he's crazy, sure's you're alive. You'll get took up for hevin'this clock. Whatever made you take it, child?" exclaimed Mrs. Carr, walking round and round the clock, and dusting it here and there with acorner of her apron. 

"Well, mother, I am sure I don't know. I couldn't seem to help it: he wasso determined, and the clock was such a beauty. I don't think he is crazy. I think he is simply very queer; and he is ever, ever so rich. The clockisn't really of any value to him; that is, he'd never do any thing withit. He has a huge room half as big as this house, just crammed withthings, all sorts of things, that he took for debts; and this clock wasamong them. I think it gave the old man a real pleasure to have me takeit; so that is one more reason for doing it. "

"Well, you know best, Mercy, " said Mrs. Carr, a little sadly; "but I can'tquite see it's you do. It seems to me amazin' like a charity. I wish hehadn't never found you out. "

"I don't, mother. I believe he is going to be my best crony here, " saidMercy, laughing; "and I'm sure nobody can say any thing ill-natured aboutsuch a crony as he would be. He must be seventy years old, at least. "

When Stephen came home that night, he received from his mother a mostgraphic account of the arrival of the clock. She had watched theprocession from her window, and had heard the confused sounds of talkingand moving of furniture in the house afterward. Marty also had suppliedsome details, she having been surreptitiously overlooking the wholeaffair. 

"I must say, " remarked Mrs. White, "that it looks very queer. Where didshe pick up Old Man Wheeler? Who ever heard of his being seen walking witha woman before? Even as a young man, he never would have any thing to dowith them; and it was always a marvel how he got married. I used to knowhim very well. "

"But, mother, " urged Stephen, "for all we know, they may be relations orold friends of his. You forget that we know literally nothing about thesepeople. So far from being queer, it may be the most natural thing in theworld that he should be helping her fit up her house. "

But in his heart Stephen thought, as his mother did, that it was veryqueer. 

Chapter VI. 

The beautiful white New England winter had set in. As far as the eye couldreach, nothing but white could be seen. The boundary, lines of stone wallsand fences were gone, or were indicated only by raised and rounded linesof the same soft white. On one side of these were faintly pencilled darkshadows in the morning and in the afternoon; but at high noon the fieldswere as unbroken a white as ever Arctic explorer saw, and the roads shonein the sun like white satin ribbons flung out in all directions. Thegroves of maple and hickory and beech were bare. Their delicate gray tintsspread in masses over the hillsides like a transparent, gray veil, throughwhich every outline of the hills was clear, but softened. The massivepines and spruces looked almost black against the white of the snow, andthe whole landscape was at once shining and sombre; an effect which ispeculiar to the New England winter in the hill country, and is alwayseither very depressing or very stimulating to the soul. Dreamy and inertand phlegmatic people shiver and huddle, see only the sombreness, and findthe winter one long imprisonment in the dark. But to a joyous, brisk, sanguine soul, the clear, crisp, cold air is like wine; and the whitenessand sparkle and shine of the snow are like martial music, a constantexcitement and spell. 

Mercy's soul thrilled within her with new delight and impulse each day. The winter had always oppressed her before. On the seashore, winter meansraw cold, a pale, gray, angry ocean, fierce winds, and scanty wet snows. This brilliant, frosty air, so still and dry that it never seemed cold, this luxuriance of snow piled soft and high as if it meant shelter andwarmth, --as indeed it does, --were very wonderful to Mercy. She would haveliked to be out of doors all day long: it seemed to her a fairer thansummer-time. She followed the partially broken trails of the wood-cuttersfar into the depths of the forests, and found there on sunny days, insheltered spots, where the feet of the men and horses and the runners ofthe heavy sledges had worn away the snow, green mosses and glossy fernsand shining clumps of the hepatica. It was a startling sight on a Decemberday, when the snow was lying many inches deep, to come suddenly on Mercywalking in the middle of the road, her hands filled with green ferns andmosses and vines. There were three different species of ground-pine inthese woods, and hepatica and pyrola and wintergreen, and thickets oflaurel. What wealth for a lover of wild, out-door things! Each day Mercybore home new treasures, until the house was almost as green and fragrantas a summer wood. Day after day, Mrs. White, from her point of observationat her window, watched the lithe young figure coming down the road, bearing her sheaves of boughs and vines, sometimes on her shoulder, aslightly and gracefully as a peasant girl of Italy might bear her poisedbasket of grapes. Gradually a deep wonder took possession of the lonelyold woman's soul. 

"Whatever can she do with all that green stuff?" she thought. "She'scarried in enough to trim the 'Piscopal church twice over. "

At last she shared her perplexity with Marty. 

"Marty, " said she one day, "have you ever seen Mrs. Philbrick come intothe house without somethin' green in her hands? What do you suppose she'sgoin' to do with it all?"

"Lord knows, " answered Marty. "I've been a speckkerlatin' about that verything myself. They can't be a brewin' beer this time o' year; but I seeher yesterday with her hands full o' pyroly. "

"I wish you would make an errand in there, Marty, " said Mrs. White, "andsee if you can any way find out what it's all for. She's carried in prettynear a grove of pine-trees, I should say. "

The willing Marty went, and returned with a most surprising tale. Everyroom was wreathed with green vines. There were evergreen trees in boxes;the window-seats were filled with pots of green things growing; wavingmasses of ferns hung down from brackets on the walls. 

"I jest stood like a dumb critter the minnit I got in, " said Marty. "Ididn't know whether I wuz in the house or out in the woods, the wholeplace smelled o' hemlock so, an' looked so kind o' sunny and shady all teroncet. --I jest wished Steve could see it. He'd go wild, " added theunconsciously injudicious Marty. 

Mrs. White's face darkened instantly. 

"It must be very unwholesome to have rooms made so dark and damp, " shesaid. "I should think people might have more sense. "

"Oh, it wa'n't dark a mite!" interrupted Marty, eagerly. "There wuz ablazin' fire on the hearth in the settin'-room, an' the sun a-streamin'into both the south winders. It made shadders on the floor, jest as itdoes in the woods. I'd jest ha' liked to set down there a spell, and notdo nothin' but watch 'em. "

At this moment, a low knock at the door interrupted the conversation. Marty opened the door, and there stood Mercy herself, holding in her handssome wreaths of laurel and pine, and a large earthen dish with fernsgrowing in it. It was the day before Christmas; and Mercy had been busyall day, putting up the Christmas decorations in her rooms. As she hungcross after cross, and wreath after wreath, she thought of the poor, lonely, and peevish old woman she had seen there weeks before, andwondered if she would have any Christmas evergreens to brighten her room. 

"I don't suppose a man would ever think of such things, " thought Mercy. "I've a great mind to carry her in some. I'll never muster courage to goin there, unless I go to carry her something; and I may as well do itfirst as last. Perhaps she doesn't care any thing about things from thewoods; but I think they may do her good without her knowing it. Besides, Ipromised to go. " It was now ten days since Stephen, meeting Mercy in thetown one day, had stopped, and said to her, in a half-sad tone which hadtouched her, --

"Do you really never mean to come again to see my mother? I do assure youit would be a great kindness. "

His tone conveyed a great deal, --his tone and his eyes. They said asplainly as words could have said, --

"I know that my mother treated you abominably, I know she is verydisagreeable; but, after all, she is helpless and alone, and if you couldonly once get her to like you, and would come and see her now and then, itwould be a kindness to her, and a great help to me; and I do yearn to knowyou better; and I never can, unless you will begin the acquaintance bybeing on good terms with my mother. "

All this Stephen's voice and eyes had said to Mercy's eyes and heart, while his lips, pronounced the few commonplace words which were addressedto her ear. All this Mercy was revolving in her thoughts, as she deftlyand with almost a magic touch laid the soft mosses in the earthen dish, and planted them thick with ferns and hepatica and partridge-berry vinesand wintergreen. But all she was conscious of saying to herself was, "Mr. White asked me to go; and it really is not civil not to do it, and I mayas well have it over with. "

When Mrs. White's eyes first fell on Mercy in the doorway, they rested onher with the same cold gaze which had so repelled her on their firstinterview. But no sooner did she see the dish of mosses than her facelighted up, and exclaiming, "Oh, where did you get those partridge-berryvines?" she involuntarily stretched out her hands. The ice was broken. Mercy felt at home at once, and at once conceived a true sentiment ofpity for Mrs. White, which never wholly died out of her heart. Kneeling onthe floor by her bed, she said eagerly, --

"I am so glad you like them, Mrs. White. Let me hold them down low, whereyou can look at them. "

Some subtle spell must have linked itself in Mrs. White's brain with thedainty red partridge berries. Her eyes filled with tears, as she liftedthe vines gently in her fingers, and looked at them. Mercy watched herwith great surprise; but with the quick instinct of a poet's temperamentshe thought, "She hasn't seen them very likely since she was a littlegirl. "

"Did you use to like them when you were a child, Mrs. White?" she asked. 

"I used to pick them when I was young, " replied Mrs. White, dreamily, --"when I was young: not when I was a child, though. May I haveone of them to keep?" she asked presently, still holding an end of one ofthe vines in her fingers. 

"Oh, I brought them in for you, for Christmas, " exclaimed Mercy. "They areall for you. "

Mrs. White was genuinely astonished. No one had ever done this kind ofthing for her before. Stephen always gave her on her birthday and onChristmas a dutiful and somewhat appropriate gift, though very sorely hewas often puzzled to select a thing which should not jar either on his owntaste or his mother's sense of utility. But a gift of this kind, a simplelittle tribute to her supposed womanly love of the beautiful, a thoughtfularrangement to give her something pleasant to look upon for a time, noone had ever before made. It gave her an emotion of real gratitude, suchas she had seldom felt. 

"You are very kind, indeed, --very, " she said with emphasis, and in agentler tone than Mercy had before heard from her lips. "I shall have agreat deal of comfort out of it. "

Then Mercy set the dish on a small table, and hung up the wreaths in thewindows. As she moved about the room lightly, now and then speaking in hergay, light-hearted voice, Mrs. White thought to herself, --

"Steve was right. She is a wonderful cheery body. " And, long after Mercyhad gone, she continued to think happily of the pleasant incident of thefresh bright face and the sweet voice. For the time being, her jealousdistrust of the possible effect of these upon her son slumbered. 

When Stephen entered his mother's room that night, his heart gave a suddenbound at the sight of the green wreaths and the dish of ferns. He saw themon fhe first instant after opening the door; he knew in the same instantthat the hands of Mercy Philbrick must have placed them there; but, also, in that same brief instant came to him an involuntary impulse to pretendthat he did not observe them; to wait till his mother should have spokenof them first, that he might know whether she were pleased or not by thegift. So infinitely small are the first beginnings of the course of deceitinto which tyranny always drives its victim. It could not be called adeceit, the simple forbearing to speak of a new object which one observedin a room. No; but the motive made it a sure seed of a deceit: for whenMrs. White said, "Why, Stephen, you haven't noticed the greens! Look inthe windows!" his exclamation of apparent surprise, "Why, how lovely!Where did they come from?" was a lie. It did not seem so, however, toStephen. It seemed to him simply a politic suppression of a truth, to savehis mother's feelings, to avoid a possibility of a war of words. MercyPhilbrick, under the same circumstances, would have replied, --

"Oh, yes, I saw them as soon as I came in. I was waiting for you to tellme about them, " and even then would have been tortured by her conscience, because she did not say why she was waiting. 

While his mother was telling him of Mercy's call, and of the report Martyhad brought back of the decorations of the rooms, Stephen stood with hisface bent over the ferns, apparently absorbed in studying each leafminutely; then he walked to the windows and examined the wreaths. He felthimself so suddenly gladdened by these tokens of Mercy's presence, and byhis mother's evident change of feeling towards her, that he feared hisface would betray too much pleasure; he feared to speak, lest his voiceshould do the same thing. He was forced to make a great effort to speak ina judiciously indifferent tone, as he said, --

"Indeed, they are very pretty. I never saw mosses so beautifully arranged;and it was so thoughtful of her to bring them in for you for ChristmasEve. I wish we had something to send in to them, don't you?"

"Well, I've been thinking, " said his mother, "that we might ask them tocome in and take dinner with us to-morrow. Marty's made some capitalmince-pies, and is going to roast a turkey. I don't believe they'll begoin' to have any thing better, do you, Stephen?"

Stephen walked very suddenly to the fire, and made a feint of rearrangingit, that he might turn his face entirely away from his mother's sight. Hewas almost dumb with astonishment. A certain fear mingled with it. Whatmeant this sudden change? Did it portend good or evil? It seemed toosudden, too inexplicable, to be genuine. Stephen had yet to learn themagic power which Mercy Philbrick had to compel the liking even of peoplewho did not choose to like her. 

"Why, yes, mother, " he said, "that would be very nice. It is a long timesince we had anybody to Christmas dinner. "

"Well, suppose you run in after tea and ask them, " replied Mrs. White, inthe friendliest of tones. 

"Yes, I'll go, " answered Stephen, feeling as if he were a man talking in adream. "I have been meaning to go in ever since they came. "

After tea, Stephen sat counting the minutes till he should go. To allappearances, he was buried in his newspaper, occasionally reading aparagraph aloud to his mother. He thought it better that she should remindhim of his intention to go; that the call should be purely at hersuggestion. The patience and silence with which he sat waiting for her toremember and speak of it were the very essence of deceit again, --twice inthis one hour an acted lie, of which his dulled conscience took no noteor heed. Fine and impalpable as the meshes of the spider's-web are thebands and bonds of a habit of concealment; swift-growing, too, and inever-widening circles, like the same glittering net woven for death. 

At last Mrs. White said, "Steve, I think it's getting near nine o'clock. You'd better go in next door before it's any later. "

Stephen pulled out his watch. By his own sensations, he would have saidthat it must be midnight. 

"Yes, it is half-past eight. I suppose I had better go now, " he said, andbade his mother good-night. 

He went out into the night with a sense of ecstasy of relief and joy. Hewas bewildered at himself. How this strong sentiment towards MercyPhilbrick had taken possession of him he could not tell. He walked up anddown in the snowy path in front of the house for some minutes, questioninghimself, sounding with a delicious dread the depths of this strange sea inwhich he suddenly found himself drifting. He went back to the day whenHarley Allen's letter first told him of the two women who might become histenants. He felt then a presentiment that a new element was to beintroduced into his life; a vague, prophetic sense of some change at hand. Then came the first interview, and his sudden disappointment, which he nowblushed to recollect. It seemed to him as if some magician must have laida spell upon his eyes, that he did not see even in that darkness howlovely a face Mercy had, did not feel even through all the embarrassmentand strangeness the fascination of her personal presence. Then he dweltlingeringly on the picture, which had never faded from his brain, of hisnext sight of her, as she sat on the old stone wall, with the gaymaple-leaves and blackberry-vines in her lap. From that day to thepresent, he had seen her only a half dozen times, and only for a chancegreeting as they had passed each other in the street; but it seemed to himthat she had never been really absent from him, so conscious was he of herall the time. So absorbed was he in these thoughts that a half-hour wasgone before he realized it, and the village bells were ringing for nine o'clock when he knocked on the door of the wing. 

Mrs. Carr had rolled up her knitting, and was just on the point of goingupstairs. Their little maid of all work had already gone to bed, whenStephen's loud knock startled them all. 

"Gracious alive! Mercy, what's that?" exclaimed Mrs. Carr, all sorts offormless terrors springing upon her at once. Mercy herself was astonished, and ran hastily to open the door. When she saw Stephen standing there, herastonishment was increased, and she looked it so undisguisedly that hesaid, --

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Philbrick. I know it is late, but my mother sentme in with a message. " . . . 

"Pray come in, Mr. White, " interrupted Mercy. "It is not really late, onlywe keep such absurdly early hours, and are so quiet, as we know nobodyhere, that a knock at the door in the evening makes us all jump. Praycome in, " and she threw open the door into the sitting-room, where thelamps had already been put out, and the light of a blazing hickory logmade long flickering shadows on the crimson carpet. In this dancing light, the room looked still more like a grove than it had to Marty at high noon. Stephen's eyes fastened hungrily on the sight. 

"Your room is almost too much to resist, " he said; "but I will not come innow. I did not know it was so late. My mother wishes to know if you andyour mother will not come in and eat a Christmas dinner with us to-morrow. We live in the plainest way, and cannot entertain in the ordinaryacceptation of the term. We only ask you to our ordinary home-dinner, " headded, with a sudden sense of the incongruity between the atmosphere ofrefined elegance which pervaded Mercy's simple, little room, and theexpression which all his efforts had never been able to banish from hismother's parlor. 

"Oh thank you, Mr. White. You are very good. I think we should like tocome very much. Mother and I were just saying that it would be the firstChristmas dinner we ever ate alone. But you must come in, Mr. White, --Iinsist upon it, " replied Mercy, stretching out one hand towards him, as ifto draw him in. 

Stephen went. On the threshold of the sitting-room he paused and stoodsilent for some minutes. Mercy was relighting the lamps. 

"Oh, Mrs. Philbrick!" he exclaimed, "won't you please not light the lamps. This firelight on these evergreens is the loveliest thing I ever saw. "

Too unconventional to think of any reasons why she should not sit withStephen White alone by firelight in her own house, Mercy blew out the lampshe had lighted, and drawing a chair close up to the hearth sat down, andclasping her hands in her lap looked eagerly into Stephen's face, and saidas simply as a child, --

"I like firelight, too, a great deal better than any other light. Someevenings we do not light the lamps at all. Mother can knit just as wellwithout much light, and I can think better. "

Mercy was sitting in a chair so low that, to look at Stephen, she had tolift her face. It was the position in which her face was sweetest. Somelines, which were a shade too strong and positive when her face fullyconfronted you, disappeared entirely when it was thrown back and her eyeswere lifted. It was then as ingenuous and tender and trustful a face as ifshe had been but eight instead of eighteen. 

Stephen forgot himself, forgot the fact that Mercy was comparatively astranger, forgot every thing, except the one intense consciousness of thissweet woman-face looking up into his. Bending towards her, he saidsuddenly, --

"Mrs. Philbrick, your face is the very loveliest face I have ever seen inmy life. Do not be angry with me. Oh, do not!" he continued, seeing thecolor deepen in Mercy's cheeks, and a stern expression gathering in hereyes, as she looked steadily at him with unutterable surprise. "Do not beangry with me. I could not help saying it; but I do not say it as mengenerally say such things. I am not like other men: I have lived aloneall my life with my mother. You need not mind my saying your face islovely, any more than my saying that the ferns on the walls are lovely. "

If Stephen had known Mercy from her childhood, he could not have framedhis words more wisely. Every fibre of her artistic nature recognized thepossibility of a subtle truth in what he said, and his calm, dreamy toneand look heightened this impression. Moreover, as Stephen's soul had beenduring all the past four weeks slowly growing into the feeling which madeit inevitable that he should say these words on first looking closely andintimately into Mercy's face, so had her soul been slowly growing into thefeeling which made it seem not really foreign or unnatural to her that heshould say them. 

She answered him with hesitating syllables, quite unlike her usual fluentspeech. 

"I think you must mean what you say, Mr. White; and you do not say it asother men have said it. But will you please to remember not to say itagain? We cannot be friends, if you do. "

"Never again, Mrs. Philbrick?" he said, --he could almost have said"Mercy, "--and looked at her with a gaze of whose intentness he was hardlyaware. 

Mercy felt a strange terror of this man; a few minutes ago a stranger, nowalready asking at her hands she hardly knew what, and compelling her inspite of herself. But she replied very quietly, with a slight smile, --

"Never, Mr. White. Now talk of something else, please. Your mother seemedvery much pleased with the ferns I carried her to-day. Did she love thewoods, when she was well?"

"I do not know. I never heard her say, " answered Stephen, absently, stillgazing into Mercy's face. 

"But you would have known, surely, if she had cared for them, " said Mercy, laughing; for she perceived that Stephen had spoken at random. 

"Oh, yes, certainly, --certainly. I should have known, " said Stephen, stillwith a preoccupied air, and rising to go. "I thank you for letting me comeinto this beautiful room with you. I shall always think of your faceframed in evergreens, and with flickering firelight on it. "

"You are not going away, are you, Mr. White?" asked Mercy, mischievously. 

"Oh, no, certainly not. I never go away. How could I go away? Why did youask?"

"Oh, " laughed Mercy, "because you spoke as if you never expected to see myface after to-night. That's all. "

Stephen smiled. "I am afraid I seem a very absent-minded person, " he said. "I did not mean that at all. I hope to see you very often, if I may. Good-night. "

"Good-night, Mr. White. We shall be very glad to see you as often as youlike to come. You may be sure of that; but you must come earlier, or youwill find us all asleep. Good-night. "

Stephen spent another half-hour pacing up and down in the snowy path infront of the house. He did not wish to go in until his mother was asleep. Very well he knew that it would be better that she did not see his facethat night. When he went in, the house was dark and still. As he passedhis mother's door, she called, "Steve!"

"All right, mother. They'll come, " he replied, and ran swiftly up to hisown room. 

During this half-hour, Mercy had been sitting in her low chair by thefire, looking steadily into the leaping blaze, and communing very sternlywith her own heart on the subject of Stephen White. Her pitiless honestyof nature was just as inexorable in its dealing with her own soul as withothers; she never paltered with, nor evaded an accusation of, herconsciousness. At this moment, she was indignantly admitting to herselfthat her conduct and her feeling towards Stephen were both deserving ofcondemnation. But, when she asked herself for their reason, no answer cameframed in words, no explanation suggested itself, only Stephen's face roseup before her, vivid, pleading, as he had looked when he said, "Neveragain, Mrs. Philbrick?" and as she looked again into the dark blue eyes, and heard the low tones over again, she sank into a deeper and deeperreverie, from which gradually all self-accusation, all perplexity, fadedaway, leaving behind them only a vague happiness, a dreamy sense of joy. If lovers could look back on the first quickening of love in their souls, how precious would be the memories; but the unawakened heart never knowsthe precise instant of the quickening. It is wrapped in a half-consciouswonder and anticipation; and, by the time the full revelation comes, theimpress of the first moments has been wiped out by intenser experiences. How many lovers have longed to trace the sweet stream back to its verysource, to the hidden spring which no man saw, but have lost themselvespresently in the broad greenness, undisturbed and fertile, through which, like a hidden stream through an emerald meadow, the love had been flowingundiscovered. 

Months after, when Mercy's thoughts reverted to this evening, all shecould recollect was that on the night of Stephen's first call she had beenmuch puzzled by his manner and his words, had thought it very strange thathe should seem to care-so much for her, and perhaps still more strangethat she herself found it not unpleasing that he did so. Stephen'sreminiscences were at once more distinct and more indistinct, --moredistinct of his emotions, more indistinct of the incidents. He could notrecollect one word which had been said: only his own vivid consciousnessof Mercy's beauty; her face "framed in evergreens, with the firelightflickering on it, " as he had told her he should always think of it. 

Christmas morning came, clear, cold, shining bright. A slight thaw the daybefore had left every bough and twig and pine-needle covered with amoisture that had frozen in the night into glittering crystal sheaths, which flashed like millions of prisms in the sun. The beauty of the scenewas almost solemn. The air was so frosty cold that even the noon sun didnot melt these ice-sheaths; and, under the flood of the full mid-daylight, the whole landscape seemed one blaze of jewels. When Mercy and hermother entered Mrs. White's room, half an hour before the dinner-hour, they found her sitting with the curtains drawn, because the light had hurther eyes. 

"Oh, Mrs. White!" exclaimed Mercy. "It is cruel you should not see thisglorious spectacle! If you had the window open, the light would not hurtyour eyes. It is the glare of it coming through the glass. Let us wrap youup, and draw you close to the window, and open it wide, so that you cansee the colors for a few minutes. It is just like fairy-land. "

Mrs. White looked bewildered. Such a plan as this of getting out-door airshe had never thought of. 

"Won't it make the room too cold?" she said. 

"Oh, no, no!" cried Mercy; "and no matter if it does. We can soon warm itup again. Please let me ask Marty to come?" And, hardly waiting forpermission, she ran to call Marty. Wrapped up in blankets, Mrs. White wasthen drawn in her bed close to the open window, and lay there with a lookof almost perplexed delight on her face. When Stephen came in, Mercy stoodbehind her, a fleecy white cloud thrown over her head, pointing outeagerly every point of beauty in the view. A high bush of sweet-brier, with long, slender, curving branches, grew just in front of the window. Many of the cup-like seed-vessels still hung on the boughs: they were allfinely encrusted with frost. As the wind faintly stirred the branches, every frost-globule flashed its full rainbow of color; the long sprayslooked like wands strung with tiny fairy beakers, inlaid with pearls anddiamonds. Mercy sprang to the window, took one of these sprays in herfingers, and slowly waved it up and down in the sunlight. 

"Oh, look at it against the blue sky!" she cried. "Isn't it enough to makeone cry just to see it?"

"Oh, how can mother help loving her?" thought Stephen. "She is thesweetest woman that ever drew breath. "

Mrs. White seemed indeed to have lost all her former distrust andantagonism. She followed Mercy's movements with eyes not much less eagerand pleased than Stephen's. It was like a great burst of sunlight into adark place, the coming of this earnest, joyous, outspoken nature into theold woman's narrow and monotonous and comparatively uncheered life. Shehad never seen a person of Mercy's temperament. The clear, decided, incisive manner commanded her respect, while the sunny gayety won herliking. Stephen had gentle, placid sweetness and much love of thebeautiful; but his love of the beautiful was an indolent, and one mightalmost say a-haughty, demand in his nature. Mercy's was a bounding anddelighted acceptance. She was cheery: he was only placid. She was full ofdelight; he, only of satisfaction. In her, joy was of the spirit, spiritual. Keen as were her senses, it was her soul which marshalled themall. In him, though the soul's forces were not feeble, the senses foreranthem, --compelled them, sometimes conquered them. It would have beenimpossible to put Mercy in any circumstances, in any situation, out ofwhich, or in spite of which, she would not find joy. But in Stephencircumstance and place might as easily destroy as create happiness. Hisenjoyment was as far inferior to Mercy's in genuineness and enduringnessas is the shallow lake to the quenchless spring. The waters of each mayleap and sparkle alike, to the eye, in the sunshine; but when drought hasfallen on the lake, and the place that knew it knows it no more, thespring is full, free, and glad as ever. 

