THE HALLAM SUCCESSION

BY

AMELIA E. BARR

AUTHOR OF "JAN VEDDER'S WIFE, " "THE BOW OF ORANGE RIBBON, ""FRIEND OLIVIA, " ETC. , ETC. 

CONTENTS. 

AMERICANS IN YORKSHIRE. MARTHA CRAVEN'S TROUBLE. RICHARD AND ELIZABETH. WESLEY AND METHODISM. ANTONY'S PLANS. GOD CLEARS BEN CRAVEN. CHRISTMAS. RENEWAL OF THE COVENANT. SEPARATION. AT HOME AGAIN. JOHN MILLARD. THE PASSIONATE SHOT. TEXAS AND LIBERTY. RICHARD AT HALLAM. MAY. A. D. 1836. ANTONY AND HIS BRIDE. THE SQUIRE'S DEATH. ANTONY'S SIN. ELIZABETH'S RESOLVE. EVELYN. ELIZABETH'S TRIAL. LOVE COMFORTED. ANTONY'S FATE. SANTA FE EXPEDITION. ELIZABETH IN TEXAS. THE SUNSET OF LIFE. 

TO

MY DEAR FRIEND, SAM. EARNSHAW WILSON, ESQ. , THIS TALE

IS, WITH AFFECTIONATE ESTEEM, INSCRIBED. 

THE HALLAM SUCCESSION. 

CHAPTER I. 

 "The changing guests, each in a different mood, Sit at the road-side table and arise: And every life among them in likewise Is a soul's board set daily with new food. 

 "May not this ancient room thou sitt'st in dwell In separate living souls for joy or pain? Nay, all its corners may be painted plain Where Heaven shows pictures of some life well-spent. "

Yorkshire is the epitome of England. Whatever is excellent in thewhole land is found there. The men are sturdy, shrewd, and stalwart;hard-headed and hard-fisted, and have notably done their work in everyera of English history. They are also a handsome race, the finestspecimens extant of the pure Anglo-Saxon, and they still preserve theimposing stature and the bright blonde characteristics of the race. 

Yorkshire abounds in what is the typical English home--fine old hallsand granges, set in wooded parks, and surrounded by sweet, shadygardens. One of the fairest of these homes is Hallam-Croft. There maybe larger halls in the West Riding, but none that combines so finelyall the charms of antiquity, with every modern grace and comfort. Itswalls are of gray stone, covered with ivy, or crusted with goldenlichens; its front, long and low, is picturesquely diversified withoriel windows, gable ends, and shadowy angles. Behind is a steep, craggy range of woody hills; in front, a terraced garden of greatextent; full of old-fashioned bowers, and labyrinth-like walks, andsloping down to a noble park, whose oaks and beeches are of wonderfulbeauty, and whose turf is soft as velvet and greener than any artistever dreamed of. 

Fifty years ago the owner of this lovely spot was Squire Henry Hallam. He was about sixty years of age, stout and fair and dressed in finedrab broad-cloth, with a white vest, and a white cambric kerchief tiedloosely round his neck. His hat, drab also, was low-crowned andbroad-brimmed, and, as a general rule, he kept it on. In the holyprecincts of a church, or if the national anthem was played, he indeedalways bared his head; but, in the first case, it was his expressionof a religious sentiment, in the second he saluted his country, and, in a measure, himself. 

One evening in the early spring he was sitting upon a low sofa in theroom that was specially his own, mending some fishing tackle. A coupleof setter puppies were worrying each other on the sofa beside him, and a splendid fox-hound leaned her muzzle on one of his broad knees, and looked up into her master's face with sad reproachful eyes. Shewas evidently jealous, and watching anxiously for some look or wordof favor. She had not long to wait. The puppies became troublesome;he chided them, and put the bit of leather they were quarreling aboutin his pocket. Then he patted the hound, and said: "There's a dealo' difference between them and thee, Fanny, and it's a' in thy favor, lass;" and Fanny understood the compliment, for she whimpered happily, and thrust her handsome head up against her master's breast. 