Mrs. White's pleasure in Mercy's presence was short-lived. Long beforethe simple dinner was over, she had relapsed into her old forbiddingmanner, and into a silence which was more chilly than any words could havebeen. The reason was manifest. She read in every glance of Stephen's eyes, in every tone of his voice, the depth and the warmth of his feelingtowards Mercy. The jealous distrust which she had felt at first, and whichhad slept for a brief time under the spell of Mercy's kindliness towardsherself, sprang into fiercer life than ever. Stephen and Mercy, in utterunconsciousness of the change which was gradually taking place, talked andlaughed together in an evident gay delight, which made matters worse everymoment. A short and surly reply from Mrs. White to an innocent question ofMrs. Carr's fell suddenly on Mercy's ear. Keenly alive to the smallestslight to her mother, she turned quickly towards Mrs. White, and, to herconsternation, met the same steady, pitiless, aggressive look which shehad seen on her face in their first interview. Mercy's first emotion wasone of great indignation: her second was a quick flash of comprehension ofthe whole thing. A great wave of rosy color swept over her face; and, without knowing what she was doing, she looked appealingly at Stephen. Already there was between them so subtle a bond that each understood theother without words. Stephen knew all that Mercy thought in that instant, and an answering flush mounted to his forehead. Mrs. White saw both theseflushes, and compressed her lips still more closely in a grimmer silencethan before. Poor, unsuspecting Mrs. Carr kept on and on with hermeaningless and childish remarks and inquiries; and Mercy and Stephen wereboth very grateful for them. The dinner came to an untimely end; andalmost immediately Mercy, with a nervous and embarrassed air, totallyforeign to her, said to her mother, --

"We must go home now. I have letters to write. "

Mrs. Carr was disappointed. She had anticipated a long afternoon of chattygossip with her neighbor; but she saw that Mercy had some strong reasonfor hurrying home, and she acquiesced unhesitatingly. 

Mrs. White did not urge them to remain. To all Mrs. White's faults it mustbe confessed that she added the virtue of absolute sincerity. 

"Good-afternoon, Mrs. Carr, " and "Good-afternoon, Mrs. Philbrick, " fellfrom her lips in the same measured syllables and the same cold, unhumanvoice which had so startled Mercy once before. 

"What a perfectly horrid old woman!" exclaimed Mercy, as soon as they hadcrossed the threshold of their own door. "I'll never go near her again aslong as I live!"

"Why, Mercy Carr!" exclaimed her mother, "what do you mean? I don't thinkso. She got very tired before dinner was over. I could see that, poorthing! She's drefful weak, an' it stan's to reason she'd be kind o'snappish sometimes. "

Mercy opened her lips to reply, but changed her mind and said nothing. 

"It's just as well for mother to keep on good terms with her, if she can, "she thought. "Maybe it'll help divert a little of Mrs. White's temper fromhim, poor fellow!"

Stephen had followed them to the door, saying little; but at the lastmoment, when Mercy said "good-by, " he had suddenly held out his hand, and, clasping hers tightly, had looked at her sadly, with a world of regret andappeal and affection and almost despair in the look. 

"What a life he must lead of it!" thought Mercy. "Dear me! I should gowild or else get very wicked. I believe I'd get very wicked. I wonder heshuts himself up so with her. It is all nonsense: it only makes her moreand more selfish. How mean, how base of her, to be so jealous of histalking with me! If she were his wife, it would be another thing. But hedoesn't belong to her body and soul, if she _is_ his mother. If ever Iknow him well enough, I'll tell him so. It isn't manly in him to let hertyrannize over him and everybody else that comes into the house. I neversaw any human being that made one so afraid, somehow. Her tone and lookare enough to freeze your blood. "

While Mercy was buried in these indignant thoughts, Stephen and hismother, only a few feet away, separated from her only by a wall, werehaving a fierce and angry talk. No sooner had the door closed upon Mercythan Mrs. White had said to Stephen, --

"Have you the slightest idea how much excitement you showed in conversingwith Mrs. Philbrick? I have never seen you look or speak in this way. "

The flush had not yet died away on Stephen's face. At this attack, it grewdeeper still. He made no reply. Mrs. White continued, --

"I wish you could see your face. It is almost purple now. "

"It is enough to make the blood mount to any man's face, mother, to beaccused so, " replied Stephen, with a spirit unusual for him. 

"I don't accuse you of any thing, " she retorted. "I am only speaking ofwhat I observe. You needn't think you can deceive me about the leastthing, ever. Your face is a perfect tell-tale of your thoughts, always. "

Poor Stephen groaned inwardly. Too well he knew his inability to controlhis unfortunate face. 

"Mother!" he exclaimed with almost vehemence of tone, "mother! do notcarry this thing too far. I do not in the least understand what you aredriving at about Mrs. Philbrick, nor why you show these capricious changesof feeling towards her. I think you have treated her so to-day that shewill never darken your doors again. I never should, if I were in herplace. "

"Very well, I hope she never will, if her presence is to produce such aneffect on you. It is enough to turn her head to see that she has suchpower over a man like you. She is a very vain woman, anyway, --vain of herpower over people, I think. "

Stephen could bear no more. With a half-smothered ejaculation of "Omother!" he left the room. 

And thus the old year went out and the new year came in for MercyPhilbrick and Stephen White, --the old year in which they had been nothing, and the new year in which they were to be every thing to each other. 

Chapter VII. 

The next morning, while Stephen was dressing, he slowly reviewed theevents of the previous day, and took several resolutions. If Mrs. Whitecould have had the faintest conception of what was passing in her son'smind, while he sat opposite to her at breakfast, so unusually cheerful andtalkative, she would have been very unhappy. But she, too, had had aseason of reflection this morning, and was much absorbed in her own plans. She heartily regretted having shown so much ill-feeling in regard toMercy; and she had resolved to atone for it in some way, if she could. Above all, she had resolved, if possible, to banish from Stephen's mindthe idea that she was jealous of Mercy or hostile towards her. She hadcommon sense enough to see that to allow him to recognize this feeling onher part was to drive him at once into a course of manoeuvring andconcealment. She flattered herself that it was with a wholly natural andeasy air that she began her plan of operations by remarking, --

"Mrs. Philbrick seems to be very fond of her mother, does she not, Stephen?"

"Yes, very, " answered Stephen, indifferently. 

"Mrs. Carr is quite an old woman. She must have been old when Mrs. Philbrick was born. I don't think Mrs. Philbrick can be more than twenty, do you?"

"I am sure I don't know. I never thought anything about her age, " repliedStephen, still more indifferently. "I'm no judge of women's ages. "

"Well, I'm sure she isn't more than twenty, if she is that, " said Mrs. White; "and she really is a very pretty woman, Steve. I'll grant youthat. "

"Grant me that, mother?" laughed Stephen, lightly. "I never said she waspretty, did I? The first time I saw her, I thought she was uncommonlyplain; but afterwards I saw that I had done her injustice. I don't think, however, she would usually be thought pretty. "

Mrs. White was much gratified by his careless tone and manner; so much sothat she went farther than she had intended, and said in an off-hand way, "I'm real sorry, Steve, you thought I didn't treat her well yesterday. Ididn't mean to be rude, but you know it always does vex me to see awoman's head turned by a man's taking a little notice of her; and I knowvery well, Stephy, that women like you. It wouldn't take much to make Mrs. Philbrick fancy you were in love with her. "

Stephen also was gratified by his mother's apparent softening of mood, andinstinctively met her more than half way, replying, --

"I didn't mean to say that you were rude to her, mother; only you showedso plainly that you didn't want them to stay. Perhaps she didn't noticeit, only thought you were tired. It isn't any great matter, any way. We'dbetter keep on good terms with them, if they're to live under the sameroof with us, that's all. "

"Oh, yes, " replied Mrs. White. "Much better to be on neighborly terms. Theold mother is a childish old thing, though. She'd bore me to death, if shecame in often. "

"Yes, indeed, she is a bore, sure enough, " said Stephen; "but she's sosimple, and so much like a child you can't help pitying her. "

They fenced very well, these two, with their respective secrets to keep;but the man fenced best, his secret being the most momentous to shieldfrom discovery. When he shut the door, having bade his mother good by, hefairly breathed hard with the sense of having come out of a conflict. Oneof the resolutions he had taken was that he would wait for Mercy thismorning on a street he knew she must pass on her way to market. He did notdefine to himself any motive for this act, except the simple longing tosee her face. He had not said to himself what he would do, or what wordshe would speak, or even that he would speak at all; but one look at herface he must have, and he had though to himself distinctly in making thisplan, "Here is one way in which I can see her every day, and my mothernever know any thing about it. "

When Mrs. White saw Mercy set off for her usual morning walk, a half houror more after Stephen had left the house, she thought, as she had oftenthough before on similar occasions, "Well, she won't overtake Stephenthis time. I dare say she planned to. " Light-hearted Mercy, meantime, waswalking on with her own swift, elastic tread, and thinking warmly andshyly of the look with which Stephen had bade her good-by the day before. She was walking, as was her habit, with her eyes cast down, and did notobserve that any one approached her, until she suddenly heard Stephen'svoice saying, "Good-morning, Mrs. Philbrick. " It was the second time thathe had surprised her in a reverie of which he himself was the subject. This time the surprise was a joyful one; and the quick flush of rosy colorwhich spread over her cheeks was a flush of gladness, --undisguised andhonest gladness. 

"Why, Mr. White, " she exclaimed, "I never thought of seeing you. I thoughtyou were always in your office at this time. "

"I waited to see you this morning, " replied Stephen, in a tone as simplyhonest as her own. "I wanted to speak to you. "

Mercy looked up inquiringly, but did not speak. Stephen smiled. 

"Oh, not for any particular thing, " he said: "only for the pleasure ofit. "

Then Mercy smiled, and the two looked into each other's faces with a joywhich neither attempted to disguise. Stephen took Mercy's basket from herarm; and they walked along in silence, not knowing that it was silence, sofull was it of sweet meanings to them in the simple fact that they werewalking by each other's side. The few words they did speak were of thepurposeless and irrelevant sort in which unacknowledged lovers do souniversally express themselves in their earlier moments alone together, --asort of speech more like birds chirping than like ordinary language. Whenthey parted at the door of Stephen's office, he said, --

"I think you always come to the village about this time in the morning, doyou not?"

"Yes, always, " replied Mercy. 

"Then, if you are willing, I would like sometimes to walk with you, " saidStephen. 

"I like it very much, Mr. White, " answered Mercy, eagerly. "I used to walka great deal with Mr. Allen, and I miss it sadly. "

A jealous pang shot through Stephen's heart. He had been blind. This wasthe reason Harley Allen had taken such interest in finding a home for Mrs. Philbrick and her mother. He remembered now that he had thought at thetime some of the expressions in his friend's letter argued an unusualinterest in the young widow. Of course no man could know Mercy withoutloving her. Stephen was wretched; but no trace of it showed on the sereneand smiling face with which he bade Mercy "Good-by, " and ran up hisoffice-stairs three steps at a time. 

All day Mercy went about her affairs with a new sense of impulse andcheer. It was not a conscious anticipation of the morrow: she did not sayto herself "To-morrow morning I shall see him for half an hour. " Loveknows the secret of true joy better than that. Love throws open widerdoors, --lifts a great veil from a measureless vista: all the rest of lifeis transformed into one shining distance; every present moment is but around in a ladder whose top disappears in the skies, from which angels areperpetually descending to the dreamer below. 

The next morning Mercy saw Stephen leave the house even earlier thanusual. Her first thought was one of blank disappointment. "Why, I thoughthe meant to walk down with me, " she said to herself. Her second thoughtwas a perplexed instinct of the truth: "I wonder if he can be afraid tohave his mother see him with me?" At this thought, Mercy's face burned, and she tried to banish it; but it would not be banished, and by the timeher morning duties were done, and she had set out on her walk, the matterhad become quite clear in her mind. 

"I shall see him at the corner where he was yesterday, " she said. 

But no Stephen was there. Spite of herself, Mercy lingered and lookedback. She was grieved and she was vexed. 

"Why did he say he wanted to walk with me, and then the very first morningnot come?" she said, as she walked slowly into the village. 

It was a cloudy day, and the clouds seemed to harmonize with Mercy's mood. She did her errands in a half-listless way; and more than one of thetradespeople, who had come to know her voice and smile, wondered what hadgone wrong with the cheery young lady. All the way home she looked vainlyfor Stephen at every cross-street. She fancied she heard his step behindher; she fancied she saw his tall figure in the distance. After shereached home and the expectation was over for that day, she took herselfangrily to task for her folly. She reminded herself that Stephen had said"sometimes, " not "always;" and that nothing could have been more unlikelythan that he should have joined her the very next day. Nevertheless, shewas full of uneasy wonder how soon he would come again; and, when the nextmorning dawned clear and bright, her first thought as she sprang up was, --

"This is such a lovely day for a walk! He will surely come to-day. "

Again she was disappointed. Stephen left the house at a very early hour, and walked briskly away without looking back. Mercy forced herself to gothrough her usual routine of morning work. She was systematic almost to afault in the arrangement of her time, and any interference with her hourswas usually a severe trial of her patience. But to-day it was only by agreat effort of her will that she refrained from setting out earlier thanusual for the village. She walked rapidly until she approached the streetwhere Stephen had joined her before. Then she slackened her pace, andfixed her eyes on the street. No person was to be seen in it. She walkedslower and slower: she could not believe that he was not there. Then shebegan to fear that she had come a little too early. She turned to retraceher steps; but a sudden sense of shame withheld her, and she turned backagain almost immediately, and continued her course towards the village, walking very slowly, and now and then halting and looking back. Still noStephen. Street after street she passed: no Stephen. A sort of indignantgrief swelled up in Mercy's bosom; she was indignant with herself, withhim, with circumstances, with everybody; she was unreasoning andunreasonable; she longed so to see Stephen's face that she could not thinkclearly of any thing else. And yet she was ashamed of this longing. Allthese struggling emotions together were too much for her; tears came intoher eyes; then vexation at the tears made them come all the faster; and, for the first time in her life, Mercy Philbrick pulled her veil over herface to hide that she was crying. Almost in the very moment that she haddone this, she heard a quick step behind her, and Stephen's voicecalling, --

"Oh, Mrs. Philbrick! Mrs. Philbrick! do not walk so fast. I am trying toovertake you. "

Feeling as guilty as a child detected in some forbidden spot, Mercy stoodstill, vainly hoping her black veil was thick enough to hide her red eyes;vainly trying to regain her composure enough to speak in her naturalvoice, and smile her usual smile. Vainly, indeed! What crape could blind alover's eyes, or what forced tone deceive a lover's ears?

At his first sight of her face, Stephen started; at the first sound of hervoice, he stood still, and exclaimed, --

"Mrs. Philbrick, you have been crying!" There was no gainsaying it, evenif Mercy had not been too honest to make the attempt. She looked upmischievously at him, and tried to say lightly, --

"What then, Mr. White? Didn't you know all women cried?"

The voice was too tremulous. Stephen could not bear it. Forgetting thatthey were on a public street, forgetting every thing but that Mercy wascrying, he exclaimed, --

"Mercy, what is it? Do let me help you! Can't I?"

She did not even observe that he called her "Mercy. " It seemed onlynatural. Without realizing the full meaning of her words, she said, --

"Oh, you have helped me now, " and threw up her veil, showing a face wheresmiles were already triumphant. Instinct told Stephen in the same secondwhat she had meant, and yet had not meant to say. He dropped her hand, andsaid in a low voice, --

"Mercy, did you really have tears in your eyes because I did not come?Bless you, darling! I don't dare to speak to you here. Oh, pray come downthis little by-street with me. "

It was a narrow little lane behind the Brick Row into which Stephen andMercy turned. Although it was so near the centre of the town, it had neverbeen properly graded, but had been left like a wild bit of uneven field. One side of it was walled by the Brick Row; on the other side were only afew poverty-stricken houses, in which colored people lived. The snow laypiled in drifts here all winter, and in spring it was an almost impassableslough of mud. There was now no trodden path, only the track made bysleighs in the middle of the lane. Into this strode Stephen, in hisexcitement walking so fast that Mercy could hardly keep up with him. Theywere too much absorbed in their own sensations and in each other torealize the oddity of their appearance, floundering in the deep snow, looking eagerly in each other's faces, and talking in a breathless anddisjointed way. 

"Mercy, " said Stephen, "I have been walking up and down waiting for youever since I came out; but a man whom I could not get away from stoppedme, and I had to stand still helpless and see you walk by the street, andI was afraid I could not overtake you. "

"Oh, was that it?" said Mercy, looking up timidly in his face. "I feltsure you would be there this morning, because"--

"Because what?" said Stephen, gently. 

"Because you said you would come sometimes, and I knew very well that thatneed not have meant this particular morning nor any particular morning;and that was what vexed me so, that I should have been silly and set myheart on it. That was what made me cry, Mr. White, I was so vexed withmyself, " stoutly asserted Mercy, beginning to feel braver and more likeherself. 

Stephen looked her full in the face without speaking for a moment. Then, --

"May I call you Mercy?" he said. 

"Yes, " she replied. 

"May I say to you exactly what I am thinking?"

"Yes, " she replied again, a little more hesitatingly. 

"Then, Mercy, this is what I want to say to you, " said Stephen, earnestly. "There is no reason why you and I should try to deceive each other orourselves. I care very, very much for you, and you care very much for me. We have come very close to each other, and neither of our lives can everbe the same again. What is in store for us in all this we cannot now see;but it is certain we are very much to each other. "

He spoke more and more slowly and earnestly; his eyes fixed on the distanthorizon instead of on Mercy's face. A deep sadness gradually gathered onhis countenance, and his last words were spoken more in the tone of onewho felt a new exaltation of suffering than of one who felt the newecstasy of a lover. Looking down into Mercy's face, with a tendernesswhich made her very heart thrill, he said, --

"Tell me, Mercy, is it not so? Are we not very much to each other?"

The strange reticence of his tone, even more reticent than his words, hadaffected Mercy inexplicably: it was as if a chill wind had suddenly blownat noonday, and made her shiver in spite of full sunlight. Her tone wasalmost as reticent and sad as his, as she said, without raising hereyes, --

"I think it is true. "

"Please look up at me, Mercy, " said Stephen. "I want to feel sure that youare not sorry I care so much for you. "

"How could I be sorry?" exclaimed Mercy, lifting her eyes suddenly, andlooking into Stephen's face with all the fulness of affection of herglowing nature. "I shall never be sorry. "

"Bless you for saying that, dear!" said Stephen, solemnly, --"bless you. You should never be sorry a moment in your life, if I could help it; andnow, dear, I must leave you, " he said, looking uneasily about. "I oughtnot to have brought you into this lane. If people were to see us walkinghere, they would think it strange. " And, as they reached the entrance ofthe lane, his manner suddenly became most ceremonious; and, extending hishand to assist her over a drift of snow, he said in tones unnecessarilyloud and formal, "Good-morning, Mrs. Philbrick. I am glad to have helpedyou through these drifts. Good-morning, " and was gone. 

Mercy stood still, and looked after him for a moment with a blank sense ofbewilderment. His sudden change of tone and manner smote her like a blow. She comprehended in a flash the subterfuge in it, and her soul recoiledfrom it with incredulous pain. "Why should he be afraid to have people seeus together? What does it mean? What reason can he possibly have?" Scoresof questions like these crowded on her mind, and hurt her sorely. Herconjecture even ran so wide as to suggest the possibility of his beingengaged to another woman, --some old and mistaken promise by which he washampered. Her direct and honest nature could conceive of nothing less thanthis which could explain his conduct. Restlessly her imagination fastenedon this solution of the problem, and tortured her in vain efforts todecide what would be right under such circumstances. 

The day was a long, hard one for Mercy. The more she thought, conjectured, remembered, and anticipated, the deeper grew her perplexity. All the joywhich she had at first felt in the consciousness that Stephen loved herdied away in the strain of these conflicting uncertainties: and it was agrave and almost stern look with which she met him that night, when, withan eager bearing, almost radiant, he entered her door. 

He felt the change at once, and, stretching both his hands towards her, exclaimed, --

"Mercy, my dear, new, sweet friend! are you not well to-night?"

"Oh, yes, thank you. I am very well, " replied Mercy, in a tone verygentle, but with a shade of reserve in it. 

Stephen's face fell. The expression of patient endurance which washabitual to it, and which Mercy knew so well, and found always soirresistibly appealing, settled again on all his features. Withoutspeaking, he drew his chair close to the hearth, and looked steadfastlyinto the fire. Some minutes passed in silence. Mercy felt the tears comingagain into her eyes. What was this intangible but inexorable thing whichstood between this man's soul and hers? She could not doubt that he lovedher; she knew that her whole soul went out towards him with a love ofwhich she had never before had even a conception. It seemed to her thatthe words he had spoken and she had received had already wrought a bondbetween them which nothing could hinder or harm. Why should they sit thussilent by each other's side to-night, when so few hours ago they were fullof joy and gladness? Was it the future or the past which laid this seal onStephen's lips? Mercy was not wont to be helpless or inert. She sawclearly, acted quickly always; but here she was powerless, because she wasin the dark. She could not even grope her way in this mystery. At lastStephen spoke. 

"Mercy, " he said, "perhaps you are already sorry that I care so much foryou. You said yesterday you never would be. "

"Oh, no, indeed! I am not, " said Mercy. "I am very glad you care so muchfor me. "

"Perhaps you have discovered that you do not care so much for me as youyesterday thought you did. "

"Oh, no, no!" replied poor Mercy, in a low tone. 

Again Stephen was silent for a long time. Then he said, --

"Ever since I can remember, I have longed for a perfect and absorbingfriendship. The peculiar relations of my life have prevented my evenhoping for it. My father's and my mother's friends never could be myfriends. I have lived the loneliest life a mortal man ever lived. Until Isaw you, Mercy, I had never even looked on the face of a woman whom itseemed possible to me that any man could love. Perhaps, when I tell youthat, you can imagine what it was to me to look on the face of a womanwhom it seems to me no man could help loving. I suppose many men haveloved you, Mercy, and many more men will. I do not think any man has everfelt for you, or ever will feel for you, as I feel. My love for youincludes every love the heart can know, --the love of father, brother, friend, lover. Young as I am, you seem to me like my child, to be takencare of; and you seem like my sister, to be trusted and loved; and like myfriend, to be leaned upon. You see what my life is. You see the burdenwhich I must carry, and which none can share. Do you think that thefriendship I can give you can be worth what it would ask? I feel withheldand ashamed as I speak to you. I know how little I can do, how little Ican offer. To fetter you by a word would be base and selfish; but, oh, Mercy, till life brings you something better than my love, let me loveyou, if it is only till to-morrow!"

Mercy listened to each syllable Stephen spoke, as one in a wilderness, flying for his life from pursuers, would listen to every sound which couldgive the faintest indications which way safety might lie. If she hadlistened dispassionately to such words, spoken to any other woman, hernative honesty of soul would have repelled them as unfair. But everyinstinct of her nature except the one tender instinct of loving wasdisarmed and blinded, --disarmed by her affection for Stephen, and blindedby her profound sympathy for his suffering. 

She fixed her eyes on him as intently as if she would read the verythoughts of his heart. 

"Do you understand me, Mercy?" he said. 

"I think I do, " she replied in a whisper. 

"If you do not now, you will as time goes on, " he continued. "I have nota thought I am unwilling for you to know; but there are thoughts which itwould be wrong for me to put into words. I stand where I stand; and nomortal can help me, except you. You can help me infinitely. Already thejoy of seeing you, hearing you, knowing that you are near, makes all mylife seem changed. It is not very much for you to give me, Mercy, afterall, out of the illimitable riches of your beauty, your brightness, yourspirit, your strength, --just a few words, just a few smiles, just a littlelove, --for the few days, or it may be years, that fate sets us by eachother's side? And you, too, need a friend, Mercy. Your duty to another hasbrought you where you are singularly alone, for the time being, just as myduty to another has placed me where I must be singularly alone. Is it nota strange chance which has thus brought us together?"

"I do not believe any thing is chance, " murmured Mercy. "I must have beensent here for something. "

"I believe you were, dear, " said Stephen, "sent here for my salvation. Iwas thinking last night that, no matter if my life should end without myever knowing what other men call happiness, if I must live lonely andalone to the end, I should still have the memory of you, --of your face, of your hand, and the voice in which you said you cared for me. O Mercy, Mercy! you have not the least conception of what you are to me!" AndStephen stretched out both his arms to her, with unspeakable love in thegesture. 

So swiftly that he had not the least warning of her intention, Mercythrew herself into them, and laid her head on his shoulder, sobbing. Shamefilled her soul, and burned in her cheeks, when Stephen, lifting her as hewould a child, and kissing her forehead gently, placed her again in herchair, and said, --

"My darling, I cannot let you do that. I will never ask from you any thingthat you can by any possibility come to regret at some future time. Iought perhaps to be unselfish enough not to ask from you any thing at all. I did not mean to; but I could not help it, and it is too late now. "

"Yes, it is too late now, " said Mercy, --"too late now. " And she buried herface in her hands. 

"Mercy, " exclaimed Stephen, in a voice of anguish, "you will break myheart: you will make me wish myself dead, if you show such suffering asthis. I thought that you, too, could find joy, and perhaps help, in mylove, as I could in yours. If it is to give you pain and not happiness, itwere better for you never to see me again. I will never voluntarily lookon your face after to-night, if you wish it, --if you would be happier so. "

"Oh, no, no!" cried Mercy. Then, overwhelmed with the sudden realizationof the pain she was giving to a man whom she so loved that at that momentshe would have died to shield him from pain, she lifted her face, shookback the hair from her forehead, and, looking bravely into his eyes, repeated, --

"No, no! I am very selfish to feel like this. I do understand you. Iunderstand it all; and I will help you, and comfort you all I can. And Ido love you very dearly, " she added in a lower voice, with a tone of suchincomparable sweetness that it took almost superhuman control on Stephen'spart to refrain from clasping her to his heart. But he did not betray theimpulse, even by a gesture. Looking at her with an expression of greatthankfulness, he said, --

"I believe that peace will come to us, Mercy. I believe I can do somethingto make you happy. To know that I love you as I do will be a great deal toyou, I think. " He paused. 

"Yes, " answered Mercy, "a great deal. " He went on, --

"And to know that you are perpetually helping and cheering me will bestill more to you, I think. We shall know some joys, Mercy, which joyouslovers never know. Happy people do not need each other as sad people do. OMercy, do try and remember all the time that you are the one bright thingin my life, --in my whole life. "

"I will, Stephen, I will, " said Mercy, resolutely, her whole face glowingwith the new purposes forming in her heart. It was marvellous how clearthe relation between herself and Stephen began to seem to her. It wasrather by her magnetic consciousness of all that he was thinking andfeeling than by the literal acceptance of any thing or all things which hesaid. She seemed to herself to be already one with him in all his trials, burdens, perplexities; in his renunciation; in his self-sacrifice; in hisloyalty of reticence; in his humility of uncomplainingness. 

When she bade him "good-night, " her face was not only serene: it wasserene with a certain exaltation added, as the face of one who had enteredinto a great steadfastness of joy. Stephen wondered greatly at thistransition from the excitement and grief she had at first shown. He hadyet to learn what wellsprings of strength lie in the poetic temperament. 

As he stood lingering on the threshold, finding it almost impossible toturn away while the sweet face held him by the honest gaze of the lovingeyes, he said, "There will be many times, dear, when things will have to be very hard, when I shall not be able to do as you would like to have me, when you mayeven be pained by my conduct. Shall you trust me through it all?"

"I shall trust you till the day of my death, " said Mercy, impetuously. "One can't take trust back. It isn't a gift: it is a necessity. "

Stephen smiled, --a smile of sorrow rather than gladness. 

"But if you thought me other than you had believed?" he said. 

"I could never think you other than you are, " replied Mercy, proudly. "Itis not that I 'believe' you. I know you. I shall trust you to the day ofmy death. "

Perhaps nothing could illustrate better the difference between MercyPhilbrick's nature and Stephen White's, between her love for him and hisfor her, than the fact that, after this conversation, she lay awake farinto the early hours of the morning, living over every word that he hadspoken, looking resolutely and even joyously into the strange future whichwas opening before her, and scanning with loving intentness every chancethat it could possibly hold for her ministrations to him. He, on the otherhand, laid his head on his pillow with a sense of dreamy happiness, andsank at once into sleep, murmuring, --

"The darling! how she does love me! She shall never regret it, --never. Wecan have a great deal of happiness together as it is; and if the time evershould come, " . . . 

Here his thoughts halted, and refused to be clothed in explicit phrase. Never once had Stephen White permitted himself to think in words, even inhis most secret meditations, "When my mother dies, I shall be free. " Hisfine fastidiousness would shrink from it, as from the particular kind ofbrutality and bad taste involved in a murder. If the whole truth couldhave been known of Stephen's feeling about all crimes and sins, it wouldhave been found to be far more a matter of taste than of principle, ofinstinct than of conviction. 

Surely never in this world did love link together two souls morediametrically opposite than Mercy Philbrick's and Stephen White's. Itneeded no long study or especial insight into character to know which ofthe two would receive the more and suffer the less, in the abnormal andunfortunate relation on which they had entered. But no presentiment warnedMercy of what lay before her. She was like a traveller going into acountry whose language he has never heard, and whose currency he does notunderstand. However eloquent he may be in his own land, he is dumb andhelpless here; and of the fortune with which he was rich at home he isrobbed at every turn by false exchanges which impose on his ignorance. Poor Mercy! Vaguely she felt that life was cruel to Stephen and to her;but she accepted its cruelty to her as an inevitable part of her onenesswith him. Whatever he had to bear she must bear too, especially if he werehelped by her sharing the burden. And her heart glowed with happiness, recalling the expression with which he had said, --

"Remember, Mercy, you are the one bright thing in my life. "

She understood, or thought she understood, precisely the position in whichhe was placed. 

"Very possibly he has even promised his mother, " she said to herself, "even promised her he would never be married. It would be just like her toexact such a promise from him, and never think any thing of it. And, evenif he has not, it is all the same. He knows very well no human being couldlive in the house with her, to say nothing of his being so terribly poor. Poor, dear Stephen! to think of our little rent being more than half hisincome! Oh, if there were only some way in which I could contrive to givehim money without his knowing it. "

If any one had said to Mercy at this time: "It was not honorable in thisman, knowing or feeling that he could not marry you, to tell you of hislove, and to allow you to show him yours for him. He is putting you in afalse position, and may be blighting your whole life, " Mercy would haverepelled the accusation most indignantly. She would have said: "He hasnever asked me for any such love as that. He told me most honestly in thevery beginning just how it was. He always said he would never fetter me bya word; and, once when I forgot myself for a moment, and threw myself intohis very arms, he only kissed my forehead as if I were his sister, and putme away from him almost with a reproof. No, indeed! he is the very soul ofhonor. It is I who choose to love him with all my soul and all mystrength. Why should not a woman devote her life to a man without beinghis wife, if she chooses, and if he so needs her? It is just as sacred andjust as holy a bond as the other, and holier, too; for it is moreunselfish. If he can give up the happiness of being a husband and father, for the sake of his duty to his mother, cannot I give up the happiness ofbeing a wife and mother, for the sake of my affection and duty towardshim?"

It looked very plain to Mercy in these first days. It looked right, and itseemed very full of joy. Her life seemed now rounded and complete. It hada ruling motive, without which no life is satisfying; and that motive wasthe highest motive known to the heart, --the desire to make another humanbeing perfectly happy. All hindrances and difficulties, all drawbacks andsacrifices, seemed less than nothing to her. When she saw Stephen, she washappy because she saw him; and when she did not see him, she was happybecause she had seen him, and would soon see him again. Past, present, and future all melt into one great harmonious whole under the spell oflove in a nature like Mercy's. They are like so many rooms in one greathouse; and in one or the other the loved being is always to be found, always at home, can never depart! Could one be lonely for a moment in sucha house?

Mercy's perpetual and abiding joy at times terrified Stephen. It was athing so foreign to his own nature that it seemed to him hardly natural. Calm acquiescence he could understand, --serene endurance: he himself neverchafed at the barriers, little or great, which kept him from Mercy. Butthere were many days when his sense of deprivation made him sad, subdued, and quiet. When, in these moods, he came into Mercy's presence, and foundher radiant, buoyant, mirthful even, he wondered; and sometimes hequestioned. He strove to find out the secret of her joy. There seemed tohim no legitimate reason for it. 

"Why, to see that I make you glad, Stephen, " she would say. "Is not thatenough? Or even, when I cannot make you glad, just to love you is enough. "

"Mercy, how did you ever come to love me?" he said once, stung by a senseof his own unworthiness. "How do you know you love me, after all?"

"How do I know I love you!" she exclaimed. "Can any one ever tell that, Iwonder? I know it by this: that every thing in the whole world, even downto the smallest grass-blade, seems to me different because you are alive. "She said these words with a passionate vehemence, and tears in her eyes. Then, changing in a second to a mischievous, laughing mood, she said, --

"Yes: you make all that odds to me. But let us not talk about loving eachother, Stephen. That's the way children do with their flower-seeds, --keeppulling them up, to see how they grow. "

That night, Mercy gave Stephen this sonnet, --the first words she hadwritten out of the great wellspring of her love:--

 "HOW WAS IT?"

 Why ask, dear one? I think I cannot tell, More than I know how clouds so sudden lift From mountains, or how snowflakes float and drift, Or springs leave hills. One secret and one spell All true things have. No sunlight ever fell With sound to bid flowers open. Still and swift Come sweetest things on earth. So comes true gift Of Love, and so we know that it is well. Sure tokens also, like the cloud, the snow, And silent flowing of the mountain-springs, The new gift of true loving always brings. In clearer light, in purer paths, we go: New currents of deep joy in common things We find. These are the tokens, dear, we know!

Chapter VIII. 

As the months went on, Mercy began to make friends. One person afteranother observed her bright face, asked who she was, and came to seek herout. "Who is that girl with fair hair and blue eyes, who, whenever youmeet her in the street, always looks as if she had just heard some goodnews?" was asked one day. It was a noteworthy thing that this descriptionwas so instantly recognized by the person inquired of, that he had nohesitancy in replying, --

"Oh, that is a young widow from Cape Cod, a Mrs. Philbrick. She came lastwinter with her mother, who is an invalid. They live in the old Jacobshouse with the Whites. "

Among the friends whom Mercy thus met was a man who was destined toexercise almost as powerful an influence as Stephen White over her life. This was Parson Dorrance. 

Parson Dorrance had in his youth been settled as a Congregationalistminister. But his love of literature and of science was even stronger thanhis love of preaching the gospel; and, after a very few years, he accepteda position as professor in a small college, in a town only four milesdistant from the village in which Mercy had come to live. This wastwenty-five years ago. Parson Dorrance was now fifty-five years old. For aquarter of a century, his name had been the pride, and his hand had beenthe stay, of the college. It had had presidents of renown and professorsof brilliant attainments; but Parson Dorrance held a position moreenviable than all. Few lives of such simple and steadfast heroism haveever been lived. Few lives have ever so stamped the mark of theirinfluence on a community. In the second year of his ministry, Mr. Dorrancehad married a very beautiful and brilliant woman. Probably no two youngpeople ever began married life with a fairer future before them thanthese. Mrs. Dorrance was as exceptionally clever and cultured a person asher husband; and she added to these rare endowments a personal beautywhich is said by all who knew her in her girlhood to have been marvellous. But, as is so often the case among New England women of culture, the bodyhad paid the cost of the mind's estate; and, after the birth of her firstchild, she sank at once into a hopeless invalidism, --an invalidism all themore difficult to bear, and to be borne with, that it took the shape ofdistressing nervous maladies which no medical skill could alleviate. Thebrilliant mind became almost a wreck, and yet retained a preternaturalrestlessness and activity. Many regarded her condition as insanity, andbelieved that Mr. Dorrance erred in not giving her up to the care of thosemaking mental disorders a specialty. But his love and patience wereuntiring. When her mental depression and suffering reached such a stagethat she could not safely see a human face but his, he shut himself upwith her in her darkened room till the crisis had passed. There were timeswhen she could not close her eyes in sleep unless he sat by her side, holding her hand in his, and gently stroking it. He spent weeks of nightsby her bedside in this way. At any hour of the day, a summons might comefrom her; and, whatever might be his engagement, it was instantly laidaside, --laid aside, too, with cheerfulness and alacrity. At times, all hiscollege duties would be suspended on her account; and his own specialtiesof scientific research, in which he was beginning to win recognition evenfrom the great masters of science in Europe, were very early laid asidefor ever. It must have been a great pang to him, --this relinquishment offame, and of what is dearer to the true scientific man than all fame, thejoys of discovery; but no man ever heard from his lips an allusion to thesacrifice. The great telescope, with which he had so many nights swept theheavens, still stood in his garden observatory; but it was little usedexcept for recreation, and for the pleasure and instruction of his boy. Yet no one would have dreamed, from the hearty joy with which he used itfor these purposes, that it had ever been to him the token and theinstrument of the great hope of his heart. The resolute cheer of thisman's life pervaded the whole atmosphere of his house. Spite of theperpetual shadow of the invalid's darkened room, spite of the inevitablecircumscribing of narrow means, Parson Dorrance's cottage was thepleasantest house in the place, was the house to which all thetownspeople took strangers with pride, and was the house which strangersnever forgot. There was always a new book, or a new print, or a newflower, or a new thought which the untiring mind had just been shaping;and there were always and ever the welcome and the sympathy of a man wholoved men because he loved God, and who loved God with an affection aspersonal in its nature as the affection with which he loved a man. 

Year after year, classes of young men went away from this college, havingfor four years looked on the light of this goodness. Said I not well thatfew lives have ever been lived which have left such a stamp on acommunity? No man could be so gross that he would utterly fail to feel itspurity, no man so stupid that he could not see its grandeur ofself-sacrifice; and to souls of a fibre fine enough to be touched to thequick by its exaltation, it was-a kindling fire for ever. 

In the twenty-seventh year of her married life, and near the end of thetwenty-fifth year of her confinement to her room, Mrs. Dorrance died. Fora few months after her death, her husband seemed like a man suddenlystruck blind in the midst of familiar objects. He seemed to be groping hisway, to have lost all plan of daily life, so tremendous was the changeinvolved in the withdrawal of this perpetual burden. Just as he wasbeginning to recover the natural tone of his mind, and to resume his oldhabits of work, his son sickened and died. The young man had never beenstrong: he had inherited his mother's delicacy of constitution, and hernervous excitability as well; but he had rare qualities of mind, and gavegreat promise as a scholar. The news of his death was a blow to everyheart that loved his father. "This will kill the Parson, " was said bysorrowing voices far and near. On the contrary, it seemed to be the verything which cleared the atmosphere of his whole life, and renewed hisvigor and energy. He rose up from the terrible grief more majestic thanever, as some grand old tree, whose young shoots and branches have beentorn away by fierce storms, seems to lift its head higher than before, andto tower in its stripped loneliness above all its fellows. All the lovingfatherhood of his nature was spent now on the young people of his town;and, by young people, I mean all between the ages of four and twenty. There was hardly a baby that did not know Parson Dorrance, and stretch outits arms to him; there was hardly a young man or a young woman who did notgo to him with troubles or perplexities. You met him, one day, drawing ahuge sledful of children on the snow; another day, walking in the centreof a group of young men and maidens, teaching them as he walked. They allloved him as a comrade, and reverenced him as a teacher. They wanted himat their picnics; and, whenever he preached, they flocked to hear him. Itwas a significant thing that his title of Professor was never heard. Fromfirst to last, he was always called "Parson Dorrance;" and there were fewSundays on which he did not preach at home or abroad. It was one of theforms of his active benevolence. If a poor minister broke down and neededrest, Parson Dorrance preached for him, for one month or for three, as thecase required. If a little church were without a pastor and could not findone, or were in debt and could not afford to hire one, it sent to askParson Dorrance to supply the pulpit; and he always went. Finally, notcontent with these ordinary and established channels for preaching thegospel, he sought out for himself a new one. About eight miles from thevillage there was a negro settlement known as "The Cedars. " It was a wildplace. Great outcropping ledges of granite, with big boulders topplingover, and piled upon each other, and all knotted together by the gnarledroots of ancient cedar-trees, made the place seem like ruins of oldfortresses. There were caves of great depth, some of them with twoentrances, in which, in the time of the fugitive slave law, many a poorhunted creature had had safe refuge. Besides the cedar-trees, there weresugar-maples and white birches; and the beautiful rock ferns grew all overthe ledges in high waving tufts, almost as luxuriantly as if they were inthe tropics; so that the spot, wild and fierce as it was, had greatbeauty. Many of the fugitive slaves had built themselves huts here: somelived in the caves. A few poor and vicious whites had joined them, intermarried with them, and from these had gradually grown up a band of asmongrel, miserable vagabonds as is often seen. They were the terror of theneighborhood. Except for their supreme laziness, they would have been asdangerous as brigands; for they were utter outlaws. No man cared for them;and they cared for no man. Parson Dorrance's heart yearned over thesepoor Ishmaelites; and he determined to see if they were irreclaimable. Thefirst thing that his townsmen knew of his plan was his purchase of severalacres of land near "The Cedars. " He bought it very cheap, because land inthat vicinity was held to be worthless for purposes of cultivation. Unlessthe crops were guarded night and day, they were surreptitiously harvestedby foragers from "The Cedars. " Then it was found out that Parson Dorrancewas in the habit of driving over often to look at his new property. Gradually, the children became used to his presence, and would steal outand talk to him. Then he carried over a small microscope, and let themlook through it at insects; and before long there might have been seen, ona Sunday afternoon, a group of twenty or thirty of the outcasts gatheredround the Parson, while he talked to them as he had talked to thechildren. Then he told them that, if they would help, he would build alittle house on his ground, and put some pictures and maps in it for them, and come over every Sunday and talk to them; and they set to work with awill. Very many were the shrugs and smiles over "Parson Dorrance's Chapelat 'The Cedars. '" But the chapel was built; and the Parson preached in itto sometimes seventy-five of the outlaws. The next astonishment of theParson's friends was on finding him laying out part of his new land in anursery of valuable young fruit-trees and flowering shrubs. Then theysaid, --

"Really, the Parson is mad! Does he think he has converted all thosenegroes, so that they won't steal fruit?" And, when they met the Parson, they laughed at him. "Come, come, Parson, " they said, "this is carryingthe thing a little too far, to trust a fruit orchard over there by 'TheCedars. '"

Parson Dorrance's eyes twinkled. 

"I know the boys better than you do, " he replied. "They will not steal asingle pear. "

"I'd like to wager you something on that, " said the friend. 

"Well, I couldn't exactly take such a wager, " answered the Parson, "because you see I know the boys won't steal the fruit. "

Somewhat vexed at the obstinacy of the Parson's faith, his friendexclaimed, "I'd like to know how you can know that beforehand?"

Parson Dorrance loved a joke. 

"Neighbor, " said he, "I wish I could in honor have let you wager me onthat. I've given the orchard to the boys. The fruit's all their own. "

This was the man whom Mercy Philbrick met early in her first summer atPenfield. She had heard him preach twice, and had been so greatlyimpressed by his words and by his face that she longed very much to knowhim. She had talked with Stephen about him, but had found that Stephen didnot sympathize at all in her enthusiasm. "The people over at Danby are allcrazy about him, I think, " said Stephen. "He is a very good man no doubt, and does no end of things for the college boys, that none of the otherprofessors do. But I think he is quixotic and sentimental; and all thisstuff about those niggers at the Cedars is moonshine. They'd pick his verypocket, I daresay, any day; and he'd never suspect them. I know that lottoo well. The Lord himself couldn't convert them. "

"Oh, Stephen! I think you are wrong, " replied Mercy. "Parson Dorrance isnot sentimental, I am sure. His sermons were clear and logical andterse, --not a waste word in them; and his mouth and chin are as strong asan old Roman's. "

Stephen looked earnestly at Mercy. "Mercy, " said he, "I wonder if youwould love me better if I were a preacher, and could preach clear, logical, and terse sermons?"

Mercy was impatient. Already the self-centring of Stephen's mind, hisinstant reverting from most trains of thought to their possible bearing onher love for him, had begun to irritate her. It was so foreign to her ownunconscious, free-souled acceptance and trust. 

"Stephen, " she exclaimed, "I wish you wouldn't say such things. Besidesseeming to imply a sort of distrust of my love for you, they areillogical; and you know there is nothing I hate like bad logic. "

Stephen made no reply. The slightest approach to a disagreement betweenMercy and himself gave him great pain and a sense of terror; and he tookrefuge instantly behind his usual shield of silence. This also was foreignto Mercy's habit and impulse. When any thing went wrong, it was Mercy'sway to speak out honestly; to have the matter set in all its lights, untilit could reach its true one. She hated mystery; she hated reticence; shehated every thing which fell short of full and frank understanding of eachother. 

"Oh, Stephen!" she used to say often, "it is bad enough for us to beforced into keeping things back from the world. Don't let us keep anything back from each other. "

Poor Mercy! the days were beginning to be hard for her. Her face oftenwore a look of perplexed thought which was very new to it. Still she neverwavered for a moment in her devotion to Stephen. If she had stoodacknowledged before all the world as his wife, she could not have been anymore single-hearted and unquestioning in her loyalty. 

It was at a picnic in which the young people of both Danby and Penfieldhad joined that Mercy met Parson Dorrance. No such gathering was everthought complete without the Parson's presence. Again and again one mighthear it said in the preliminary discussion: "But we must find out firstwhat day Parson Dorrance can go. It won't be any fun without him!"

Until Mercy came, Stephen White had rarely been asked to the pleasuringsof the young people in Penfield. There was a general impression that hedid not care for things of that sort. His manner was wrongly interpreted, however: it was really only the constraint born of the feeling that he wasout of his place, or that nobody wanted him. He watched in silent wonderthe cordial way in which, it seemed to him, that Mercy talked witheverybody, and made everybody feel happy. 

"Oh, Mercy, how can you!" he would exclaim: "I feel so dumb, even while Iam talking the fastest!"

"Why, so do I, Stephen, " said Mercy. "I am often racking my brains tothink what I shall say next. Half the people I meet are profoundlyuninteresting to me; and half of the other half paralyze me at firstsight, and I feel like such a hypocrite all the time; but, oh, what apleasure it is to talk with the other quarter!"

"Yes, " sighed Stephen, "you look so happy and absorbed sometimes that itmakes me feel as if you had forgotten me altogether. "

"Silly boy!" laughed Mercy. "Do you want me to prove to you by a long facethat I am remembering you?--Darling, " she added, "at those very times whenyou see me seem so absorbed and happy in company, I am most likelythinking about the last time you looked into my face, or the next time youwill. "

And for once Stephen was satisfied. 

The picnic at which Mercy met Parson Dorrance had taken place on amountain some six miles south-west of Penfield. This mountain was thewestern extremity of the range of which I have before spoken; and at itsbase ran the river which made the meadow-lands of Penfield and Danby sobeautiful. Nowhere in America is there a lovelier picture than thesemeadow-lands, seen from the top of this mountain which overhangs them. Themountain is only about twenty-five hundred feet high: therefore, one losesno smallest shade of color in the view; even the difference between thegreen of broom-corn and clover records itself to the eye looking down fromthe mountain-top. As far as one can see to northward the valley stretchesin bands and belts and spaces of varied tints of green. The river windsthrough it in doubling curves, and looks from the height like a line ofsilver laid in loops on an enamelled surface. To the east and the westrise the river terraces, higher and higher, becoming, at last, lofty andabrupt hills at the horizon. 

When Parson Dorrance was introduced to Mercy, she was alone on a spur ofrock which jutted out from the mountain-side and overhung the valley. Shehad wandered away from the gay and laughing company, and was sittingalone, absorbed and almost saddened by the unutterable beauty of thelandscape below. Stephen had missed her, but had not yet dared to go insearch of her. He imposed on himself a very rigid law in public, and neverpermitted himself to do or say or even look any thing which could suggestto others the intimacy of their relations. Mercy sometimes felt this sokeenly that she reproached him. "I can't see why you should think itnecessary to avoid me so, " she would say. "You treat me exactly as if Iwere only a common acquaintance. "

"That is exactly what I wish to have every one believe you to be, Mercy, "Stephen would reply with emphasis. "That is the only safe course. Once letpeople begin to associate our names together, and there is no limit to thethings they would say. We cannot be too careful. That is one thing youmust let me be the judge of, dear. You cannot understand it as I do. Solong as I am without the right or the power to protect you, my first dutyis to shield you from any or all gossip linking our names together. "

Mercy felt the justice of this; and yet to her there seemed also a sortof injustice involved in it. She felt stung often, and wounded, in spiteof all reasoning with herself that she had no cause to do so, that Stephenwas but doing right. So inevitable and inextricable are pains and dilemmaswhen once we enter on the paths of concealment. 

Parson Dorrance was introduced to Mercy by Mrs. Hunter, a young marriedwoman, who was fast becoming her most intimate friend. Mrs. Hunter'sfather had been settled as the minister of a church in Penfield, in thesame year that Parson Dorrance had taken his professorship in Danby, andthe two men had been close friends from that day till the day of Mr. Adams's death. Little Lizzy Adams had been Parson Dorrance's pet when shelay in her cradle. He had baptized her; and, when she came to woman'sestate, he had performed the ceremony which gave her in marriage to LukeHunter, the most promising young lawyer in the county. 

She had always called Parson Dorrance her uncle, and her house in Penfieldwas his second home. It had been Mrs. Hunter's wish for a long time thathe should see and know her new friend, Mercy. But Mercy was very shy ofseeing the man for whom she felt such reverence, and had steadily refusedto meet him. It was therefore with a certain air of triumphantsatisfaction that Mrs. Hunter led Parson Dorrance to the rock where Mercywas sitting, and exclaimed, --

"There, Uncle Dorrance! here she is!"

Parson Dorrance did not wait for any farther introduction; but; holdingout both his hands to Mercy, he said in a deep, mellow voice, and with atone which had a benediction in it, --

"I am very glad to see you, Mrs. Philbrick. My child Lizzy here has beentelling me about you for a long time. You know I'm the same as a father toher; so you can't escape me, if you are going to be her friend. "

Mercy looked up half-shamefacedly and half-archly, and replied, --

"It was not that I wanted to escape you; but I wanted you to escape me. "She perceived that the Parson had been told of her refusals to meet him. Then they all sat down again on the jutting rock; and Mercy, leaningforward with her hands clasped on her knees, fixed her eyes on ParsonDorrance's face, and drank in every word that he said. He had a rarefaculty of speaking with the greatest simplicity, both of language andmanner. It was impossible not to feel at ease in his presence. It wasimpossible not to tell him all that he asked. Before you knew it, you werespeaking to him of your own feelings, tastes, the incidents of your life, your plans and purposes, as if he were a species of father confessor. Hequestioned you so gently, yet with such an air of right; he listened soobservantly and sympathetically. He did not treat Mercy Philbrick as astranger; for Mrs. Hunter had told him already all she knew of herfriend's life, and had showed him several of Mercy's poems, which hadsurprised him much by their beauty, and still more by their condensationof thought. They seemed to him almost more masculine than feminine; andhe had unconsciously anticipated that in seeing Mercy he would see a womanof masculine type. He was greatly astonished. He could not associate thisslight, fair girl, with a child's honesty and appeal in her eyes, with theforceful words he had read from her pen. He pursued his conversation withher eagerly, seeking to discover the secret of her style, to trace backthe poetry from its flower to its root. It was an astonishment to Mercy tofind herself talking about her own verses with this stranger whom she soreverenced. But she felt at once as if she had sat at his feet all herlife, and had no right to withhold any thing from her master. 

"I suppose, Mrs. Philbrick, you have read the earlier English poets agreat deal, have you not?" he said. "I infer so from the style of some ofyour poems. "

"Oh, no!" exclaimed Mercy, in honest vehemence. "I have read hardly anything, Mr. Dorrance. I know Herbert a little; but most of the old Englishpoets I have never even seen. I have never lived where there were anybooks till now. "

"You love Wordsworth, I hope, " he said inquiringly. 

Mercy turned very red, and answered in a tone of desperation, "I've triedto. Mr. Allen said I must. But I can't. I don't care any thing about him. "And she looked at the Parson with the air of a culprit who has confessed aterrible misdemeanor. 

"Ah, " he replied, "you have not then reached the point in the journey atwhich one sees him. It is only a question of time: one comes of a suddeninto the presence of Wordsworth, as a traveller finds some day, upon awell-known road, a grand cathedral, into which he turns aside andworships, and wonders how it happens that he never before saw it. You willtell me some day that this has happened to you. It is only a question oftime. "

Just as Parson Dorrance pronounced the last words, they were echoed by alaughing party who had come in search of him. "Yes, yes, only a questionof time, " they said; "and it is our time now, Parson. You must come withus. No monopoly of the Parson allowed, Mrs. Hunter, " and they carried himoff, joining hands around him and singing the old college song, "Gaudeamusigitur. "

Stephen, who had joined eagerly in the proposal to go in search of theParson, remained behind, and made a sign to Mercy to stay with him. Sitting down by her side, he said gloomily, --

"What were you talking about when we came up? Your face looked as if youwere listening to music. "

"About Wordsworth, " said Mercy. "Parson Dorrance said such a beautifulthing about him. It was like music, like far off music, " and she repeatedit to Stephen. "I wonder if I shall ever reach that cathedral, " she added. 

"Well, I've never reached it, " said Stephen, "and I'm a good deal olderthan you. I think two thirds of Wordsworth's poetry is imbecile, absolutely imbecile. "

Mercy was too much under the spell of Parson Dorrance's recent words tosympathize in this; but she had already learned to avoid dissent fromStephen's opinions, and she made no reply. They were sitting on the edgeof a great fissure in the mountain. Some terrible convulsion must haveshaken the huge mass to its centre, to have made such a rift. At thebottom ran a stream, looking from this height like little more than asilver thread. Shrubs and low flowering things were waving all the waydown the sides of the abyss, as if nature had done her best to fill up theugly wound. Many feet below them, on a projecting rock, waved one littlewhite blossom, so fragile it seemed as if each swaying motion in thebreeze must sever it from the stem. 

"Oh, see the dainty, brave little thing!" exclaimed Mercy. "It looks as ifit were almost alone in space. "

"I will get it for you, " said Stephen; and, before Mercy could speak torestrain him, he was far down the precipice. With a low ejaculation ofterror, Mercy closed her eyes. She would not look on Stephen in suchperil. She did not move nor open her eyes, until he stood by her side, exclaiming, "Why, Mercy! my darling, do not look so! There was no danger, "and he laid the little plant in her hand. She looked at it in silence fora moment, and then said, --

"Oh, Stephen! to risk your life for such a thing as that! The sight of itwill always make me shudder. "

"Then I will throw it away, " said Stephen, endeavoring to take it from herhand; but she held it only the tighter, and whispered, --

"No! oh, what a moment! what a moment! I shall keep this flower as long asI live!" And she did, --kept it wrapped in a paper, on which were writtenthe following lines:--

 A MOMENT. 

 Lightly as an insect floating In the sunny summer air, Waved one tiny snow-white blossom, From a hidden crevice growing, Dainty, fragile-leaved, and fair, Where great rocks piled up like mountains, Well-nigh to the shining heavens, Rose precipitous and bare, With a pent-up river rushing, Foaming as at boiling heat Wildly, madly, at their feet. 

 Hardly with a ripple stirring The sweet silence by its tone, Fell a woman's whisper lightly, -- "Oh, the dainty, dauntless blossom! What deep secret of its own Keeps it joyous and light-hearted, O'er this dreadful chasm swinging, Unsupported and alone, With no help or cheer from kindred? Oh, the dainty, dauntless thing, Bravest creature of the spring!"

 Then the woman saw her lover, For one instant saw his face, Down the precipice slow sinking, Looking up at her, and sending Through the shimmering, sunny space Look of love and subtle triumph, As he plucked the tiny blossom In its airy, dizzy place, -- Plucked it, smiling, as if danger Were not danger to the hand Of true lover in love's land. 

 In her hands her face she buried, At her heart the blood grew chill; In that one brief moment crowded The whole anguish of a lifetime, Made her every pulse stand still. Like one dead she sat and waited, Listening to the stirless silence, Ages in a second, till, Lightly leaping, came her lover, And, still smiling, laid the sweet Snow-white blossom at her feet. 

 "O my love! my love!" she shuddered, "Bloomed that flower by Death's own spell? Was thy life so little moment, Life and love for that one blossom Wert thou ready thus to sell? O my precious love! for ever I shall keep this faded token Of the hour which came to tell, In such voice I scarce dared listen, How thy life to me had grown So much dearer than my own!"

On their way home from the picnic late in the afternoon, they came at thebase of the mountain to a beautiful spot where two little streams met. Thetwo streams were in sight for a long distance: one shining in a greenmeadow; the other leaping and foaming down a gorge in the mountain-side. Alittle inn, which was famous for its beer, stood on the meadow space, bounded by these two streams; and the picnic party halted before its door. While the white foamy glasses were clinked and tossed, Mercy ran down thenarrow strip of land at the end of which the streams met. A littlethicket of willows grew there. Standing on the very edge of the shore, Mercy broke off a willow wand, and dipped it to right in the meadowstream, to the left in the stream from the gorge. Then she brought it backwet and dripping. 

"It has drank of two waters, " she cried, holding it up. "Oh, you ought tosee how wonderful it is to watch their coming together at that point! Fora little while you can trace the mountain water by itself in the other:then it is all lost, and they pour on together. " This picture, also, sheset in a frame of verse one day, and gave it to Stephen. 

 On a green point of sunny land, Hemmed in by mountains stern and high, I stood alone as dreamers stand, And watched two streams that hurried by. 

 One ran to east, and one to south; They leaped and sparkled in the sun; They foamed like racers at the mouth, And laughed as if the race were won. 

 Just on the point of sunny land A low bush stood, like umpire fair, Waving green banners in its hand, As if the victory to declare. 

 Ah, victory won, but not by race! Ah, victory by a sweeter name! To blend for ever in embrace, Unconscious, swift, the two streams came. 

 One instant, separate, side by side The shining currents seemed to pour; Then swept in one tumultuous tide, Swifter and stronger than before. 

 O stream to south! O stream to east! Which bears the other, who shall see? Which one is most, which one is least, In this surrendering victory?

 To that green point of sunny land, Hemmed in by mountains stern and high, I called my love, and, hand in hand, We watched the streams that hurried by. 

Chapter IX. 

It was a turning-point in Mercy's life when she met Parson Dorrance. Hereat last was a man who had strength enough to influence her, culture enoughto teach her, and the firm moral rectitude which her nature so inexorablydemanded. During the first few weeks of their acquaintance, Mercy wasconscious of an insatiable desire to be in his presence: it was anintellectual and a moral thirst. Nothing could be farther removed from theabsorbing consciousness which passionate love feels of its object, thanwas this sentiment she felt toward Parson Dorrance. If he had been a beingfrom another planet, it could not have been more so. In fact, it was verymuch as if another planet had been added to her world, --a planet whichthrew brilliant light into every dark corner of this one. She questionedhim eagerly. Her old doubts and perplexities, which Mr. Allen's narrowermind had been unable to comprehend or to help, were now set at rest andcleared up by a spiritual vision far keener than her own. Her mind was fedand trained by an intellect so much stronger than her own that itcompelled her assent and her allegiance. She came to him almost as amaiden, in the ancient days of Greece, would have gone to the oracle ofthe holiest shrine. Parson Dorrance in his turn was as much impressed byMercy; but he was never able to see in her simply the pupil, thequestioner. To him she was also a warm and glowing personality, a youngand beautiful woman. Parson Dorrance's hair was white as snow; but hiseyes were as keen and dark as in his youth, his step as firm, and hispulse as quick. Long before he dreamed of such a thing, he might haveknown, if he had taken counsel of his heart, that Mercy was becoming tohim the one woman in the world. There was always this peculiarity inMercy's influence upon all who came to love her. She was so unique andincalculable a person that she made all other women seem by comparisonwith her monotonous and wearying. Intimacy with her had a subtle flavor toit, by which other flavors were dulled. The very impersonality of herenthusiasms and interests, her capacity for looking on a person for thetime being merely as a representative or mouth-piece, so to speak, ofthoughts, of ideas, of narrations, was one of her strongest charms. Byreason of this, the world was often unjust to her in its comments on hermanner, on her relations with men. The world more than once accused heruncharitably of flirting. But the men with whom she had friendships knewbetter; and now and then a woman had the insight to be just to her, to seethat she was quite capable of regarding a human being as objectively asshe would a flower or a mountain or a star. The blending of this trait inher with the strong capacity she had for loving individuals was singular;not more so, perhaps, than the blending of the poetic temperament with theactive, energetic, and practical side of her nature. 

It was not long before her name began to be mentioned in connection withParson Dorrance's, by the busy tongues which are always in motion in smallvillages. It was not long, moreover, before a thought and a hope, in whichboth these names were allied, crept into the heart of Lizzy Hunter. 

"Oh, " she thought, "if only Uncle Dorrance would marry Mercy, how happy Ishould be, she would be, every one would be. "

No suspicion of the relation in which Mercy stood to Stephen White hadever crossed Mrs. Hunter's mind. She had never known Stephen untilrecently; and his manner towards her had been from the outset so chilledand constrained by his unconscious jealousy of every new friend Mercymade, that she had set him down in her own mind as a dull and surly man, and rarely thought of him. And, as one of poor Mercy's many devices forkeeping up with her conscience a semblance of honesty in the matter ofStephen was the entire omission of all reference to him in herconversation, nothing occurred to remind her friends of him. ParsonDorrance, indeed, had said to her one day, --

"You never speak of Mr. White, Mercy. Is he an agreeable and kindlandlord?"

Mercy started, looked bewilderedly in the Parson's face, and repeated hiswords mechanically, --

"Landlord?" Then recollecting herself, she exclaimed, "Oh, yes! we do payrent to him; but it was paid for the whole year in advance, and I hadforgotten all about it. "

Parson Dorrance had had occasion to distrust Stephen's father, and hedistrusted the son. "Advance? advance?" he exclaimed. "Why did you dothat, child? That was all wrong. "

"Oh, no!" said Mercy, eagerly. "I had the money, and it made no differenceto me; and Mr. Allen told me that Mr. White was in a great strait formoney, so I was very glad to give it to him. Such a mother is a terribleburden on a young man, " and Mercy continued talking about Mrs. White, until she had effectually led the conversation away from Stephen. 

When Lizzy Hunter first began to recognize the possibility of her UncleDorrance's loving her dear friend Mercy, she found it very hard torefrain, in her talks with Mercy, from all allusions to such apossibility. But she knew instinctively that any such suggestion wouldterrify Mercy, and make her withdraw herself altogether. So she contentedherself with talking to her in what she thought were safe generalizationson the subject of marriage. Lizzy Hunter was one of the clinging, caressing, caressable women, who nestle into men's affections as kittensnestle into warm corners, and from very much the same motives, --love ofwarmth and shelter, and of being fondled. To all these instincts in Lizzy, however, were added a really beautiful motherliness and great loyalty ofaffection. If the world held more such women, there would be more happychildren and contented husbands. 

"Mercy, " said she one afternoon, earnestly, "Mercy, it makes me perfectlywretched to have you say so confidently that you will never be married. You don't know what you are talking about: you don't realize in the leastwhat it is for a woman to live alone and homeless to the end of her days. "

"I never need be homeless, dear, " said Mercy. "I shall always have a home, even after mother is no longer with me; and I am afraid that is very near, she has failed so much this past summer. But, even if I were all alone, Ishould still keep my home. "

"A house isn't a home, Mercy!" exclaimed Lizzy. Of course you can alwaysbe comfortable, so far as a roof and food go towards comfort. "

"And that's a great way, my Lizzy, " interrupted Mercy, laughing, --"a greatway. No husband could possibly take the place of them, could he?"

"Now, Mercy, don't talk so. You know very well what I mean, " repliedLizzy. "It is so forlorn for a woman not to have anybody need her, not tohave anybody to love her more than he loves all the rest of the world, andnot to have anybody to love herself. Oh, Mercy, I don't see how any womanlives without it!"

The tears came into Mercy's eyes. There were depths of lovingness in hersoul of which a woman like Lizzy could not even dream. But she spoke in aresolute tone, and she spoke very honestly, too, when she said, --

"Well, I don't see how any woman can help living very well without it, ifit doesn't come to her. I don't see how any human being--man or woman, single or married--can help being glad to be alive under any conditions. It is such a glorious thing to have a soul and a body, and to get the mostout of them. Just from the purely selfish point of view, it seems to me adelight to live; and when you look at it from a higher point, and thinkhow much each human being can do for those around him, why, then it issublime. Look at Parson Dorrance, Lizzy! Just think of the sum of thehappiness that man has created in this world! He isn't lonely. He couldn'tthink of such a thing. "

"Yes, he is, too, --I know he is, " said Lizzy, impetuously. "The very wayhe takes up my children and hugs them and kisses them shows that he longsfor a home and children of his own. "

"I think not, " replied Mercy. "It is all part of the perpetual overflow ofhis benevolence. He can't pass by a living creature, if it is only a dog, without a desire to give it a moment's happiness. Of happiness for himselfhe never thinks, because he is on a plane above happiness, --a plane ofperpetual joy. " Mercy hesitated, paused, and then went on, "I don't meanto be irreverent, but I could never think of his needing personalministrations to his own happiness, any more than I could think of God'sneeding them. I think he is on a plane as absolutely above such needs asGod is. Not so high above, but as absolutely. "

"How are you so sure God is above it?" said Lizzy, timidly. "I can'tconceive of God's being happy if nobody loved him. "

Mercy was startled by these words from Lizzy, who rarely questioned andnever philosophized. She opened her lips to reply with a hasty reiterationof her first sentiment, but the words died even before they were spoken, arrested by her sudden consciousness of the possibility of a grand truthunderlying Lizzy's instinct. If that were so, did it not lie out farbeyond every fact in life, include and control them all, as the greattruth of gravitation outlies and embraces the physical universe? Did Godso need as well as so love the world, that he gave his only begotten Sonfor it? Is this what it meant to be "one with God"? Then, if the great, illimitable heart of God thus yearns for the love of his creatures, thegreater the heart of a human being, the more must he yearn for a fulnessof love, a completion of the cycle of bonds and joys for which he wasmade. From these simple words of a loving woman's heart had flashed agreat light into Mercy's comprehension of God. She was silent for somemoments; then she said solemnly, --

"That was a great thought you had then, Lizzy. I never saw it in thatlight before. I shall never forget it. Perhaps you are right about theParson, too. I wonder if there is any thing he does long for? If there is, I would die to give it to him, --I know that. "

It was very near Lizzy's lips to say, "If you would live to give it tohim, it would be more to the purpose, perhaps;" but she wisely forbore andthey parted in silence, Mercy absorbed in thinking of this new view ofGod's relation to man, and Lizzy hoping that Mercy was thinking of ParsonDorrance's need of a greater happiness than he possessed. 

As Mercy's circle of friends widened, and her interests enlarged anddeepened, her relation to Stephen became at once easier and harder:easier, because she no longer spent so many hours alone in perplexedmeditation as to the possible wrong in it; harder, because he wasfrequently unreasonable, jealous of the pleasure that he saw she found inothers, jealous of the pleasure she gave to others, --jealous, in short, ofevery thing in which he was not her centre. Mercy was very patient withhim. She loved him unutterably. She never forgot for an instant the quietheroism with which he bore his hard life. As the months had gone on, shehad gradually established a certain kindly familiarity with his mother;going in often to see her, taking her little gifts of flowers or fruit, and telling her of all little incidents which might amuse her. She seemedto herself in this way to be doing a little towards sharing Stephen'sburden; and she also felt a certain bond to the woman who, being Stephen'smother, ought to have been hers by adoption. The more she saw of Mrs. White's tyrannical, exacting nature, the more she yearned over Stephen. Her first feeling of impatience with him, of resentment at the seemingwant of manliness in such subjection, had long ago worn away. She saw thatthere were but two courses for him, --either to leave the house, or to buya semblance of peace at any cost. 

"Flesh and blood can't stand up agin Mis' White, " said Marty one day, inan irrepressible confidence to Mercy. "An' the queerest thing is, thatshe'll never let go on you. There ain't nothin' to hender my goin' awayany day, an' there hain't been for twenty year; but she sez I'm to staytill she dies, an' I don't make no doubt I shall. It's Mister Stephen Istay for, though, after all, more 'n 't is her. I don't believe the Lordever made such a man. "

Mercy's cheeks would burn after such a talk as this; and she would lavishupon Stephen every device of love and cheer which she could invent, toatone to him by hours, if possible, for the misery of days. 

But the hours were few and far between. Stephen's days were filled withwork, and his evenings were his mother's. Only after she slept did he havefreedom. Just as soon as it was safe for him to leave the house, he flewto Mercy; but, oh, how meagre and pitiful did the few moments seem!

"Hardly long enough to realize that I am with you, my darling, " he oftensaid. 

"But then it is every day, Stephen, --think of that, " Mercy would reply, bent always on making all things easier instead of harder for him. Eventhe concealment, which was at times well-nigh insupportable to her, shenever complained of now. She had accepted it. "And, after accepting it, Ihave no right to reproach him with it: it would be base, " she thought. 

Nevertheless, it was slowly wearing away the very foundations of herpeace. The morning walks had long been given up. Mercy had been resoluteabout this. When she found Stephen insisting upon going in by-ways andlanes, lest some one should see them who might mention it to his mother, when he told her that she must not speak of it to her own mother, she saidfirmly, --

"This must end, Stephen. How hard it is to me to give it up you know verywell. It is like the sunrise to my day, always, these moments with you. But I will not multiply concealments. It makes me guilty and ashamed allthe time. Don't urge me to any such thing; for I am not sure that too muchof it would not kill my love for you. Let us be patient. Chance will do agood deal for us; but I will not plan to meet clandestinely. Whenever youcan come to our house, that is different. It distresses me to have you dothat and never tell of it; but that is yours and not mine, if any thingcan be yours and not mine, " she added sadly. Stephen had not heard thelast words. 

"Kill your love for me, Mercy!" he exclaimed. "Are you really afraid ofthat?"

"No, not kill my love for you, " replied Mercy, "I think nothing could dothat, but kill all my joy in my love for you; and that would be asterrible to you as if the love were killed. You would not know thedifference, and I should not be able to make you see it. "

It was a strange thing that with all Stephen's jealousy of Mercy'senlarged and enlarging life, of her ever-widening circle of friends, hehad no especial jealousy of Parson Dorrance. The Parson was Mercy's onlyfrequent visitor; and Stephen knew very well that he had become herteacher and her guide, that she referred every question to his decision, and was guided implicitly by his taste and wish in her writing and in herstudies. But, when Stephen was a boy in college, Parson Dorranee hadseemed to him an old man; and he now seemed venerable. Stephen could nothave been freer from a lover's jealousy of him, if he had been Mercy's ownfather. Perhaps, if his instinct had been truer, it might have quickenedMercy's. She was equally unaware of the real nature of the Parson's regardfor her. He did for her the same things he did for Lizzy, whom he calledhis child. He came to see her no oftener, spoke to her no moreaffectionately: she believed that she and Lizzy were sisters together inhis fatherly heart. 

When she was undeceived, the shock was very great: it was twofold, --ashock to her sense of loyalty to Stephen, a shock to her tender love forParson Dorrance. It was true, as she had said to Lizzy, that she wouldhave died to give him a pleasure; and yet she was forced to inflict on himthe hardest of all pains. Every circumstance attending it made it harder;made it seem to Mercy always in after life, as she looked back upon it, needlessly hard, --cruelly, malignantly hard. 

It was in the early autumn. The bright colors which had thrilled Mercywith such surprise and pleasure on her first arrival in Penfield wereglowing again on the trees, it seemed to her brighter than before. Purpleasters and golden-rod waved on the roadsides and in the fields; and bluegentians, for which Penfield was famous, were blooming everywhere. ParsonDorrance came one day to take Lizzy and Mercy over to his "Parish, " as hecalled "The Cedars. " They had often been with him there; and Mercy hadbeen for a long time secretly hoping that he would ask her to help him inteaching the negroes. The day was one of those radiant and crystallinedays peculiar to the New England autumn. On such days, joy becomesinevitable even to inert and lifeless natures: to enthusiastic andspontaneous ones, the exhilaration of the air and the sun is asintoxicating as wine. Mercy was in one of her most mirthful moods. Shefrolicked with the negro children, and decked their little woolly headswith wreaths of golden-rod, till they looked as fantastic as dancingmonkeys. She gathered great sheaves of ferns and blue gentians and asters, until the Parson implored her to "leave a few just for the poor sun toshine on. " The paths winding among "The Cedars" were in some placesthick-set with white eupatoriums, which were now in full, feathery flower, some of them so old that, as you brushed past them, a cloud of the finethread-like petals flew in all directions. Mercy gathered branch afterbranch of these, but threw them away impatiently, as the flowers fell off, leaving the stems bare. 

"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed. "Nature wants some seeds, I suppose; but I wantflowers. What becomes of the poor flower, any way? it lives such a shortwhile; all its beauty and grace sacrificed to the making of a seed fornext year. "

"That's the way with every thing in life, dear child, " said ParsonDorrance. "The thing that shall be is the thing for which all the powersof nature are at work. We, you and Lizzy and I, will drop off our stemspresently, --I, a good deal the first, for you and Lizzy have the blessingof youth, but I am old. "

"You are not old! You are the youngest person I know, " exclaimed Mercy, impetuously. "You will never be old, Mr. Dorrance, not if you should liveto be as old as--as old as the Wandering Jew!"

Mercy's eyes were fixed intently on the Parson's face; but she did notnote the deep flush which rose to his very hair, as she said these words. She was thinking only of the glorious soul, and seeing only its shiningthrough the outer tabernacle. Lizzy Hunter, however, saw the flush, andknew what it meant, and her heart gave a leap of joy. "Now he can see thatMercy never thinks of him as an old man, and never would, " she thought toherself; and while her hands were idly playing with her flowers andmosses, and her face looked as innocent and care-free as a baby's, herbrain was weaving plots of the most complicated devices for hastening onthe future which began to look to her so assured for these two. 

They were sitting on a mossy mound in the shadow of great cedar-trees. Thefields around "The Cedars" were filled with low mounds, like velvetcushions: some of them were merely a mat of moss over great rocks; some ofthem were soft yielding masses of moss, low cornel, blueberry-bushes, wintergreen, blackberry-vines, and sweet ferns; dainty, fragrant, crowdedovals, lovelier than any florist could ever make; white and green in thespring, when the cornels were in flower; scarlet and green and blue in theautumn, when the cornels and the blueberries were in fruit. 

Mercy was sitting on a mound which was thick-grown with the shiningwintergreen. She picked a stem which had a cluster of red berries on it, and below the berries one tiny pink blossom. As she held it up, theblossom fell, leaving a tiny satin disk behind it on its stem. She tookthe bell and tried to fit it again on its place; then she turned it overand over, held it up to the light and looked through it. "It makes mesad, " she said: "I wish I knew if the flower knows any thing about thefruit. If it were working to that end all the while, and so were contentto pass on and make room, it would seem all right. But I don't want topass on and make room! I do so like to be here!"

Parson Dorrance looked from one woman's face to the other, both young, both lovely: Lizzy's so full of placid content, unquestioning affection, and acceptance; Mercy's so full of mysterious earnestness, far-seeingvision, and interpretation. 

"What a lot lies before that gifted creature, " he said to himself, "iflife should go wrong with her! If only I might dare to take her fate intomy hands! I do not believe any one else can do for her what I could, if Iwere only younger. " And the Parson sighed. 

That night he stayed in Penfield at Lizzy's house. The next morning, onhis way to Danby, he stopped to see Mercy for a moment. When he enteredher door, he had no knowledge of what lay before him; he had not yet saidto himself, had not yet dared to say to himself, that he would ask Mercyto be his wife. He knew that the thought of it was more and more presentwith him, grew sweeter and sweeter; yet he had never ceased resisting it, saying that it was impossible. That is, he had never ceased saying so inwords; but his heart had ceased resisting long ago. Only that traitorwhich we call judgment had been keeping up a false show of resoluteopinion, just to lure the beguiled heart farther and farther on in amistaken security. 

But love is like the plants. It has its appointed days for flowers and forthe falling of the flowers. The vague, sweetness of the early hours anddays together, the bright happiness of the first close intimacy andinterchange, --these reach their destined moment, to pass on and make roomfor the harvest. Blessed are the lives in which all these sweet earlypetals float off gently and in season for the perfect setting of the holyfruit!

On this morning, when Parson Dorrance entered Mercy's room, it was alreadydecorated as if for a festival. Every blooming thing she had brought from"The Cedars" the day before had taken its own place in the room, andlooked as at home as it had looked in the fields. One of Mercy's greatgifts was the gift of creating in rooms a certain look which it is hard todefine. The phrase "vitalized individuality, " perhaps, would come as neardescribing it as is possible; for it was not merely that the rooms lookedunlike other rooms. Every article in them seemed to stand in the placewhere it must needs stand by virtue of its use and its quality. Everything had a certain sort of dramatic fitness, without in the leasttrenching on the theatrical. Her effects were always produced with simplethings, in simple ways; but they resulted in an impression of abundanceand luxury. As Parson Dorrance glanced around at all the wild-wood beauty, and the wild-wood fragrance stole upon his senses, a great mastering waveof love for the woman whose hand had planned it all swept over him. Herecalled Mercy's face the day before, when she had said, --

"You are the youngest person I know;" and, as she crossed the threshold ofthe door at that instant, he went swiftly towards her with outstretchedhands, and a look on his face which, if she had seen, she could not havefailed to interpret aright. 

But she was used to the outstretched hands; she always put both her own inthem, as simply as a child; and she was bringing to her teacher now alittle poem, of which her thoughts were full. She did not look fully inhis face, therefore; for it was still a hard thing for her to show him herverses. 

Holding out the paper, she said shyly, --

"It had to get itself said or sung, you know, --that thought that hauntedme so yesterday at 'The Cedars. ' I daresay it is very bad poetry, though. "

Parson Dorrance unfolded the paper, and read the following poem:--

 WHERE?

 My snowy eupatorium has dropped Its silver threads of petals in the night; No sound told me its blossoming had stopped; Its seed-films flutter, silent, ghostly white: No answer stirs the shining air, As I ask, "Where?"

 Beneath the glossy leaves of wintergreen Dead lily-bells lie low, and in their place A rounded disk of pearly pink is seen, Which tells not of the lily's fragrant grace: No answer stirs the shining air, As I ask "Where?"

 This morning's sunrise does not show to me Seed-film or fruit of my sweet yesterday; Like falling flowers, to realms I cannot see Its moments floated silently away: No answer stirs the shining air, As I ask, "Where?"

As he read the last verse, his face altered. Mercy was watching him. 

"I thought you wouldn't like the last verse, " she said eagerly. "But, indeed, it doesn't mean doubt. I know very well no day dies; but we can'tsee the especial good of each single day by itself. That is all I meant. "

Parson Dorrance came closer to Mercy: they were both standing. He laid onehand on her' head, and said, --

"Child, it was a 'sweet yesterday' wasn't it?"

"Oh, yes, " said Mercy, still absorbed in the thought of the poem. "Theday was as sweet as the flowers. But all days are heavenly sweet out ofdoors with you and Lizzy, " she continued, lifting one hand, and laying itcaressingly on the hand which was stroking her hair. 

"O Mercy! Mercy! couldn't I make all days sweet for you? Come to me, darling, and let me try!" came from Parson Dorrance's lips in hurried andhusky tones. 

Mercy looked at him for one second in undisguised terror and bewilderment. Then she uttered a sharp cry, as of one who had suddenly got a wound, and, burying her face in her hands, sank into a chair and began to cryconvulsively. 

Parson Dorrance walked up and down the room. He dared not speak. He wasnot quite sure what Mercy's weeping meant; so hard is it, for a singlemoment, to wrench a great hope out of a man's heart. But, as she continuedsobbing, he understood. Unselfish to the core, his first thought was, evennow, "Alas! now she will never let me do any thing more for her. Oh, howshall I win her back to trust me as a father again?"

"Mercy!" he said. Mercy did not answer nor look up. 

"Mercy!" he repeated in a firmer tone. "Mercy, my child, look up at me!"

Docile from her long habit and from her great love, Mercy looked up, withthe tears streaming. As soon as she saw Parson Dorrance's face, she burstagain into more violent crying, and sobbed out incoherently, --

"Oh! I never knew it. It wouldn't be right. "

"Hush, dear! Hush!" said the Parson, in a voice of tender authority. "Ihave done wrong; and you must forgive me, and forget it. You are not inthe least to blame. It is I who ought to have known that you could neverthink of me as any thing but a father. "

"Oh! it is not that, " sobbed Mercy, vehemently, --"it is not that at all!But it wouldn't be right. "

Parson Dorrance would not have been human if Mercy's vehement "It is notthat, --it is not that!" had not fallen on his ear gratefully, and madehope stir in his heart again. But her evident grief was too great for thehope to last a moment. 

"You may not know why it seems so wrong to you, dear child, " he continued;"but that is the real reason. There could be no other. " He paused. Mercyshuddered, and opened her lips to speak again; but the words refused to beuttered. This was the supreme moment of pain. If she could but havesaid, --

"I loved some one else long before I saw you. I was not my own. If it hadnot been for that, I should have loved you, I know I should!" Even in hertumult of suffering, she was distinctly conscious of all this. The words"I could have loved him, I know I could! I can't bear to have him think itis because he is so old, " went clamoring in her heart, pleading to besaid; but she dared not say them. 

Tenderly and patiently Parson Dorrance endeavored to soothe her, toconvince her that his words sprung from a hasty impulse which he would beable wholly to put aside and forget. The one thing that he longed now todo, the only reparation that he felt was left for him to make to her, wasto enable her, if possible, to look on him as she had done before. ButMercy herself made this more difficult. Suddenly wiping her tears, shelooked very steadily into his face, and said slowly, --"It is not of theleast use, Mr. Dorrance, for you to say this sort of thing to me. Youcan't deceive me. I know exactly how you love me, and how you always willlove me. And, oh, I wish I were dead! It can never be any thing but painto you to see me, --never, " and she wept more bitterly than before. 

"You do not know me, Mercy, " replied the Parson, speaking as slowly as shehad done. "All my life has been one long sacrifice of my own chiefpreferences. It is not hard for me to do it. "

Mercy clasped her hands tighter, and groaned, --

"Oh, I know it! I know it! and I said you were on a plane above allthought of personal happiness. "

The Parson looked bewildered, but went on, --

"You do love me, my child, very dearly, do you not?"

"Oh, you know I do!" cried Mercy. "You know I do!"

"Yes, I know you do, or I should not have said that. You know I am allalone in the world, do you not?"

"Yes, " moaned Mercy. 

"Very well. Now remember that you and Lizzy are my two children, and thatthe greatest happiness I can have, the greatest help in my loneliness, isthe love of my two daughters. You will not refuse me this help, will you?You will let me be just as I was before, will you not?"

Mercy did not answer. 

"Will you try, Mercy?" he said in a tone almost of the old affectionateauthority; and Mercy again moaned rather than said, --

"Yes. "

Then Parson Dorrance kissed her hair where his hand had lain a few momentsbefore, and said, --

"Now I must go. Good-by, my child. "

But Mercy did not look up; and he closed the door gently, leaving hersitting there bowed and heart-stricken, in the little room so gay with thebright flowers she had gathered on her "sweet yesterday. "

Chapter X. 

The winter set in before its time, and with almost unprecedented severity. Early in the last week in November, the whole country was white with snow, the streams were frozen solid, and the cold was intense. Week after weekthe mercury ranged from zero to ten, fifteen, and even twenty below, andfierce winds howled night and day. It was a terrible winter for oldpeople. They dropped on all sides, like leaves swept off of trees inautumn gales. It was startling to read the death records in thenewspapers, so large a proportion of them were of men and women pastsixty. Mrs. Carr had been steadily growing feebler all summer; but thechange had seemed to Mercy to be more mental than physical, and she hadbeen in a measure blinded to her mother's real condition. With theincrease of childishness and loss of memory had come an increasedgentleness and love of quiet, which partially disguised the loss ofstrength. She would sit in her chair from morning till night, looking outof the window or watching the movements of those around her, with anexpression of perfect placidity on her face. When she was spoken to, shesmiled, but did not often speak. The smile was meaningless and yetinfinitely pathetic: it was an infant's smile on an aged face; theinfant's heart and infant's brain had come back. All the weariness, allthe perplexity, all the sorrow, had gone from life, had slipped away frommemory. This state had come on so gradually that even Mercy hardlyrealized the extent of it. The silent smile or the gentle, simpleejaculations with which her mother habitually replied meant more to herthan they did to others. She did not comprehend how little they reallyproved a full consciousness on her mother's part; and she was unutterablyshocked, when, on going to her bedside one morning, she found her unableto move, and evidently without clear recognition of any one's face. Theend had begun; the paralysis which had so slowly been putting the mind torest had prostrated the body also. It was now only a question of length ofsiege, of how much vital force the system had hoarded up. Lying helplessin bed, the poor old woman was as placid and gentle as before. She nevermurmured nor even stirred impatiently. She seemed unconscious of anyweariness. The only emotion she showed was when Mercy left the room; thenshe would cry silently till Mercy returned. Her eyes followed Mercyconstantly, as a little babe's follow its mother; and she would not take amouthful of food from any other hand. 

It was the very hardest form of illness for Mercy to bear. A violent anddistressing disease, taxing her strength, her ingenuity to their utmostevery moment, would have been comparatively nothing to her. To sit dayafter day, night after night, gazing into the senseless yet appealing eyesof this motionless being, who had literally no needs except a helplessanimal's needs of food and drink; who clung to her with the irrationalclinging of an infant, yet would never know even her name again, --it wasworse than the chaining of life to death. As the days wore on, a speciesof terror took possession of Mercy. It seemed to her that this silentwatchful, motionless creature never had been her mother, --never had been ahuman being like other human beings. As the old face grew more and morehaggard, and the old hands more and more skinny and claw-like, and thetraces of intellect and thought more and more faded away from thefeatures, the horror deepened, until Mercy feared that her own brain mustbe giving way. She revolted from the very thought of herself for havingsuch a feeling towards her mother. Every instinct of loyalty in her deeplyloyal nature rose up indignantly against her. She would reiterate toherself the word, "Mother! mother! mother!" as she sat gazing with aspecies of horror-stricken fascination into the meaningless face. But shecould not shake off the feeling. Her nerves were fast giving way under thestrain, and no one could help her. If she left the room or the house, theconsciousness that the helpless creature was lying silently weeping forlack of the sight of her pursued her like a presence. She saw the piteousold face on the pillow, and the slow tears trickling down the cheeks, justas distinctly as if she were sitting by the bed. On the whole, the tortureof staying was less than the torture of being away; and for weekstogether she did not leave the house. Sometimes a dull sense of reliefcame to her in the thought that by this strange confinement she wasescaping many things which would have been hard. She rarely saw Stephenexcept for a few moments late in the evening. He had ventured into Mrs. Carr's room once or twice; but his presence seemed to disturb her, theonly presence that had done so. She looked distressed, made agonizingefforts to speak, and with the hand she could lift made a gesture to repelhim when he drew near the bed. In Mercy's overwrought state, this seemedto her like an omen. She shuddered, and drew Stephen away. 

"O Stephen, " she said, "she knows now that I have deceived her about you. Don't come near her again. "

"You never deceived her, darling. Do not distress yourself so, " whisperedStephen. They were standing on the threshold of the room. A slightrustling in the bed made them turn: Mrs. Carr had half-lifted her headfrom the pillow, her lower jaw had fallen to its utmost extent in hereffort to articulate, and she was pointing the forefinger of her left handat the door. It was a frightful sight. Even Stephen turned pale, andsprang hastily away. 

"You see, " said Mercy, in a ghastly whisper, "sometimes she certainly doesknow things; but she never looks like that except at you. You must nevercome in again. "

"No, " said Stephen, almost as horror-stricken as Mercy. "It is verystrange though, for she always used to seem so fond of me. "

"She was very childish and patient, " said Mercy. "And I think she thoughtthat you were slowly getting to care about me; but now, wherever her soulis, --I think it has left her body, --she knows that we deceived her. "

Stephen made no answer, but turned to go. The expression of resolvedendurance on his face pierced Mercy to the quick, as it always did. Shesprang after him, and clasped both her hands on his arm. "O Stephen, darling, --precious, brave, strong darling! do forgive me. I ought to bekilled for even saying one word to give you pain. How I can, I don't see, when I long so to make you happy always. "

"You do give me great, unutterable happiness, Mercy, " he replied. "I neverthink of the pain: I only think of the joy, " and he laid her hand on hislips. "All the pain that you could possibly give me in a lifetime couldnot outweigh the joy of one such moment as this, when you say that youlove me. "

These days were unspeakably hard for Stephen. He had grown during the pastyear to so live on the sight and in the blessedness of Mercy that to beshut away from them was simply a sort of dying. There was no going backfor him to the calm routine of the old life before she came. He wasrestless and wretched: he walked up and down in front of the house everynight, watching the shadow of her figure on the curtains of her mother'sroom. He made all manner of excuses, true and false, reasonable andunreasonable, to speak to her for a moment at the door in the morning. Hecarried the few verses in his pocket-book she had given him; and, althoughhe knew them nearly by heart, he spent long hours in his office turningthe little papers over and over. Some of them were so joyous that theystirred in him almost a bitter incredulity as he read them in these daysof loss and pain. One was a sonnet which she had written during a twodays' absence of his, --his only absence from his mother's house for sixyears. Mercy had been astonished at her sense of loneliness in these twodays. "O Stephen, " she had said, when he came back, "I am honestly ashamedof having missed you so much. Just the knowing that you wouldn't be hereto come in, in the evenings, made the days seem a thousand years long, andthis is what came of it. "

And she gave him this sonnet:--

 TO AN ABSENT LOVER. 

 That so much change should come when them dost go, Is mystery that I cannot ravel quite. The very house seems dark as when the light Of lamps goes out. Each wonted thing doth grow So altered, that I wander to and fro, Bewildered by the most familiar sight, And feel like one who rouses in the night From dream of ecstasy, and cannot know At first if he be sleeping or awake, My foolish heart so foolish for thy sake Hath grown, dear one! Teach me to be more wise. I blush for all my foolishness doth lack; I fear to seem a coward in thine eyes. Teach me, dear one, --but first thou must come back!

Another was a little poem, which she laughingly called his and not hers. One morning, when they had bade each other "good-by, " and she had kissedhim, --a rare thing for Mercy to do, he had exclaimed, "That kiss will gofloating before me all day in the air, Mercy. I shall see every thing in alight as rosy as your lips. "

At night she gave him this little poem, saying, --

"This is your poem, not mine, darling. I should never have thought of anything so absurd myself. "

 "COULEUR DE ROSE. "

 All things to-day "Couleur de rose, " I see, --oh, why? I know, and my dear love she knows, Why, oh, why! On both my eyes her lips she set, All red and warm and dewy wet, As she passed by. The kiss did not my eyelids close, But like a rosy vapor goes, Where'er I sit, where'er I lie, Before my every glance, and shows All things to-day "Couleur de rose. "

 Would it last thus? Alas, who knows? Men ask and sigh: They say it fades, "Couleur de rose. " Why, oh, why? Without swift joy and sweet surprise, Surely those lips upon my eyes Could never lie, Though both our heads were white as snows, And though the bitterest storm that blows, Of trouble and adversity, Had bent us low: all life still shows To eyes that love "Couleur de rose. "

This sonnet, also, she persisted in calling Stephen's, and not her own, because he had asked her the question which had suggested it:--

 LOVERS' THOUGHTS. 

 "How feels the earth when, breaking from the night, The sweet and sudden Dawn impatient spills Her rosy colors all along the hills? How feels the sea, as it turns sudden white, And shines like molten silver in the light Which pours from eastward when the full moon fills Her time to rise?"

 "I know not, love, what thrills The earth, the sea, may feel. How should I know? Except I guess by this, --the joy I feel When sudden on my silence or my gloom Thy presence bursts and lights the very room? Then on my face doth not glad color steal Like shining waves, or hill-tops' sunrise glow?"

One of the others was the poem of which I spoke once before, the poemwhich had been suggested to her by her desolate sense of homelessness onthe first night of her arrival in Penfield. This poem had been widelycopied after its first appearance in one of the magazines; and it had beenmore than once said of it, "Surely no one but a genuine outcast could havewritten such a poem as this. " It was hard for Mercy's friends toassociate the words with her. When she was asked how it happened that shewrote them, she exclaimed, "I did not write that poem, I lived it onenight, --the night when I came to Penfield, and drove through these streetsin the rain with mother. No vagabond in the world ever felt more forlornthan I did then. "

 THE OUTCAST. 

 O sharp, cold wind, thou art my friend! And thou, fierce rain, I need not dread Thy wonted touch upon my head! On, loving brothers! Wreak and spend Your force on all these dwellings. Rend These doors so pitilessly locked, To keep the friendless out! Strike dead The fires whose glow hath only mocked By muffled rays the night where I, The lonely outcast, freezing lie!

 Ha! If upon those doors to-night I knocked, how well I know the stare, The questioning, the mingled air Of scorn and pity at the sight, The wonder if it would be right To give me alms of meat and bread! And if I, reckless, standing there, For once the truth imploring said, That not for bread or meat I longed, That such an alms my real need wronged, That I would fain come in, and sit Beside their fire, and hear the voice Of children; yea, and if my choice Were free, and I dared mention it, And some sweet child should think me fit To hold a child upon my knee One moment, would my soul rejoice, More than to banquet royally, And I the pulses of its wrist Would kiss, as men the cross have kissed. 

 Ha! Well the haughty stare I know With which they'd say, "The man is mad!" "What an impostor's face he had!" "How insolent these beggars grow!" Go to, ye happy people! Go! My yearning is as fierce as hate. Must my heart break, that yours be glad? Will your turn come at last, though late? I will not knock, I will pass by; My comrades wait, --the wind, the rain. Comrades, we'll run a race to-night! The stakes may not seem much to gain: The goal is not marked plain in sight; But, comrades, understand, --if I Drop dead, 't will be a victory!

These poems and many others Stephen carried with him wherever he went. Toread them over was next to seeing Mercy. The poet was hardly less dear tohim than the woman. He felt at times so removed from her by the great gulfwhich her genius all unconsciously seemed to create between herself andhim that he doubted his own memories of her love, and needed to bereassured by gazing into her eyes, touching her hand, and listening to hervoice. It seemed to him that, if this separation lasted much longer, heshould lose all faith in the fact of their relation. Very impatientthoughts of poor old Mrs. Carr filled Stephen's thoughts in these days. Heretofore she had been no barrier to his happiness; her still andchildlike presence was no restraint upon him; he had come to disregard itas he would the presence of an infant in a cradle. Therefore, he had, orthought he had, the kindest of feelings towards her; but now that herhelpless paralyzed hands had the power to shut him away from Mercy, hehated her, as he had always hated every thing which stood between him anddelight. Yet, had it been his duty to minister to her, he would have doneit as gently, as faithfully, as Mercy herself. He would have spoken to herin the mildest and tenderest of tones, while in his heart he wished herdead. So far can a fine fastidiousness, allied to a sentiment ofcompassion, go towards making a man a consummate hypocrite. 

Parson Dorrance came often to see Mercy, but always with Lizzy Hunter. Bythe subtle instinct of love, he knew that to see him thus, and see himoften, would soonest win back for him his old place in Mercy's life. Theone great desire he had left now was to regain that, --to see her againlook up in his face with the frank, free, loving look which she always hadhad until that sad morning. 

A strange incident happened to Mercy in these first weeks of her mother'sillness. She was called to the door one morning by the message that astranger wished to speak to her. She found standing there an elderlywoman, with a sweet but care-worn face, who said eagerly, as soon as sheappeared, --

"Are you Mrs. Philbrick?"

"Yes, " said Mercy. "Did you wish to see me?"

The woman hesitated a moment, as if trying to phrase her sentence, andthen burst out impetuously, with a flood of tears, --

"Won't you come and help me make my husband come home. He is so sick, andI believe he will die in that wretched old garret. "

Mercy looked at her in blank astonishment, and her first thought was thatshe must be insane; but the woman continued, --

"I'm Mrs. Wheeler. You never saw me before, but my husband's talked aboutyou ever since he first saw you on the street, that day. You're the onlyhuman being I've ever known him take a fancy to; and I do believe, ifanybody could do any thing with him, you could. "

It seemed that, in addition to all his other eccentricities, "Old ManWheeler" had the habit of disappearing from his home at intervals, leavingno clew behind him. He had attacks of a morbid unwillingness to see ahuman face: during tkese attacks, he would hide himself, sometimes in oneplace, sometimes in another. He had old warehouses, old deserted mills andfactories, and uninhabited rooms and houses in all the towns in thevicinity. There was hardly any article of merchandise which he had not atone time or another had a depot for, or a manufactory of. He hadespecially a hobby for attempting to make articles which were not made inthis country. It was only necessary for some one to go to him, and say, "Mr. Wheeler, do you know how much this country pays every year forimporting such or such an article?" to throw him into a rage. 

"Damned nonsense! Damned nonsense, sir. Just as well make it here. I'llmake it myself. " And up would start a new manufacture, just as soon as hecould get men to work at it. 

At one time it was ink, at another time brushes, then chintz, and thenpocket-books; in fact, nobody pretended to remember all the schemes whichthe old man had failed in. He would stop them as instantaneously as hebegan them, dismiss the workmen, shut up the shops or the mills, turn thekey on them just as they stood, very possibly filled full of material inthe rough. He did not care. The hobby was over: he had proved that thething could be made in America, and he was content. It was usually in someone of these disused buildings that he set up his hermitage in theseabsences from home. He would sally out once a day and buy bread, just apittance, hardly enough to keep him alive, and then bury himself again indarkness and solitude. If the absence did not last more than three or fourdays, his wife and sons gave themselves no concern about him. He usuallyreturned a saner and healthier man than he went away. When the absenceswere longer, they went in search of him, and could usually prevail on himto return home with them. But this last absence had been much longer thanusual before they found him. He was as cunning and artful as a fugitivefrom justice in concealing his haunt. At last he was discovered in the oldgarret store-room over the Brick Row. The marvel was that he had not diedof cold there. He was not far from it, however; for he was so ill that attimes he was delirious. He lay curled up in the old stack of comforters inthe corner, with only a jug of water and some crumbs of bread by his side, when they found him. He had been so ill when he last crawled up the stairsthat he had forgotten to take the key out of the keyhole, but left it onthe outside, and by that they found him. At the bare suggestion of hisgoing home, he became so furious that it seemed unsafe to urge it. Hiswife and eldest son had stayed there with him now for two days; but he hadgrown steadily worse, and it was plain that he must die unless he could beproperly cared for. 

"At last I thought of you, " said the poor woman. "He's always said so muchabout you; and once, when I was riding with him, he pointed you out to meon the street, and said he, 'That's the very nicest girl in America. ' Andhe told me about his giving you the clock; and I never knew him give anything away before in his whole life. Not but what he has always been verygood to me, in his way. He'd never give me a cent o' money; but he'dalways pay bills, --that is, that was any way reasonable. But I said to'Siah this morning, 'If there's anybody on earth can coax your father tolet us take him home, it's that Mrs. Philbrick; and I'm going to findher. ' 'Siah didn't want me to. The boys are so ashamed about it; but Idon't see any shame in it. It's just a kind of queer way Mr. Wheeler'salways had; and everybody's got something queer about 'em, first or last;and this way of Mr. Wheeler's of going off don't hurt anybody but himself. I got used to 't long ago. Now, won't you come, and try and see if youcan't persuade him? It won't do any harm to try. "

"Why, yes, indeed, Mrs. Wheeler, I'll come; but I don't believe I can doany thing, " said Mercy, much touched by the appeal to her. "I havewondered very much what had become of Mr. Wheeler. I had not seen him fora long time. "

When they went into the garret, the old man was half-lying, half-sitting, propped on his left elbow. In his right hand he held his cane, with whichhe continually tapped the floor, as he poured out a volley of angryreproaches to his son "'Siah, " a young man of eighteen or twenty yearsold, who sat on a roll of leather at a safe distance from his father'slair. As the door opened, and he saw Mercy entering with his wife, the oldman's face underwent the most extraordinary change. Surprise, shame, perplexity, bravado, --all struggled together there. 

"God bless my soul! God bless my soul!" he exclaimed, trying to draw thecomforters more closely about him. 

Mercy went up to him, and, sitting down by his side, began to talk to himin a perfectly natural tone, as if she were making an ordinary call on aninvalid in his own home. She said nothing to suggest that he had done anything unnatural in hiding himself, and spoke of his severe cold as beingmerely what every one else had been suffering from for some time. Then shetold him how ill her mother was, and succeeded in really arousing hisinterest in that. Finally, she said, --

"But I must go now. I can't be away from my mother long. I will come andsee you again to-morrow. Shall I find you here or at your home?"

"Well, I was thinking I 'd better move home to-day, " said he. 

His wife and son involuntarily exchanged glances. This was more than theyhad dared to hope. 

"Yes, I would, if I were you, " replied Mercy, still in a perfectly naturaltone. "It would be so much better for you to be in a room with a fire init for a few days. There isn't any way of warming this room, is there?"said she, looking all about, as if to see if it might not be possiblestill to put up a stove there. "'Siah" turned his head away to hide asmile, so amused was he by the tact of the remark. "No, I see there is nostovepipe-hole here, " she went on, "so you'd much better move home. I'mgoing by the stable. Let me send Seth right up with the carriage, won'tyou?"

"No, no! Bless my soul! Thinks I'm made of money, don't she! No, no! I canwalk. " And the old half-crazy glare came into his eyes. 

Mercy went nearer to him, and laid her hand gently on his. 

"Mr. Wheeler, " said she, "you did something very kind for me once: nowwon't you do something once more, --just once? I want you to go home in thecarriage. It is a terribly cold day, and the streets are very icy. Inearly fell several times myself coming over here. You will certainlytake a terrible cold, if you walk this morning. Please say I may get thecarriage. "

"Bless my soul! Bless my soul, child! Go get it then, if you care so much;but tell him I'll only pay a quarter, --only a quarter, remember. They'dtake every cent I've got. They are all wolves, wolves, wolves!"

"Yes, I'll tell him only a quarter. I'll have him here in a few minutes!"exclaimed Mercy, and ran out of the room hastily before the old man couldchange his mind. 

As good luck would have it, Seth and his "kerridge" were in sight whenMercy reached the foot of the staircase. So in less than five minutes shereturned to the garret, exclaiming, --

"Here is Seth now, Mr. Wheeler. It is so fortunate I met him. Now I cansee you off. " The old man was so weak that his son had to carry him downthe stairs; and his face, seen in the broad daylight, was ghastly. As theyplaced him in the carriage, he called out to his wife and son, sharply, --

"Don't you get in! You can walk, you can walk. Mind, he's to have but aquarter, tell him. " And, as Seth whipped up his horses and drove off, thewords, "wolves, wolves, wolves, " were heard coming in muffled tonesthrough the door. 

"He'd never have gone, if you hadn't come back, --never, " said Mrs. Wheeler, as she turned to Mercy. "I never can thank you enough. It'll savehis life, getting him out of that garret. "

Mercy did not say, but she thought that it was too late. A mortalsickness had fastened upon the old man; and so it proved. When she went tohis home the next day, he was in a high fever and delirious; and he livedonly a few days. He had intervals of partial consciousness, and in thosehe seemed to be much touched by the patient care which his two sons weregiving to him. He had always been a hard father; had compelled his sonsvery early to earn their own living, and had refused to give them money, which he could so easily have spared, to establish themselves in business. Now, that it was too late, he repented. 

"Good boys, good boys, good boys after all, " he would mutter to himself, as they bent over him, and nursed him tenderly in his helplessness. "Mighthave left them more money, might have left them more. Mistake, mistake!"Once he roused, and with great vehemence asked to have his lawyer sent forimmediately. But, when the lawyer came, the delirium had returned again:it was too late; and the old man died without repairing the injustice hehad done. The last intelligible words he spoke were, "Mistake! mistake!"

And he had indeed made a mistake. When his will was opened, it was foundthat the whole bulk of his large estate had been left to trustees, to beheld as a fund for assisting poor young men to a certain amount of capitalto go into business with, --the very thing which he had never done for hisown children. The trust was burdened with such preposterous conditions, however, that it never could have amounted to any thing, even if thecourts had not come to the rescue, and mercifully broken the will, dividing the property where it rightfully belonged, between the wife andchildren. 

Early in February Mrs. Carr died. It was more like a going to sleep thanlike a death. She lay for two days in a dozing state, smiling wheneverMercy spoke to her, and making great efforts to swallow food wheneverMercy offered it to her. At last she closed her eyes, turned her head onone side, as if for a sounder sleep, and never moved again. 

However we may think we are longing for the release from suffering to cometo one we love, when it does come, it is a blow, is a shock. Hundreds oftimes Mercy had said to herself in the course of the winter, "Oh, if Godwould only take my mother to heaven! Her death would be easier to bearthan this. " But now she would have called her back, if she could. Thesilent house, the empty room, still more terrible the long empty hours inwhich nobody needed her help, all wrung Mercy's heart. It was her firstexperience of being alone. She had often pictured to herself, or rathershe thought she had, what it would be; but no human imagination can eversound the depths of that word: only the heart can feel it. It is a marvelthat hearts do not break under it oftener than they do. The silence whichis like that darkness which could be felt; the sudden awakening in thenight with a wonder what it means that the loved one is not there; thepitiless morning light which fills the empty house, room after room; andharder than all else to forget, to rise above--the perpetual sense of nofuture: even the little near futures of the next hour, the next day, allcut off, all closed, to the human being left utterly alone. The mockery ofthe instincts of hunger and need of rest seems cruel. What a uselessroutine, for one left alone, to be fed, to sleep, and to rise up to eatand sleep again!

Mercy bore all this in a sort of dumb bewilderment for a few days. AllStephen's love and sympathy did not help her. He was unutterably tenderand sympathizing now that poor old Mrs. Carr was fairly out of his way. Itsurprised even himself to see what a sort of respectful affection he feltfor her in her grave. Any misgiving that this new quiet and undisturbedpossession of Mercy might not continue did not cross his mind; and whenMercy said to him suddenly, one evening about ten days after her mother'sdeath, "Stephen, I must go away, I can't live in this house another week, "it was almost as sudden a shock to him as if he had gone in and found herdead. 

"Go away! Leave me!" he gasped, rather than said. "Mercy, you can't meanit!" and the distress in his face smote Mercy bitterly. But she persisted. "Yes, I do mean it, " she said. "You must not ask me to stay. I should losemy senses or fall ill. You can't think how terrible it is to me to be allalone in these rooms. Perhaps in new rooms I should not feel it so much. Ihave always looked forward to being left alone at some time, and havethought I would still have my home; but I did not think it could feel likethis. I simply cannot bear it, --at any rate, not till I am stronger. Andbesides, Stephen, " and Mercy's face flushed red, "there is another thingyou have not thought of: it would never do for me to live here alone inthis house with you, as we have been living. You couldn't come to see meso much now mother is not here. "

Poor Mrs. Carr! avenged at last, by Stephen's own heart. How gladly wouldhe have called her to life now! Mercy's words carried instantaneousconviction to his mind. It was strange he had never thought of thisbefore; but he had not. He groaned aloud. 

"O Mercy! O Mercy!" he exclaimed, "I never once thought of that, we havebeen living so so long. You are right: you cannot stay here. Oh, whatshall I do without you, my darling, my darling?"

"I do not think you can ever be so lonely as I, " said Mercy; "for you havestill your work left you to do. If I had any human being to need me, Icould bear being separated from you. "

"Where will you go, Mercy?" asked Stephen, in a tone of dull, hopelessmisery. 

"I do not know. I have not thought yet. Back to my old home for a visit, Ithink, and then to some city to study and work. That is the best life forme. "

"O Mercy, Mercy, I am going to lose you, --lose you utterly!" exclaimedStephen. 

Mercy looked at him with a pained and perplexed expression. "Stephen, " shesaid earnestly, "I can't understand you. You bear your hard life souncomplainingly, so bravely, that it seems as if you could not have avestige of selfishness in you; and yet"--Mercy halted; she could not puther thought in words. Stephen finished it for her. 

"And yet, " he said, "I am selfish about you, you think. Selfish! Good God!do you call it selfishness in a man who is drowning, to try to swim, in aman who is starving, to clutch a morsel of bread? What else have I thatone could call life except you? Tell me, Mercy! You are my life: that isthe whole of it. All that a man has he will give for his life. Is itselfishness?" Stephen locked his hands tight together, and looked at Mercyalmost angrily. She was writhing under his words. She had always anunspeakable dread of being unjust to him. Love made her infinitely tender, and pity made her yearn over him. But neither her own love and pity norhis passionate words could wholly blind her now; and there was a sadnessin the tones in which she replied, --

"No, Stephen, I did not mean to call you selfish; but I can't understandwhy you are not as brave and patient about all hard things as you areabout the one hardest thing of all. "

"Mercy, would you marry me now, if I asked you?" said Stephen. He did notrealize the equivocal form of his question. An indignant look swept overMercy's face for a moment, but only for a moment. She knew Stephen's lovetoo well. 

"No, Stephen, " she said, "I would not. If you had asked me at first, Ishould have done it. I thought then that it would be best, " she said, withhot blushes mounting high on her cheeks; "but I have seen since that itwould not. "

Stephen sighed. "I am glad you see that, " he said. Then in a lower tone, "You know you are free, Mercy, --utterly free. I would never be so base asto hold you by a word. "

Mercy smiled half-bitterly, as she replied, --

"Words never hold people, and you know very well it is only an empty formof words to say that I am free. I do not want to be free, darling, " sheadded, in a burst of tenderness toward him. "You could not set me free, ifyou tried. "

When Mercy told Parson Dorrance her intention of going away, his facechanged as if some fierce spasm wrung him; but it was over in a second, and he said, --

"You are quite right, my child, --quite right. It will be a great dealbetter for you in every way. This is no place for you now. You must haveat least a year or two of travel and entire change. "

In her heart, Mercy contrasted the replies of her two lovers. She couldnot banish the feeling that one was the voice of a truer love than theother. She fought against the feeling as against a treason; but the truthwas strongest. In her heart, she knew that the man she did not love wasmanlier than the man she loved. 

Chapter XI

For the first few months after Mercy went away, Stephen seemed to himselfto be like an automaton, which had been wound up to go through certainmovements for a certain length of time, and could by no possibility stop. He did not suffer as he had expected. Sometimes it seemed to him that hedid not suffer at all; and he was terrified at this very absence ofsuffering. Then again he had hours and days of a dull despair, which wasworse than any more active form of suffering. Now he understood, hethought, how in the olden time men had often withdrawn themselves from theworld after some great grief, and had lived long, stagnant lives indeserts and caves. He had thought it would kill him to lose Mercy out ofhis life. Now he felt sure that he should live to be a hundred years old;should live by very help of the apathy into which he had sunk. Externally, he seemed very little changed, --a trifle quieter, perhaps, and gentler. His mother sometimes said to herself, --

"Steve is really getting old very fast for so young a man;" but she wascontent with the change. It seemed to bring them nearer together, and madeher feel more at ease as to the possibility of his falling in love. Herold suspicions and jealousies of Mercy had died out root and branch, within three months after her departure. Stephen's unhesitating assuranceto her that he did not expect to write to Mercy had settled the questionin her mind once for all. If she had known that at the very moment when heuttered these words he had one long letter from Mercy and another to herlying in his pocket, the shock might well-nigh have killed her; for neveronce in Mrs. White's most jealous and ill-natured hours had the thoughtcrossed her mind that her son would tell her a deliberate lie. He told it, however, unflinchingly, in as gentle and even a tone and with as unruffleda brow as he would have bade her good-morning. He had thought the wholematter over, and deliberately resolved to do it. He did it to save herfrom pain; and he had no more compunction about it than he would have hadabout closing a blind, to shut out a sunlight too strong for her eyes. What a terrible thing is the power which human beings have of deceivingeach other! Woe to any soul which trusts itself to any thing less than anorganic integrity of nature, to which a lie is impossible!

Mercy's letters disappointed Stephen. They were loving; but they wereconcise, sensible, sometimes merry, and always cheerful. Her life wasconstantly broadening; friends crowded around her; and her art wasbecoming more and more to her every day. Her name was beginning to beknown, and her influence felt. Her verses were simple, and went topeople's hearts. They were also of a fine and subtle flavor, and gavepleasure to the intellect. Strangers began to write words ofencouragement to her, --sometimes a word of gratitude for help, sometimes aword of hearty praise. She began to feel that she had her own circle oflisteners, unknown friends, who were always ready to hear her when shespoke. This consciousness is a most exquisite happiness to a true artist:it is a better stimulus than all the flattering criticism in the world cangive. 

She was often touched to tears by the tributes she received from theseunknown friends. They had a wide range, coming sometimes from herfellow-artists in literature, sometimes from lowly and uncultured people. Once there came to her by mail, on a sheet of coarse paper, two fadedroses, fragrant, --for they were cinnamon roses, whose fragrance neverdies, --but yellow and crumpled, for they had journeyed many days to reachher. They were tied together by a bit of blue yarn; and on the paper waswritten, in ill-spelt words, "I wanted to send you something; and thesewere all I had. I am an old woman, and very poor. You've helped me ever somuch. "

Another gift was a moss basket filled with arbutus blossoms. Hid away inthe leaves was a tiny paper, on which were written some graceful verses, evidently by a not unpractised hand. The signature was in initials unknownto Mercy; but she hazarded a guess as to the authorship, and sent thefollowing verses in reply:--

 TO E. B. 

 At night, the stream came to the sea. "Long leagues, " it cried, "this drop I bring, O beauteous, boundless sea! What is the meagre, paltry thing In thine abundance unto thee? No ripple, in thy smallest wave, of me Will know! No thirst its suffering Shall better slake for my surrendering My life! O sea, in vain My leagues of toil and pain!"

 At night, wayfarers reached the sea. "Long weary leagues we came, " they cried, "O beauteous, boundless sea! The swelling waves of thy swift tide Break on the shores where souls are free: Through lonely wildernesses, unto thee One tiny stream has been our guide, And in the desert we had died, If its oases sweet Had not refreshed our feet. "

 O tiny stream, lost in the sea, Close symbol of a lifetime's speech! O beauteous, boundless sea, Close fitting symbol of the reach, Of measureless Eternity! Be glad, O stream, O sea, blest equally! And thou whose words have helped to teach Me this, --my unknown friend, --for each Kind thought, warm thanks. Only the stream can know How at such words the long leagues lighter grow. 

All these new interests and occupations, while they did not in the leastweaken her loyalty to Stephen, filled her thoughts healthfully andabsorbingly, and left her no room for any such passionate longing andbrooding as Stephen poured out to her in his letters. He looked in vainfor any response to these expressions. Sometimes, unable to bear theomission any longer, he would ask her pathetically why she did not saythat she longed to see him. Her reply was characteristic:--

"You ask me, dear, why I do not say that I long to see you. I am not surethat I ever do long, in the sense in which you use the word. I know that Icannot see you till next winter, just as I used to know every morning thatI could not see you until night; and the months between now and then seemto me one solid interval of time to be filled up and made the most of, just as the interval of the daytime between your going away in the morningand coming home at night used to seem to me. I do not think, dear Stephen, there is a moment of any day when I have not an under current ofconsciousness of you; but it is not a longing for the sight of you. Areyou sure, darling, that the love which takes perpetual shape in suchlongings is the strongest love?"

Little by little, phrases like this sank into Stephen's mind, andgradually crystallized into a firm conviction that Mercy was being weanedfrom him. It was not so. It was only that separation and its surer testswere adjusting to a truer level the relation between them. She did notlove him one whit less; but she was taking the position which belonged toher stronger and finer organization. If she had ever lived by his side ashis wife, the same change would have come; but her never-failingtenderness would have effectually covered it from his recognition, and hidit from her own, so long as he looked into her eyes with pleading love, and she answered with woman's fondness. No realization of inequality couldever have come. It is, after all, the flesh and blood of the loved onewhich we idealize. There is in love's sacraments a "real presence, " whichhandling cannot make us doubt. It is when we go apart and reflect that ourreason asks questions. Mercy did not in the least know that she wasoutgrowing Stephen White. She did not in the least suspect that heraffection and her loyalty were centring around an ideal personality, towhich she gave his name, but which had in reality never existed. Shebelieved honestly that she was living for and in Stephen all this time;that she was his, as he was hers, inalienably and for ever. If it had beensuggested to her that it was unnatural that she should be so content in adaily life which he did not share, so busy and glad in occupations andplans and aspirations into which he did not enter, she would have beenastonished. She would have said, "How foolish of me to do otherwise! Wehave our lives to lead, our work to do. It would be a sin to waste one'slife, to leave one's work undone, because of the mere lack of seeing anyone human being, however dear. " Stephen knew love better than this: heknew that life without the daily sight of Mercy was a blank drudgery;that, day by day, month by month, he was growing duller and duller, andmore and more lifeless, as if his very blood were being impoverished bylack of nourishment. Surely it was a hard fate which inflicted on thisman, already so overburdened, the perpetual pain of a love denied, thwarted, unhappy. Surely it was a brave thing in him to bear the doubleload uncomplainingly, to make no effort to throw it off, and never by aword or a look to visit his own sufferings on the head of the helplesscreature, who seemed to be the cause of them all. If there were any changein his manner toward his mother during these months, it was that he grewtenderer and more demonstrative to her. There were even times when hekissed her, solely from the yearning need he felt to kiss something human, he so longed for one touch of Mercy's hand. He would sometimes ask herwistfully, "Do I make you happy, mother?" And she would be won upon andsoftened by the words; when in reality they were only the outcry of thefamished heart which needed some reassurance that its sacrifices had notbeen all in vain. 

Month after month went on, and no tenants came for the "wing. " Stepheneven humiliated himself so far as to offer it to Jane Barker's husband ata lowered rent; but his offer was surlily rejected, and he repented havingmade it. Very bitterly he meditated on the strange isolation into which heand his mother were forced. His sympathies were not broad and generalenough to comprehend it. He did not know how quickly all people feel anatmosphere of withdrawal, an air of indifference. If Stephen had been richand powerful, the world would have forgiven him these traits, or havesmothered its dislike of them; but in a poor man, and an obscure one, such"airs" were not to be tolerated. Nobody would live in the "wing. " And soit came to pass that one day Stephen wrote to Mercy the followingletter:--

"You will be sorry to hear that I have had to foreclose the mortgage onthis house. It was impossible to get a tenant for the other half of it, and there was nothing else to be done. The house must be sold, but I doubtif it brings the full amount of the loan. I should have done this threemonths ago, except for your strong feeling against it. I am very sorry forold Mrs. Jacobs; but it is her misfortune, not my fault. I have my motherto provide for, and my first duty is to her. Of course, Mrs. Jacobs willnow have to go to the alms-house but I am not at all sure that she willnot be more comfortable there than she has made herself in the cottage. She has starved herself all these years. Some people say she must have ahoard of money there somewhere, that she cannot have spent even the littleshe has received. 

"I shall move out of the house at once, into the little cottage you likedso much, farther up on the hill. That is for rent, only fifty dollars ayear. I shall put this house into good repair, run a piazza around it asyou suggested, and paint it; and then I think I shall be sure of finding apurchaser. It can be made a very pretty house by expending a little moneyon it; and I can sell it for enough more to repay me. I am sure nobodywould buy it as it is. "

Mercy replied very briefly to this part of Stephen's letter. She haddiscussed the question with him often before, and she knew the strictjustice of his claim; but her heart ached for the poor friendless oldwoman, who was thus to lose her last dollar. If it had been possible forMercy to have continued to pay the rent of the wing herself, she wouldgladly have done so; but, at her suggestion of such a thing, Stephen hadbeen so angry that she had been almost frightened. 

"I am not so poor yet, Mercy, " he had exclaimed, "as to take charity fromyou! I think I should go to the alms-house myself first. I don't see whyold Granny Jacobs is so much to you, any way. "

"Only because she is so absolutely friendless, Stephen, " Mercy had repliedgently. "I never before knew of anybody who had not a relative or a friendin the world; and I am afraid they are cruel to the poor people at thealms-house. They all look so starved and wretched!"

"Well, it will be no more than she deserves, " said Stephen; "for she wascruel to her husband's brother's wife. I used to hear horrid stories, whenI was a boy, about how she drove them out of the house; and she was cruelto her son too, and drove him away from home. Of course, I am sorry to bethe instrument of punishing her, and I do have a certain pity for the oldwoman; but it is really her own fault. She might be living now in comfortwith her son, perhaps, if she had treated him well. "

"We can't go by such 'ifs' in this world, Steve, " said Mercy, earnestly. "We have to take things as they are. I don't want to be judged way back inmy life. Only God knows all the 'ifs. '" Such conversations as these hadprepared Mercy for the news which Stephen now wrote her; but they had inno wise changed her feeling in regard to it. She believed in the bottom ofher heart that Stephen might have secured a tenant, if he had tried. Hehad once, in speaking of the matter, dropped a sentence which had shockedher so that she could never forget it. 

"It would be a great deal better for me, " he had said, "to have the moneyinvested in some other way. If the house does fall into my hands, I shallsell it; and, even if I don't get the full amount of what father loaned, Ishall make it bring us in a good deal more than it does this way. "

This sentence rang in Mercy's ears, as she read in Stephen's letter allhis plans for improving the house; but the thing was done, and it was notMercy's habit to waste effort or speech over things which could not bealtered. 

"I am very sorry, " she wrote, "that you have been obliged to take thehouse. You know how I always felt for poor old Granny Jacobs. Perhaps wecan do something to make her more comfortable in the alms-house. I thinkLizzy could manage that for us. "

And in her own mind Mercy resolved that the old woman should never lackfor food and fire, however unwilling the overseers might be to permit herto have unusual comforts. 

Stephen's next letter opened with these words: "O Mercy, I have such astrange thing to tell you. I am so excited I can hardly find words. I havefound a lot of money in your old fireplace. Just think of our having satthere so quietly night after night, within hands' reach of it, all lastwinter! And how lucky that I found it, instead of any of the workmen!They'd have pocketed it, and never said a word. "

"To be sure they would, " thought Mercy, "and poor old Granny Jacobs wouldhave been"--she was about to think, "cheated out of her rights again, "but with a pang she changed the phrase into "none the better off for it. Oh, how glad I am for the poor old thing! People always said her husbandmust have hid money away somewhere. "

Mercy read on. "I was in such a hurry to get the house done before thesnow came that I took hold myself, and worked every night and morningbefore the workmen came; and, after they had gone, I found this lastnight, and I declare, Mercy, I haven't shut my eyes all night long. Itseems to me too good to be true. I think there must be as much as threethousand dollars, all in solid gold. Some of the coins I don't know thevalue of; but the greater proportion of them are English sovereigns. Ofcourse rich people wouldn't think this such a very big sum, but you and Iknow how far a little can go for poor people. "

"Yes, indeed, " thought Mercy. "Why, it will make the poor old womanperfectly comfortable all her life: it will give her more than she hadfrom the house. " And Mercy laid the letter in her lap and fell into areverie, thinking how strange it was that this good fortune should havecome about by means of an act which had seemed to her cruel on Stephen'spart. 

She took the letter up again. It continued: "O Mercy, my darling, do yousuppose you can realize what this sudden lift is to me? All my life I havefound our poverty so hard to bear, and these latter years I have bitterlyfelt the hardship of being unable to go out into the world and make myfortune as other men do, as I think I might, if I were free. But this sum, small as it is, will be a nucleus, I feel sure it will, of a competency atleast. I know of several openings where I can place it mostadvantageously. O Mercy! dear, dear Mercy! what hopes spring up in myheart! The time may yet come when we shall build up a lovely hometogether. Bless old Jacobs's miserliness! How little he knew what he washoarding up his gold for!"

At this point, Mercy dropped the letter, --dropped it as if it had been aviper that stung her. She was conscious of but two things: a strange, creeping cold which seemed to be chilling her to the very marrow of herbones; and a vague but terrible sense of horror, mentally. The letter fellto the floor. She did not observe it. A half-hour passed, and she did notknow that it had been a moment. Gradually, her brain began to rouse intoactivity again, and strove confusedly with the thoughts which crowded onit. 

"That would be stealing. He can't mean it. Stephen can't be a thief. "Half-formed, incoherent sentences like these floated in her mind, seemedto be floating in the air, pronounced by hissing voices. 

She pressed her hands to her temples, and sprang to her feet. The letterrustled on the floor, as her gown swept over it. She turned and looked atit, as if it were a living thing she would kill. She stooped to pick itup, and then recoiled from it. She shrank from the very paper. All thevehemence of her nature was roused. As in the moment of drowning peopleare said to review in one swift flash of consciousness their whole lives, so now in this moment did Mercy look back over the months of her life withStephen. Her sense of the baseness of his action now was like a lightningilluming every corner of the past: every equivocation, every concealment, every subterfuge he had practised, stood out before her, bare, stripped ofevery shred of apology or excuse. "He lies; he has always lied. Why shouldhe not steal?" she exclaimed. "It is only another form of the same thing. He stole me, too; and he made me steal him. He is dishonest to the verycore. How did I ever love such a man? What blinded me to his real nature?"

Then a great revulsion of feeling, of tenderness toward Stephen, wouldsweep over her, and drown all these thoughts. "O my poor, brave, patientdarling! He never meant to do any thing wrong in his life. He does not seethings as I do: no human soul could see clearly, standing where he stands. There is a moral warp in his nature, for which he is no more responsiblethan a tree is responsible for having grown into a crooked shape when itwas broken down by heavy stones while it was a sapling. Oh, how unjust Iam to him! I will never think such thoughts of him again. My darling, mydarling! He did not stop to think in his excitement that the money wasnot his. I daresay he has already seen it differently. "

Like waves breaking on a beach, and rolling back again to meet higherwaves and be swallowed up in them, these opposing thoughts and emotionsstruggled with each other in Mercy's bosom. Her heart and her judgmentwere at variance, and the antagonism was irreconcilable. She could notbelieve that her lover was dishonest. She could not but call his act atheft. The night came and went, and no lull had come to the storm by whichher soul was tossed. She could not sleep. As the morning dawned, she rosewith haggard and weary eyes, and prepared to write to Stephen. In some ofher calmer intervals, she had read the remainder of his letter. It waschiefly filled with the details of the manner in which the gold had beenhidden. A second fireplace had been built inside the first, leaving aspace of several inches between the two brick walls. On each side twobricks had been so left that they could be easily taken out and replaced;and the bags of gold hung upon iron stanchions in the outer wall. What astrange picture it must have been in the silent night hours, --the oldmiser bending above the embers of the dying fire on the hearth, andreaching down the crevice to his treasures! The bags were of leather, curiously embossed; they were almost charred by the heat, and the gold wasdull and brown. 

"I wonder which old fellow put it there?" said Stephen, at the end of hisletter. "Captain John would have been more likely to have foreign gold;but why should he hide it in his brother's fireplace? At any rate, towhichever of them I am indebted for it, I am most profoundly grateful. Ifever I meet him in any world, I'll thank him. "

Suddenly the thought occurred to Mercy, "Perhaps old Mrs. Jacobs is dead. Then there would be nobody who had any right to the money. But no: Stephenwould have told me if she had been. "

Still she clung to this straw of a hope; and, when she sat down to writeto Stephen, these words came first to her pen:--

"Is Mrs. Jacobs dead, Stephen? You do not say any thing about her; but Icannot imagine your thinking for a moment of keeping that money foryourself, unless she is dead. If she is alive, the money is hers. Nobodybut her husband or his brother could have put it there. Nobody else haslived in the house, except very poor people. Forgive me, dear, but perhapsyou had not thought of this when you first wrote: it has very likelyoccurred to you since then, and I may be making a very superfluoussuggestion. " So hard did she cling to the semblance of a trust that allwould yet prove to be well with her love and her lover. 

Stephen's reply came by the very next mail. It was short: it ran thus:--

"DEAR DARLING, --I do not know what to make of your letter. Your sentence, 'I cannot imagine your thinking for a moment of keeping that money foryourself, ' is a most extraordinary one. What do you mean by 'keeping itfor myself'? It is mine: the house was mine and all that was in it. OldMrs. Jacobs is alive still, at least she was last week; but she has nomore claim on that money than any other old woman in town. I can't supposeyou would think me a thief, Mercy; but your letter strikes me as a verystrange one. Suppose I were to discover that there is a gold mine in theorchard, --stranger things than that have happened, --would you say thatthat also belonged to Mrs. Jacobs and not to me? The cases are preciselyparallel. You have allowed your impulsive feeling to run away with yourjudgment; and, as I so often tell you, whenever you do that, you arewrong. I never thought, however, it would carry you so far as to make yoususpect me of a dishonorable act. "

Stephen was deeply wounded. Mercy's attempted reticence in her letter hadnot blinded him. He felt what had underlain the words, and it was a hardblow to him. His conscience was as free from any shadow of guilt in thematter of that money as if it had been his by direct inheritance from hisown father. Feeling this, he had naturally the keenest sense of outrage atMercy's implied accusation. 

Before Stephen's second letter came, Mercy had grown calm. The more shethought the thing over, the more she felt sure that Mrs. Jacobs must bedead, and that Stephen in his great excitement had forgotten to mentionthe fact. Therefore the second letter was even a greater blow to her thanthe first: it was a second and a deeper thrust into a wound which hadhardly begun to heal. There was also a tone of confident, almostarrogant, assumption in the letter, it seemed to Mercy, which irritatedher. She did not perceive that it was the inevitable confidence of aperson so sure he is right that he cannot comprehend any doubt inanother's mind on the subject. There was in Mercy's nature a vein ofintolerance, which was capable of the most terrible severity. She was asblinded, to Stephen's true position in the matter as he was to hers. Thefinal moment of divergence had come: its seeds were planted in her natureand in Stephen's when they were born. Nothing could have hindered theirgrowth, nothing could have forestalled their ultimate result. It was onlya question of time and of occasion, when the two forces would be arrayedagainst each other, and would be found equally strong. 

Mercy took counsel with herself now, and delayed answering this secondletter. She was resolved to be just to Stephen. 

"I will think this thing over and over, " she said to herself, "till I amsure past all doubt that I am right, before I say another word. "

But her long thinking did not help Stephen. Each day her conviction grewdeeper, her perception clearer, her sense of alienation from Stephenprofounder. If a moral antagonism had grown up between them in any othershape, it would have been less fatal to her love. There were many speciesof wrong-doing which would have been less hateful in her sight. It seemedto her sometimes that there could be no crime in the world which wouldappear to her so odious as this. Her imagination dwelt on the picture ofthe lonely old woman in the alms-house. She had been several times to seeMrs. Jacobs, and had been much moved by a certain grim stoicism which gavealmost dignity to her squalor and wretchedness. 

"She always had the bearing of a person who knew she was sufferingwrongly, but was too proud to complain, " thought Mercy. "I wonder if shedid not all along believe there was something wrong about the mortgage?"and Mercy's suspicious thoughts and conjectures ran far back into thepast, fastening on the beginnings of all this trouble. She recollected oldMr. Wheeler's warnings about Stephen, in the first weeks of her stay inPenfield. She recollected Parson Dorrance's expression, when he found outthat she had paid her rent in advance. She tortured herself by reviewingminutely every little manoeuvre she had known of Stephen's practising toconceal his relation with her. 

Let Mercy once distrust a person in one particular, and she distrusted himin all. Let one act of his life be wrong, and she believed that his everyact was wrong in motive, or in relation to others, however specious andfair it might be made to appear. All the old excuses and apologies she hadbeen in the habit of making for Stephen's insincerities to his mother andto the world seemed to her now less than nothing; and she wondered how sheever could have held them as sufficient. In vain her heart pleaded. Invain tender memories thrilled her, by their vivid recalling of hours, ofmoments, of looks and words. It was with a certain sense of remorse thatshe dwelt on them, of shame that she was conscious of clinging to themstill. "I shall always love him, I am afraid, " she said to herself; "but Ishall never trust him again, --never!"

And hour by hour Stephen was waiting and looking for his letter. 

Chapter XII. 

Stephen took Mercy's letter from the post-office at night. It was one weekpast the time at which it would have reached him, if it had been writtenimmediately on the receipt of his. Only too well he knew what the delaymeant. He turned the letter over and over in his hand, and noted withoutsurprise it was very light. The superscription was written with unusualcare. Mercy's handwriting was free and bold, but illegible, unless shemade a special effort to write with care; and she never made that effortin writing to Stephen. How many times he had said to her: "Never mind howyou write to me, dear. I read your sentences by another sense than thesense of sight. " This formally and neatly written, superscription smotehim, as a formal bow and a chilling glance from Mercy would, if he hadpassed her on the street. 

He carried the letter home unopened. All through the evening it lay like aleaden weight in his bosom, as he sat by his mother's side. He dared notread it until he was sure of being able to be alone for hours. At last hewas free. As he went upstairs to his room, he thought to himself, "This isthe hour at which I used to fly to her, and find such welcome. A year agoto-night how happy we were!" With a strange disposition to put off theopening of the letter, he moved about his room, rearranged the books, lighted an extra lamp, and finally sat down in an arm-chair, and leaningboth his arms on the table looked at the letter lying there so white, sostill. He felt a preternatural consciousness of what was in it; and heshrank from looking at the words, as a condemned prisoner might shrinkfrom reading his own death-warrant. The room was bitterly cold. Fires inbed-rooms were a luxury Stephen had never known. As he sat there, his bodyand heart seemed to be growing numb together. At last he said, "I may aswell read it, " and took the letter up. As he opened it and read the firstwords, "My darling Stephen, " his heart gave a great bound. She loved himstill. What a reprieve in that! He had yet to learn that love can becrueller than any friendship, than any indifference, than any hate:nothing is so exacting, so inexorable, as love. The letter was full oflove; but it was, nevertheless, hard and pitiless in its tone. Stephenread it again and again: then he held it in the flame of the lamp, and letit slowly burn, until only a few scorched fragments remained. These hefolded in a small paper, and put into his pocket-book. Why he did this, hecould not tell, and wondered at himself for doing it. Then he walked theroom for an hour or two, revolving in his mind what he should say toMercy. His ideas arranged themselves concisely and clearly. He had beenstung by Mercy's letter into a frame of feeling hardly less inexorablethan her own. He said to himself, "She never truly loved me, or nothingunder heaven could make her believe me capable of a dishonesty;" and, inmidst of all his pain at this thought, he had an indignant resentment, asif Mercy herself had been in some way actively responsible for all thismisery. 

His letter was shorter than Mercy's. They were sad, strange letters tohave passed between lovers. Mercy's ran as follows:--

"MY DARLING STEPHEN, --Your letters have shocked me so deeply that I findmyself at a loss for words in which to reply. I cannot understand yourpresent position at all. I have waited all these days, hoping that somenew light would come to me, that I could see the whole thing differently;but I cannot. On the contrary, each hour that I think of it (and I havethought of nothing else since your second letter came) only makes myconviction stronger. Darling, that money is Mrs. Jacobs's money, by everymoral right. You may be correct in your statement as to the legal rightsof the case. I take it for granted that you are. At any rate, I knownothing about that; and I rest no argument upon it at all. But it is clearas daylight to me that morally you are bound to give her the money. Suppose you had had permission from her to make those changes in thehouse, while you were still her tenant, and had found the money, then youwould have handed it to her unhesitatingly. Why? Because you would havesaid, 'This woman's husband built this house. No one except his brotherwho could possibly have deposited this money here has lived in the house. One of those two men was the owner of that gold. In either case, she isthe only heir, and it is hers. I am sure you would have felt this, had wechanced to discover the money on one of those winter nights you refer to. Now in what has the moral obligation been changed by the fact that thehouse has come into your hands? Not by ordinary sale, either; but simplyby foreclosure of a mortgage, under conditions which were certainly veryhard for Mrs. Jacobs, inasmuch as one-half the interest has always beenpaid. This money which you have found would have paid nearly the whole ofthe original loan. It was hers, only she did not know where it lay. OStephen, my darling, I do implore you not to do this great wrong. You willcertainly come to see, sooner or later, that it was a dishonest act; andthen it will be too late to undo it. If I thought that by talking with youI could make you see it as I do, I would come to you at once. But I keepclinging to the hope that you will see it of yourself, that a suddenrealization of it will burst upon you like a great light. Don't speak soangrily to me of calling you a thief. I never used the word. I nevercould. I know the act looks to you right, or you would not commit it. Butit is terrible to me that it should look so to you. I feel, darling, as ifyou were color-blind, and I saw you about to pick a most deadly fruit, whose color ought to warn every one from touching it; but you, not seeingthe color, did not know the danger; and I must save you at all hazards, atall costs. Oh, what shall I say, what shall I say! How can I make you seethe truth? God help us if I do not; for such an act as this on your partwould put an impassable gulf between our souls for ever. Your loving, "MERCY. "

Stephen's letter was in curter phrase. Writing was not to him a naturalform of expression. Even of joyous or loving words he was chary, and muchmore so of their opposites. His life-long habit of repression of all signsof annoyance, all complaints, all traces of suffering, told still more onhis written words than on his daily speech and life. His letter soundedharder than it need for this reason; seemed to have been written inantagonism rather than in grief, and so did injustice to his feeling. 

"MY DEAR MERCY, --It is always a mistake for people to try to impose theirown standards of right and wrong on others. It gives me very great pain towound you in any way, you know that; and to wound you in such a way asthis gives me the greatest possible pain. But I cannot make yourconscience mine. If this money had not seemed to me to be justly my own, Ishould never have thought of taking it. As it does seem to me to be justlymy own, your believing it to be another's ought not to change my action. If I had only my own future to consider, I might give it up, for the sakeof your peace of mind. But it is not so. I have a helpless invaliddependent on me; and one of the hardest things in my life to bear hasalways been the fear that I might lose my health, and be unable to earneven the poor living we now have. This sum, small as it is, will removethat fear, will enable me to insure for my mother a reasonable amount ofcomfort as long as she lives; and I cannot give it up. I do not suppose, either, that it would make any difference in your feeling if I gave it upsolely to please you, and not because I thought it wrong to keep it. Howany act which I honestly believe to be right, and which you know Ihonestly believe to be right, can put 'an impassable gulf between oursouls for ever, ' I do not understand. But, if' it seems so to you, I canonly submit; and I will try to forget that you ever said to me, 'I shalltrust you till I die!' O Mercy, Mercy, ask yourself if you are just!

"STEPHEN. "

Mercy grasped eagerly at the intimation in this letter that Stephen mightpossibly give the money up because she desired it. 

"Oh, if he will only not keep it, I don't care on what grounds he gives itup!" she exclaimed. "I can bear his thinking it was his, if only the moneygoes where it belongs. He will see afterwards that I was right. " And shesat down instantly, and wrote Stephen a long letter, imploring him to doas he had suggested. 

"Darling, " she said, "this last letter of yours has given me greatcomfort. " As Stephen read this sentence, he uttered an ejaculation ofsurprise. What possible comfort there could have been in the words heremembered to have written he failed to see; but it was soon made clear tohim. 

"You say, " she continued, "that you might possibly give the money up forsake of my peace of mind, if it were not for the fear that your mothermight suffer. O Stephen, then give it up! give it up! Trust to thefuture's being at least as kind as the past. I will not say another wordabout the right or wrong of the thing. Think that my feeling is all morbidand overstrained about it, if you will. I do not care what you think ofme, so that I do not have to think of you as using money which is not yourown. And, darling, do not be anxious about the future: if any thinghappens to you, I will take care of your mother. It is surely my rightnext to yours. I only wish you would let me help you in it even now. I amearning more and more money. I have more than I need. Oh, if you wouldonly take some of it, darling! Why should you not? I would take it fromyou, if you had it and I had not. I could give you in a very few years asmuch as this you have found and never miss it. Do let me atone to you inthis way for your giving up what you think is your right in the matter ofthis ill-fated money. O Stephen, I could be almost happy again, if youwould do this! You say it would make no difference in my feeling about it, if you gave the money up only to please me, and not because you thought itwrong to keep it. No, indeed! that is not so. I would be happier, if yousaw it as I do, of course; but, if you cannot, then the next best thing, the only thing left for my happiness, is to have you yield to my wish. Why, Stephen, I have even felt so strongly about it as this: thatsometimes, in thinking it over, I have had a wild impulse to tell you thatif you did not give the money to Mrs. Jacobs I would inform theauthorities that you had it, and so test the question whether you had theright to keep it or not. Any thing, even your humiliation, has at timesseemed to me better than that you should go on living in the possession ofstolen money. You can see from this how deeply I felt about the thing. Isuppose I really never could have done this. At the last moment, I shouldhave found it impossible to array myself against you in any such publicway; but, oh, my darling, I should always have felt as if I helped stealthe money, if I kept quiet about it. You see I use a past tense already, Ifeel so certain that you will give it up now. Dear, dear Stephen, you willnever be sorry: as soon as it is done, you will be glad. I wish that goldhad been all sunk in the sea, and never seen light again, the sight of ithas cost us so dear. Darling, I can't tell you what a load has rolled offmy heart. Oh, if you could know what it has been to me to have this cloudover my thoughts of you! I have always been so proud of you, Stephen, --your patience, your bravery. In my thought, you have stoodalways for my ideal of the beautiful alliance of gentleness and strength. Darling, we owe something to those who love us: we owe it to them not todisappoint them. If I were to be tempted to do some dishonorable thing, Ishould say to myself: 'No, for I must be what Stephen believes me. It isnot only that I will not grieve him: still more, I will not disappointhim. '"

Mercy wrote on and on. The reaction from the pent-up grief, the prolongedstrain, was great. In her first joy at any, even the least, alleviation ofthe horror she had felt at the thought of Stephen's dishonesty, sheover-estimated the extent of the relief she would feel from hissurrendering the money at her request. She wrote as buoyantly, asconfidently, as if his doing that would do away with the whole wrong fromthe beginning. In her overflowing, impetuosity, also, she did not considerwhat severe and cutting things were implied as well as said in some of hersentences. She closed the letter without rereading it, hastened to send itby the first mail, and then began to count the days which must pass beforeStephen's answer could reach her. 

Alas for Mercy! this was a sad preparation for the result which was tofollow her hastily written words. It seems sometimes as if fate delightedin lifting us up only to cast us down, in taking us up into a highmountain to show us bright and goodly lands, only to make our speedyimprisonment in the dark valley the harder to bear. 

Stephen read this last letter of Mercy's with an ever-increasing sense ofresentment to the very end. For the time being it seemed to actuallyobliterate every trace of his love for her. He read the words aswrathfully as if they had been written by a mere acquaintance. 

"Good heavens!" he exclaimed. "'Stolen money! Inform the authorities!'Let her do it if she likes and see how she would come out at the end ofthat. ' And Stephen wrote Mercy very much such a letter as he would havewritten to a man under the same circumstances. Luckily, he kept it a day, and, rereading it in a cooler moment was shocked at its tone, destroyedit, and wrote another. But the second one was no less hard, only morecourteous, than the first. It ran thus:--

"MERCY, --I am sorry that any thing in my last letter should have led youto suppose that under the existing circumstances you could control myactions. All I said was that I might, for the sake of your peace of mind, give up this money, if it were not for my obligations to my mother. It wasa foolish thing to say, since those obligations could not be done awaywith. I ought to have known that in your overwrought frame of mind youwould snatch at the suggestion, and make it the basis of a fresh appeal. 

"Now let me say, once for all, that my mind is firmly made up on thissubject, and that it must be dropped between us. The money is mine, and Ishall keep it. If you think it your duty to 'inform the authorities, ' asyou say, you must do so; and I would not say one word to hinder you. Iwould never, as you do in this case, attempt to make my own conscience theregulator of another's conduct. If you do regard me as the possessor of'stolen money, ' it is undoubtedly your duty to inform against me. I canonly warn you that all you would gain by it would be a most disagreeableexposure of your own and my private affairs, and much mortification toboth of us. The money is mine beyond all question. I shall not reply toany more letters from you on this subject. There is nothing more to besaid; and all prolonging of the discussion is a needless pain, and isendangering the very foundations of our affection for each other. I wantto say one thing more, however; and I hope it will impress you as itought. Never forget that the strongest proof that my conscience wasperfectly clear in regard to that money is that I at once told you of itsdiscovery. It would have been perfectly easy for me to have accounted toyou in a dozen different ways for my having come into possession of alittle money, or even to have concealed from you the fact that I had doneso; and, if I had felt myself a thief, I should certainly have taken goodcare that you did not know it. 

"I must also thank you for your expressions of willingness to take care ofmy mother, in case of any thing's happening to me. Until these lastletters of yours, I had often thought, with a sense of relief, that, if Idied, you would never see my mother suffer; but now any such thought isinseparably associated with bitter memories. And my mother will not, inany event, need your help; for the money I shall have from the sale of thehouse, together with this which I have found, will give her all she willrequire. 

"You must forgive me if this letter sounds hard, Mercy. I have not yourfaculty of mingling endearing epithets with sharp accusations andreproaches. I cannot be lover and culprit at once, as you are able to belover and accuser, or judge. I love you, I think, as deeply and tenderlyas ever; but you yourself have made all expression of it impossible. STEPHEN. "

This letter roused in Mercy most conflicting emotions. Wounded feeling atits coldness, a certain admiration for its tone of immovable resolution, anger at what seemed to her Stephen's unjustifiable resentment of hereffort to influence his action, --all these blended in one great pain whichwas well-nigh unbearable. For the time being, her distress in regard tothe money seemed cast into shadow and removed by all this suffering in herpersonal relation with Stephen; but the personal suffering had not so deepa foundation as the other. Gradually, all sense of her own individualhurts in Stephen's words, in his acts, in the weakening of the bond whichheld them together, died out, and left behind it only a sense ofbereavement and loss; while the first horror of Stephen's wrong-doing, ofthe hopeless lack in his moral nature, came back with twofold intensity. This had its basis in convictions, --in convictions which were as strong asthe foundations of the earth: the other had its basis in emotions, insensibilities which might pass away or be dulled. 

Spite of Stephen's having forbidden all reference to the subject, Mercywrote letter after letter upon it, pleading sometimes humbly, sometimesvehemently. It seemed to her that she was fighting for Stephen's verylife, and she could not give way. To all these out-pourings Stephen madeno reply. He answered the letters punctually, but made no reference to thequestion of the money, save by a few short words at the end of his letter, or in a postscript: such as, "It grieves me to see that you still dwell onthat matter of which I said we must speak no more;" or, "Pray, dear Mercy, do not prolong that painful discussion. I have nothing more to say to youabout it. "

For the rest, his letters were faithful transcripts of the little eventsof his uneventful life, warm comments on any of Mercy's writings which heread, and gentle assurances of his continued affection. The old longings, broodings, and passionate yearnings, which he used to pour out, ceased. Stephen was wounded to the very quick; and the wound did not heal. Yet hefelt no withdrawal from Mercy: probably nothing she could do would everdrive him from her. He would die, if worst came to worst, lying by herside and looking up in her eyes, like a dog at the feet of its master whohad shot him. 

Mercy was much moved by this tone of patience in his letters: it touchedher, as the look of patient endurance on his face used to touch her. Italso irritated her, it was so foreign to her own nature. 

"How can he help answering these things I say?" she would exclaim. "He hasno right to refuse to talk with me about such a vital matter. " If any onehad said to Mercy, "He has as much right to refuse to discuss the questionas you have to force it upon him, " she could not have seen the pointfairly. 

But all Stephen's patience, gentleness, and firmness did not abate one jotor tittle of Mercy's conviction that he was doing a dishonest thing. Ohthe contrary, his quiet appeared to her more and more like a calloussatisfaction; and his occasional cheerfulness, like an exultation over hisill-gotten gains. Slowly there crept into her feeling towards him acertain something which was akin to scorn, --the most fatal of deaths tolove. The hateful word "thief" seemed to be perpetually ringing in herears. When she read accounts of robberies, of defalcations, of breaches oftrust, she found herself always drawing parallels between the conduct ofthese criminals and Stephen's. The secrecy, the unassailable safety of hiscrime, seemed to her to make it inexpressibly more odious. 

"I do believe, " she thought to herself again and again, "that if he hadbeen driven by his poverty to knocking men down on the highway, androbbing them of their pocket-books, I should not have so loathed it!"

As the weeks went on, Mercy's unhappiness increased rather thandiminished. There seemed an irreconcilible conflict between her love andevery other emotion in her soul. She seemed to herself to be, as it were, playing the hypocrite to her own heart in thinking thus of a man andloving him still; for that she still loved Stephen, she did not oncedoubt. At this time, she printed a little poem, which set many of herfriends to vondering from what experience of hers it could possibly havebeen drawn. Mercy's poems were so largely subjective in tone that it washard for her readers to believe that they were not all drawn from her ownindividual experience. 

 A WOMAN'S BATTLE. 

 Dear foe, I know thou'lt win the fight; I know thou hast the stronger bark, And thou art sailing in the light, While I am creeping in the dark. Thou dost not dream that I am crying, As I come up with colors flying. 

 I clear away my wounded, slain, With strength like frenzy strong and swift; I do not feel the tug and strain, Though dead are heavy, hard to lift. If I looked on their faces dying, I could not keep my colors flying. 

 Dear foe, it will be short, --our fight, -- Though lazily thou train'st thy guns: Fate steers us, --me to deeper night, And thee to brighter seas and suns; But thou'lt not dream that I am dying, As I sail by with colors flying!

There was great injustice to Stephen in this poem. When he read it, hegroaned, and exclaimed aloud, "O Mercy! O Mercy!" Then, as he read it overagain, he said, "Surely she could not have meant herself in this: it isonly dramatic. She could never call me her foe. " Mercy had often said tohim of some of her most intense poems, "Oh, it was purely dramatic. I justfancied how anybody would feel under such circumstances;" and he clung tothe hope that it was true in this case. But it was not. Already Mercy hada sense of antagonism, of warfare, with Stephen, or rather with her lovefor him. Already her pride was beginning to array itself in reticence, inwithdrawal, in suppression. More than once she had said to herself "I canlive without him! I could bear that pain better than this. " More than onceshe had asked herself with a kind of terror, "Do I really wish ever to seeStephen again?" and had been forced to own in her secret thought that sheshrank from meeting him. She began even to consider the possibility ofdeferring the visit to Lizzy Hunter, which she had promised to make in thespring. As the time drew nearer, her unwillingness to go increased, andshe would no doubt have discovered some way of escape; but one day earlyin March a telegram came to her, which left her no longer any room forchoice. 

It ran:--

"Uncle Dorrance is not expected to live. He wishes to see you. He is at myhouse. Come immediately. 

"LIZZY HUNTER. "

Chapter XIII. 

Within six hours after the receipt of this telegram, Mercy was on her wayto Penfield. Her journey would take a night and part of a day. As themorning dawned, and she drew near the old familiar scenes, her heart waswrung with conflicting memories and hopes and fears. The whole landscapewas dreary: the fields were dark and sodden, with narrow banks ofdiscolored snow lying under the fences, and thin rims of ice along theedges of the streams and pools. The sky was gray; the bare trees weregray: all life looked gray and hopeless to Mercy. She had had anover-mastering presentiment from the moment when she read the telegramthat she should reach Penfield too late to see Parson Dorrance alive. Astrange certainty that he had died in the night settled upon her mind assoon as she waked from her troubled sleep; and when she reached Lizzy'sdoor, and saw standing before it the undertaker's wagon, which she so wellremembered, there was no shock of surprise to her in the sight. At thefirst sound of Mercy's voice, Lizzy came swiftly forward, and fell uponher neck in a passion of crying. 

"O Mercy, Mercy, he"--

"Yes, dear, I know it, " interrupted Mercy, in a calm tone. "I know he isdead. "

"Why, who told you, Mercy?" exclaimed Lizzy. "He only died a few hoursago, --about daybreak, "

"Oh, I thought he died in the night!" said Mercy, in a strange tone, as iftrying to recollect something accurately about which her memory was notclear. Her look and her tone filled Lizzy with terror, and banished hergrief for the time being. 

"Mercy, Mercy, don't look so!" she exclaimed. "Speak to me! Oh, do cry, can't you?" And Lizzy's tears flowed afresh. 

"No, Lizzy, I don't think I can cry, " said Mercy, in the same strange, lowvoice. "I wish I could have spoken to him once, though. Did he leave anyword for me? Perhaps there is something he wanted me to do. "

Mercy's face was white, and her lips trembled; but her look was hardly thelook of one in sorrow: it was a rapt look, as of one walking on dizzyheights, breathless with some solemn purpose. Lizzy was convulsed withgrief, sobbing like a child, and pouring out one incoherent sentence afteranother. Mercy soothed her and comforted her as a mother might have done, and finally compelled her to be more calm. Mercy's magnetic power overthose whom she loved was almost unlimited. She forestalled their verywills, and made them desire what she desired. 

"O Mercy, don't make me glad he is dead! You frighten me, darling. I don'twant to stop crying; but you have sealed up all my tears, " cried Lizzy, later in the day, when Mercy had been talking like a seer, who could lookinto the streets of heaven, and catch the sound of the songs of angels. 

Mercy smiled sadly. "I don't want to prevent your crying, dear, " she said, "if it does you any good. But I am very sure that Mr. Dorrance sees us atthis moment, and longs to tell us how glad he is, and that we must be gladfor him. " And Mercy's eyes shone as they looked steadfastly across theroom, as if the empty space were, to her vision, peopled with spirits. This mood of exalted communion did not leave her. Her face seemedtransfigured by it. When she stood by the body of her loved teacher andfriend, she clasped her hands, and, bending over the face, exclaimed, --

"Oh, how good God was!" Then, turning suddenly to Lizzy, she exclaimed, --

"Lizzy, did you know that he loved me, and asked me to be his wife? Thisis why I am thanking God for taking him to heaven. "

Lizzy's face paled. Astonishment, incredulity, anger, grief, all blendedin the sudden look she turned upon Mercy. "I thought so! I thought so! ButI never believed you knew it. And you did not love him! Mercy, I willnever forgive you!"

"He forgave me, " said Mercy, gently; "and so you might. But I shall neverforgive myself!"

"Mercy Philbrick!" exclaimed Lizzy, "how could you help loving that man?"And, in her excitement, Lizzy stretched out her right hand towards therigid, motionless figure under the white pall. "He was the most gloriousman God ever made. "

The two women stood side by side, looking into the face of the dead. Itwas a strange place for these words to be spoken. It was as solemn aseternity. 

"I did not help loving him, " said Mercy, in a lower tone, her white facegrowing whiter as she spoke. "But"--she paused. No words came to her lips, for the bitter consciousness which filled her heart. 

Lizzy's voice sank to a husky whisper. 

"But what?" she said. "O Mercy, Mercy! is it Stephen White you love?" AndLizzy's face, even in that solemn hour, took a look of scorn. "Are yougoing to marry Stephen White?" she continued. 

"Never, Lizzy, --never!" said Mercy, in a tone as concentrated as if alifetime ended there; and, stooping low, she kissed the rigid hands whichlay folded on the heart of the man she ought to have loved, but had not. Then, turning away, she took Lizzy's hands in hers, and kissing, herforehead said earnestly, --

"We will never speak again of this, Lizzy, remember. " Lizzy was overawedby her tone, and made no reply. 

Parson Dorrance's funeral was a scene which will never be forgotten bythose who saw it. It was on one of the fiercest days which the fierce NewEngland March can show. A storm of rain and sleet, with occasionalsoftened intervals of snow, raged all day. The roads were gullies ofswift-running water and icy sloughs; the cold was severe; and the cuttingwind at times drove the sleet and rain in slanting scourges, before whichscarce man or beast could stand. The funeral was held in the villagechurch, which was larger than the college chapel. Long before the hour atwhich the services were to begin, every pew was filled, and the aisleswere crowded with those who could not find seats. From every parish withintwenty miles the mourners had come. There was not one there who had notheard words of help or comfort from Parson Dorrance's lips. The studentsof the college filled the body of the church; the Faculty anddistinguished strangers sat in the front pews. The pews under one of thegalleries had been reserved for the negroes from "The Cedars. " Early inthe morning the poor creatures had begun to flock in. Not a seat wasempty: old women, women with babies, old men, boys and girls, wet, dripping, ragged, friendless, more than one hundred of them, --there theywere. They had walked all that distance in that terrible storm. Each onehad brought in his hand a green bough or a bunch of rock-ferns, somethingof green beauty from the woods their teacher had taught them to love. Theysat huddled together, with an expression of piteous grief on every face, which was enough to touch the stoniest heart. Now and then sobs wouldburst from the women, and some old figure would be seen rocking to and froin uncontrollable sorrow. 

The coffin stood on a table in front of the pulpit. It seemed to beresting on an altar of cedar and ferns. Mercy had brought from her oldhaunts in the woods masses of the glossy evergreen fern, and interwoventhem with the boughs of cedar. At the end of the services, it wasannounced that all who wished could pass by the coffin and take one lastlook at their friend. 

Slowly and silently the congregation passed up the right aisle, looked onthe face, and passed out at the left door. It was a pathetic sight to seethe poor, outcast band wait patiently, humbly, till every one else hadgone: then, like a flock of stricken sheep, they rushed confusedly towardsthe pulpit, and gathered round the coffin. Now burst out the grief whichhad been pent up: with cries and ejaculations, they went tottering andstumbling down the aisles. One old man, with hair as white as snow, --oneof the original fugitive slaves who had founded the settlement, --bent overthe coffin at its head, and clung with both hands to its edge, swayingback and forth above it, crying aloud, till the sexton was obliged toloosen his grasp and lead him away by force. 

The college faculty still sat in the front pews. There were some of theirnumber, younger men, scholars and men of the world, who had not been freefrom a disposition to make good-natured fun of Parson Dorrance'sphilanthropies. They shrugged their shoulders sometimes at the mention ofhis parish at "The Cedars;" they regarded him as old-fashioned andunpractical. They sat conscience-stricken and abashed now; the tears ofthese bereaved black people smote their philosophy and their worldliness, and showed them how shallow they were. Tears answered to tears, and thecollege professors and the negro slaves wept together. 

"They have nobody left to love them now, " exclaimed one of the youngestand hitherto most cynical of Parson Dorrance's colleagues, as he stoodwatching the grief-stricken creatures. 

While the procession formed to bear the body to the grave, the blacksstood in a group on the church-steps, watching it. After the last carriagehad fallen into line, they hurried down and followed on in the storm. Invain some kindly persons tried to dissuade them. It was two miles to thecemetery, two miles farther away from their homes; but they repelled allsuggestions of the exposure with indignant looks, and pressed on. When thecoffin was lowered into the grave, they pushed timidly forward, and beganto throw in their green boughs and bunches of ferns. Every one elsestepped back respectfully as soon as their intention was discovered, andin a moment they had formed in solid ranks close about the grave, each onecasting in his green palm of crown and remembrance, --a body-guard such asno emperor ever had to stand around him in his grave. 

On the day after Mercy's arrival in town, Stephen had called to see her. She had sent down to him a note with these words:--

"I cannot see you, dear Stephen, until after all is over. The funeral willbe to-morrow. Come the next morning, as early as you like. "

The hours had seemed bitterly long to Stephen. He had watched Mercy at thefuneral; and, when he saw her face bowed in her hands, and felt ratherthan saw that she was sobbing, he was stung by a new sense of loss andwrong that he had no right to be by her side and comfort her. He forgotfor the time, in the sight of her grief, all the unhappiness of theirrelation for the past few months. He had unconsciously felt all alongthat, if he could but once look in her eyes, all would be well. Howcould he help feeling so, when he recalled the expression of childliketrust and devotion which her sweet face always wore when she lifted it tohis? And now, as his eyes dwelt lingeringly and fondly on every line ofher bowed form, he had but one thought, but one consciousness, --his desireto throw his arms about her, and exclaim, "O Mercy, are you not my own, myvery own?"

With his heart full of this new fondness and warmth, Stephen went at anearly hour to seek Mercy. As he entered the house, he was sensiblyaffected by the expression still lingering of the yesterday's grief. Thedecorations of evergreens and flowers were still untouched. Mercy andLizzy had made the whole house gay as for a festival; but the veryblossoms seemed to-day to say that it had been a festival of sorrow. Alarge sheaf of callas had stood on a small table at the head of thecoffin. The table had not yet been moved from the place where it stoodnear the centre of the room; but it stood there now alone, with a strangeexpression of being left by accident. Stephen bent over it, looking intothe deep creamy cups, and thinking dreamily that Mercy's nature was asfair, as white, as royal as these most royal of graceful flowers, when thedoor opened and Mercy came towards him. He sprang to meet her withoutstretched arms. Something in her look made the outstretched arms fallnerveless; made his springing step pause suddenly; made the very wordsdie away on his lips. "O Mercy!" was all he could say, and he breathed itrather than said it. 

Mercy smiled a very piteous smile, and said, "Yes, Stephen, I am here. "

"O Mercy, it is not you! You are not here. What has done this to you? Didyou so love that man?" exclaimed Stephen, a sudden pang seizing him offiercest jealousy of the dead, whom he had never feared while he wasliving. 

Mercy's face contracted, as if a sharp pain had wrenched every nerve. 

"No, I did not love him; that is, not as you mean. You know how verydearly I did love him, though. "

"Dear darling, you are all worn out. This shock has been too much for you. You are not well, " said Stephen, tenderly, coming nearer to her and takingher hand. "You must have rest and sleep at once. "

The hand was not Mercy's hand any more than the voice had been Mercy'svoice. Stephen dropped it, and, looking fixedly at Mercy's eyes, whispered, "Mercy, you do not love me as you used to. "

Mercy's eyes drooped; she locked her hands tightly together, and said, "Ican't, Stephen. " No possible form of words could have been so absolute. "Ican't!" "I do not, " would have been merciful, would have held a hope, bythe side of this helpless, despairing, "I can't. "

Stephen sank into a chair, and covered his eyes with his hands. Mercystood still, near the white callas; her hands clasped, and her eyes fixedon Stephen. At last she spoke, in a voice of unutterable yearning andtenderness, "I do love you, Stephen. "

At these words, he pressed his hands tighter upon his eyes for one second, then shook them hastily free, and looking up at Mercy said gently, --

"Yes, dear, I know you do; and I know you would have loved me always, ifyou could. Do not be unhappy. I told you a long time ago that to have hadyou once love me was enough for a lifetime. " And Stephen smiled, --a smilemore pathetic than Mercy's had been. He went on, still in the same gentlevoice, --a voice out of which the very life seemed to have died, --"I hoped, when we met, all would be right. It used to be so much to you, Mercy, tolook into my eyes, I thought you would trust me when you saw me. "

No reproach, no antagonism, no entreaty. With the long-trained patience ofa lifetime, Stephen accepted this great grief, and made no effort togainsay it. Mercy tried again and again to speak, but no words came. Atlast, with a flood of tears, she exclaimed, --

"I cannot help it, Stephen, --I cannot help it. "

"No, darling, you cannot help it; and it is not your fault, " repliedStephen. Touched to the heart by his sweetness and forbearance, Mercy wentnearer him, and took his hand, and in her old way was about to lay it toher cheek. 

Stephen drew it hastily away, and a shudder ran over his body. "No, Mercy, do not try to do that. That is not right, when you do not trust me. Youcannot help loving the touch of my hand, Mercy, "--and a certain sad pridelighted Stephen's face at the thought of the clinging affection which evennow stirred this woman's veins for him, --"any more than you can helphaving ceased to trust me. If the trust ever comes back, then"--Stephenturned his head away, and did not finish the sentence. A great silencefell upon them both. How inexplicable it seemed to them that there wasnothing to say! At last Stephen rose, and said gravely, --

"Good-by, Mercy. Unless there is something I can do to help you, I wouldrather not see you again. "

"No, " whispered Mercy. "That is best. "

"And if the time ever comes, darling, when you need me, . . . Or trust me . . . Again, will you write to me and say so?"

"Yes, " sobbed Mercy, and Stephen left her. On the threshold of the door, he turned and fixed his eyes upon her with one long look of sorrow, compassion, and infinite love. Her heart thrilled under it. She made aneager step forward. If he had returned, she would have thrown herself intohis arms, and cried out, "O Stephen, I do love you, I do trust you. " ButStephen made an inexorable gesture of his hand, which said more than anywords, "No! no! do not deceive yourself, " and was gone. 

And thus they parted for ever, this man and this woman who had been fortwo years all in all to each other, who had written on each other's heartsand lives characters which eternity itself could never efface. 

Hope lived long in Stephen's heart. He built too much on the memories ofhis magnetic power over Mercy, and he judged her nature too much by hisown. He would have loved and followed her to the end, in spite of herhaving become a very outcast of crime, if she had continued to love him;and it was simply impossible for him to conceive of her love's beingeither less or different. But, when in a volume of poems which Mercypublished one year after their parting, he read the following sonnet, heknew that all was indeed over:--

 DIED. 

 Not by the death that kills the body. Nay, By that which even Christ bade us to fear Hath died my dead. Ah, me! if on a bier I could but see him lifeless stretched to-day, I 'd bathe his face with tears of joy, and lay My cheek to his in anguish which were near To ecstasy, if I could hold him dear In death as life. Mere separations weigh As dust in balances of love. The death That kills comes only by dishonor. Vain To chide me! vain! And weaker to implore, O thou once loved so well, loved now no more! There is no resurrection for such slain, No miracle of God could give thee breath!

 * * * * *

Mercy Philbrick lived thirty years after the events described in thesepages. It was a life rich to overflowing, yet uneventful, as the worldreckons: a life lonely, yet full of companionship; sady yet full of cheer;hard, and yet perpetually uplifted by an inward joy which made her verypresence like sunshine, and made men often say of her, "Oh, she has neverknown sorrow. " This was largely the result of her unquenchable gift ofsong, of the true poet's temperament, to which life is for ever new, beautiful, and glad. It was also the result of her ever-increasingspirituality of nature. This took no shape of creed, worship, or what theworld's common consent calls religion. Most of the words spoken by theteachers of churches repelled Mercy by their monotonous iteration of theletter which killeth. But her realization of the solemn significance ofthe great fact of being alive deepened every hour; her tenderness, hersense of brotherhood to every human being, and her sense of the actualpresence and near love of God. Her old intolerance was softened, or ratherit had changed from antagonisms on the surface to living principles at thecore. Truth, truth, truth, was still the war-cry of her soul; and therewas an intensity in every word of her written or spoken pleadings on thissubject which might well have revealed to a careful analyzer of them thatthey had sprung out of the depths of the profoundest experiences. Herinfluence as a writer was very great. As she grew older, she wrote lessand less for the delight of the ear, more and more for the stirring of theheart. To do a little towards making people glad, towards making them kindto one another, towards opening their eyes to the omnipresentbeauty, --these were her ambitions. "Oh, the tender, unutterable beauty ofall created things!" were the opening lines of one of her sweetest songs;and it might have been said to be one of the watchwords of her life. 

It took many years for her to reach this plane, to attain to the fulnessof this close spiritual communion with things seen and unseen. The doublebereavement and strain of her two years of life in Penfield left her for along time bruised and sore. Her relation with Stephen, as she looked backupon it, hurt her in every fibre of her nature. Sometimes she was filledwith remorse for the grief she had caused him, and sometimes with poignantdistress, of doubt whether she had not after all been unjust to him. Underlying all this remorse, all this doubt was a steadily growingconsciousness that her love for him was in the very outset a mistake, anabnormal emotion, born of temporary and insufficient occasion, andtherefore sure to have sooner or later proved too weak for the tests oflife. On the other hand, her thoughts of Parson Dorrance grew constantlywarmer, tenderer, more assured. His character, his love for her, hisbeautiful life, rose steadily higher and higher, and brighter and brighteron her horizon, as the lofty snow-clad peaks of a mountain land revealthemselves in all their grandeur to our vision only when we have journeyedaway from their base. Slowly the whole allegiance of her heart transferreditself to the dead man's memory; slowly her grief for his loss deepened, and yet with the deepened grief came a certain new and holy joy. It surelycould not be impossible for him to know in heaven that she was his onearth? As confidently as if she had been wedded to him here, she lookedforward to the reunion with him there, and found in her secretconsciousness of this eternal bond a hidden rapture, such as has been thestay of many a widowed heart through long lifetimes of loneliness. Thissecret bond was like an impalpable yet impenetrable veil between her souland the souls of all men who came into relation with her. Men loved herand sought her, --loved her warmly and sought her with long years ofdevotion. The world often judged her uncharitably by reason of thesefriendships, which were only friendships, and yet pointed to a warmerregard than the world consents that friends may feel. But there was nevera man, of all the men who loved Mercy, who did not feel himself, spite ofall her frank and loving intimacy, withheld, debarred, separated from herat a certain point, as if there stood drawn up there a cordon of viewlessspirits. 

The one grief above which she could not wholly rise, which at times smoteher and bowed her down, was her sense of her loss in being childless. Theheart of mother was larger in her even than the heart of wife. Her longingfor children of her own was so great that it was often more than she couldbear to watch little children at their play. She stood sometimes at herwindow at dusk, and watched the poor laboring men and women going home, leading or carrying their children; and it seemed as if her heart wouldbreak. Everywhere, her eye noted the swarming groups of children, poor, uncared for, so often unwelcome; and she said sadly to herself, "So many!so many! and not one for me. " Yet she never felt any desire to adoptchildren. She distrusted her own patience and justice too much; and shefeared too deeply the development of hereditary traits which she could notconquer; "I might find that I had taken a liar, " she thought; "and Ishould hate him. "

As she reached middle age, this unsatisfied desire ceased to be so great agrief. She became more and more like a motherly friend to the young peoplesurrounding her. Her house was a home to them all, and she reproduced inher own life very nearly the relation which Parson Dorrance had held tothe young people of Danby. Her friend Lizzy Hunter was now the mother offour girls, all in their first young womanhood. They all strove eagerlyfor the privilege of living with "Aunt Mercy, " and went in turn to spendwhole seasons with her. 

On Stephen White's thirty-sixth birthday, his mother died. The ten yearswhich had passed since Mercy left him had grown harder and harder, day byday; but he bore the last as silently and patiently as he bore the first, and Mrs. White's last words to the gray-haired man who bent over her bedwere, --

"You have been a good boy, Steve, --a good boy. You'll have some rest now. "

Since the day he bade good-by to Mercy in the room from which ParsonDorrance had just been buried, Stephen had never written to her, neverheard from her, except as all the world heard from her, in her publishedwritings. These he read eagerly, and kept them carefully in scrap-books. He took great delight in collecting all the copies of her verses. Sometimes a little verse of hers would go the rounds of the newspapersfor months, and each reappearance of it was a new pleasure to Stephen. Heknew most of them by heart; and he felt that he knew Mercy still, as wellas he knew her when she looked up in his face. On the night of hismother's death he wrote to her these words:--

"MERCY, --It is ten years since we parted. I love you as I loved you then. I shall never love any other woman. I am free now. My mother has died thisnight. May I come and see you? I ask nothing of you, except to be yourfriend. Can I not be that?

"STEPHEN. "

If a ghost of one dead for ten years had entered her presence, Mercy hadhardly been more startled. Stephen had ceased to be a personality to her. Striving very earnestly with herself to be kind, and to do for thisstranger whom she knew not what would be the very best and most healingthing for his soul, Mercy wrote to him as follows:--

"DEAR STEPHEN, --Your note was a very great surprise to me. I am mostheartily thankful that you are at last free to live your life like othermen. I think that the future ought to hold some very great and good giftsin store for you, to reward you for your patience. I have never known anyhuman being so patient as you. 

"You must forgive me for saying that I do not believe it is possible for usto be friends. I could be yours, and would be glad to be so. But you couldnot be mine while you continue so to set me apart from all other women, as you say you do, in your affection. I am truly grieved that you do this, and I hope that in your new free life you will very soon find otherrelations which will make you forget your old one with me. I did you agreat harm, but we were both ignorant of our mistake. I pray that it mayyet be repaired, and that you may soon be at rest in a happy home with awife and children. Then I should be glad to see you: until then, it is notbest. 

"Yours most honestly, "MERCY. "

Until he read this letter, Stephen had not known that secretly in thebottom of his heart he riad all these years cherished a hope that theremight yet be a future in store for him and Mercy. Now, by the new sense ofdesolation which he felt, he knew that there must have been a little morelife than he thought left; in him to die. 

As soon as his mother was buried, he closed the house and went abroad. There he roamed about listlessly from country to country, for many years, acquiring a certain desultory culture, and buying, so far as his incomewould permit, every thing he saw which he thought Mercy would like. Thenhe went home, bought the old Jacobs house back again, and fitted it up inevery respect as Mercy had once suggested. This done, he sat down towait--for he knew not what. He had a vague feeling that he would die soon, and leave the house and his small fortune to Mercy; and she would come andspend her summers there, and so he would recall to her their old lifetogether. He led the life of a hermit, --rarely went out, and still morerarely saw any one at home. He looked like a man of sixty rather than likeone of fifty. He was fast becoming an invalid, more, however, from thelack of purpose and joy than from any disease. Life had been very hard toStephen. 

Nothing seemed more probable, contrasting his listless figure, gray hair, and jaded face with Mercy's full, fresh countenance and boundingelasticity, than that his dream of going first, and leaving to her thegift of all he had, would be realized; but he was destined to outlive herby many a long year. 

Mercy's death was a strange one. She had gone with two of Lizzy Hunter'sdaughters to spend a few weeks in one of the small White Mountainvillages, which was a favorite haunt of hers. The day after their arrival, a two days' excursion to some of the mountains was proposed; and Mercy, though not feeling well enough to join it herself, insisted that the girlsshould go. They were reluctant to leave her; but, with her usualvehemence, she resisted all their protestations, and compelled them tojoin the party. She was thus left alone in a house crowded with people, all of whom were strangers to her. Some of them recollected afterward tohave noticed her sitting on the piazza at sunset, looking at the mountainswith an expression of great delight; but no one spoke with her, and no onemissed her the next morning, when she did not come to breakfast. Late inthe forenoon, the landlady came running in great terror and excitement toone of the guests, exclaiming: "That lady that came yesterday is dying. The chambermaids could not get into her room, nor get any answer, so webroke open the door. The doctor says she'll never come to again!"

Helpless, the village doctor, and the servants, and the landlady, and asmany of the guests as could crowd into the little room, stood aroundMercy's bed. It seemed a sad way to die, surrounded by strangers, who didnot even know her name; but Mercy was unconscious. It made no differenceto her. Her heavy breathing told only too well the nature of the trouble. 

"This cannot be the first attack she has had, " said the doctor; and it wasfound afterward that Mercy had told Lizzy Hunter of her having twice hadthreatenings of a paralytic seizure. "If only I die at once, " she had saidto Lizzy, "I would rather go that way than in most others. I dread thedying part of death. I don't want to know when I am going. "

And she did not. All day her breathing grew slower and more labored, andat night it stopped. In a few hours, there settled upon her features anexpression of such perfect peace that each one who came to look at herstole away reverent and subdued. 

The two old crones who had come to "lay out" the body crept about ontiptoe, their usual garrulity quenched by the sad and beautiful spectacle. It was a singular thing that no one knew the name of the stranger who haddied thus suddenly and alone. In the confusion of their arrival, Mercyhad omitted to register their names. In the smaller White Mountain houses, this formality is not rigidly enforced. And so it came to pass that thiswoman, so well known, so widely beloved, lay a night and a day dead, within a few hours' journey of her home as unknown as if she had been castup from a shipwrecked vessel on a strange shore. 

The two old crones sat with the body all night and all the next day. Theysewed on the quaint garments in which it is still the custom of rural NewEngland to robe the dead. They put a cap of stiff white muslin overMercy's brown hair, which even now, in her fiftieth year, showed only hereand there a silver thread. They laid fine plaits of the same stiff whitemuslin over her breast, and crossed her hands above them. 

"She must ha' been a handsome woman in her time, Mis' Bunker. I 'spectshe was married, don't you?" said Ann Sweetser, Mrs. Bunker's spinstercousin, who always helped her on these occasions. 

"Well, this ere ring looks like it, " replied Mrs. Bunker, taking up a bitof the muslin and rubbing the broad gold band on the third finger ofMercy's left hand. "But yer can't allers tell by that nowadays. There'sfolks wears 'em that ain't married. This is a real harndsome ring, 'sheavy 's ever I see. "

How Mercy's heart must have been touched, and also her fine and patheticsense of humor, if her freed spirit hovered still in that littlelow-roofed room! This cast-off garment of hers, so carefully honored, socuriously considered and speculated upon by these simple-minded people!There was something rarely dramatic in all the surroundings of these lasthours. Among the guests in the house was one, a woman, herself a poet, whotoward the end of the second day came into the chamber, bringing longtrailing vines of the sweet Linnea, which was then in full bloom. Herpoet's heart was moved to the depths by the thought of this unknown, deadwoman lying there, tended by strangers' hands. She gazed with aninexplicable feeling of affection upon Mercy's placid brow. She lifted thelifeless hands and laid them down again in a less constrained position. She, too, noted the broad gold ring, and said, --

"She has been loved then. I wonder if he is alive!" The door was closed, and no one was in the room. With a strange impulse she could not accountfor to herself, she said, "I will kiss her for him, " and bent and kissedthe cold forehead. Then she laid the fragrant vines around the face andacross the bosom, and went away, feeling an inexplicable sense of nearnessto the woman she had kissed. When the next morning she knew that it wasMercy Philbrick, the poet, in whose lifeless presence she had stood, sheexclaimed with a burst of tears, "Oh, I might have known that there wassome subtile bond which made me kiss her! I have always loved her versesso. "

On the day after Lizzy Hunter returned from Mercy's funeral, Stephen Whitecalled at her house and asked to speak to her. She had almost forgottenhis existence, though she knew that he was living in the Jacobs house. Their paths never crossed, and Lizzy had long ago forgotten her passingsuspicion of Mercy's regard for him. The haggard and bowed man who met hernow was so unlike the Stephen White she recollected, that Lizzyinvoluntarily exclaimed. Stephen took no notice of her exclamation. 

"No, thank you, I will not sit down, " he said, as with almost solicitudein her face she offered him a chair. "I merely wish to give you somethingof"--he hesitated--"Mrs. Philbrick's. "

He drew from his breast a small package of papers, yellow, creased, old. He unfolded one of these and handed it to Lizzy, saying, --

"This is a sonnet of hers which has never been printed. She gave it to mewhen, "--he hesitated again, --"when she was living in my house. She said atthat time that she would like to have it put on her tombstone. I did notknow any other friend of hers to go to but you. Will you see that it isdone?"

Lizzy took the paper and began to read the sonnet. Stephen stood leaningheavily on the back of a chair; his breath was short, and his face muchflushed. 

"Oh, pray sit down, Mr. White! You are ill, " exclaimed Lizzy. 

"No, I am not ill. I would rather stand, " replied Stephen. His eyes werefixed on the spot where thirty years before Mercy had stood when she said, "I can't, Stephen. "

Lizzy read the sonnet with tears rolling down her cheeks. 

"Oh, it is beautiful, --beautiful!" she exclaimed. "Why did she never haveit printed?"

Stephen colored and hesitated. One single thrill of pride followed by abitter wave of pain, and he replied, --

"Because I asked her not to print it. "

Lizzy's heart was too full of tender grief now to have any room for wonderor resentment at this, or even to realize in that first moment that therewas any thing strange in the reply. 

"Indeed, it shall be put on the stone, " she said. "I am so thankful youbrought it. I have been thinking that there were no words fit to put aboveher grave. No one but she herself could have written any that would be, "and she was folding up the paper. 

Stephen stretched out his hand. "Pardon me, " he said, "I cannot part withthat. I have brought a copy to leave with you, " and he gave Lizzy anotherpaper. 

Mechanically she restored to him the first one, and gazed earnestly intohis face. Its worn and harrowed features, its look of graven patience, smote her like a cry. She was about to speak to him eagerly and withsympathy, but he was gone. His errand was finished, --the last thing hecould do for Mercy. She watched his feeble steps as he walked away, andher pity revealed to her the history of his past. 

"How he loved her! how he loved her!" she said, and watched his figurelingeringly, till it was out of sight. 

This is the sonnet which was cut on the stone above Mercy's grave:--

 EMIGRAVIT. 

 With sails full set, the ship her anchor weighs; Strange names shine out beneath her figure-head: What glad farewells with eager eyes are said! What cheer for him who goes, and him who stays! Fair skies, rich lands, new homes, and untried days Some go to seek: the rest but wait instead Until the next stanch ship her flag shall raise. Who knows what myriad colonies there are Of fairest fields, and rich, undreamed-of gains, Thick-planted in the distant shining plains Which we call sky because they lie so far? Oh, write of me, not, --"Died in bitter pains, " But, "Emigrated to another star!"