At that moment his daughter, Elizabeth, entered the room. She had anopen letter in her hand, and a look half-perplexed and half-pleasedupon her face. "Father, " she said, "there is a letter from America;Richard and Phyllis are coming; and I am afraid I shall not know howto make them happy. "

"Don't thee meet troubles half 'way; they arn't worth th' compliment. What is ta feared for, dearie?"

"Their life is so different from ours--and, father, I do believe theyare Methodists. "

The squire fastened the bit of gaudy feather to the trout "fly" hewas making, before he answered. "Surely to goodness, they'll nivverbe that! Sibbald Hallam, my uncle, was a varry thick Churchman whenhe went to th' Carolinas--but he married a foreigner; she had plentyo' brass, and acres o' land, but I never heard tell owt o' her religion. They had four lads and lasses, but only one o' them lived to wed, andthat was my cousin, Matilda Hallam--t' mother o' these two youngstersthat are speaking o' coming here. "

"Who did she marry, father?"

"Nay, I knowt o' th' man she married. He was a Colonel Fontaine. Iwas thinking a deal more o' my own wedding than o' hers at that time. It's like enough he were a Methodist. T' Carolinas hed rebelled againstEnglish government, and it's nobbut reasonable to suppose t' EnglishChurch would be as little to their liking. But they're Hallams, whativer else they be, Elizabeth, and t' best I hev is for them. "

He had risen as he spoke; the puppies were barking and gamboling athis feet, and Fanny watching his face with dignified eagerness. Theyknew he was going to walk, and were asking to go with him. "Be stillwi' you, Rattle and Tory!--Yes, yes, Fanny!--and Elizabeth, open upt' varry best rooms, and give them a right hearty welcome. Where'sAntony?"

"Somewhere in the house. "

"Hedn't ta better ask him what to do? He knows ivery thing. "

There was a touch of sarcasm in the voice, but Elizabeth was too muchoccupied to notice it; and as the squire and his dogs took the roadto the park, she turned, with the letter still open in her hand, andwent thoughtfully from room to room, seeking her brother. There wasno deeper motive in her thought than what was apparent; her cares weresimply those of hospitality. But when a life has been bounded byhousehold hopes and anxieties, they assume an undue importance, andsince her mother's death, two years previously, there had been nocompany at Hallam. This was to be Elizabeth's first effort of activehospitality. 

She found Antony in the library reading "The Gentleman's Magazine, "or, perhaps, using it for a sedative; for he was either half asleep, or lost in thought. He moved a little petulantly when his sister spoke. One saw at a glance that he had inherited his father's fine physiqueand presence, but not his father's calm, clear nature. His eyes wererestless, his expression preoccupied, his manner haughty. Neither washis voice quite pleasant. There are human instruments, which alwaysseem to have a false note, and Antony's had this peculiarity. 

"Antony, I have a letter from Richard and Phyllis Fontaine. They aregoing to visit us this summer. "

"I am delighted. Life is dreadfully dull here, with nothing to do. "

"Come to the parlor, and I will give you a cup of tea, and read youcousin Phyllis's letter. "

The squire had never thought of asking Elizabeth why she supposed hercousins to be Methodists. Antony seized at once upon the point in theletter which regarded it. 

"They are sailing with Bishop Elliott, and will remain until September, in order to allow the Bishop to attend Conference; what does that mean, Elizabeth?"

"I suppose it means they are Methodists. "

The young man was silent a moment, and then he replied, emphatically, "I am very glad of it. "

"How can you say so, Antony? And there is the rector, and theElthams--"

"I was thinking of the Hallams. After a thousand years of stagnationone ought to welcome a ripple of life. A Methodist isn't asleep. Ihave often felt inclined to drop into their chapel as I passed it. I wonder how it would feel to be awake soul and body at once!"

"Antony, you ought not to talk so recklessly. Some people might imagineyou meant what you said. You know very well that the thousand yearsof 'stagnation, ' as you call it, of the Hallams, is a most respectablething. "

"Very respectable indeed! That is all women think about--bornconservatives every one of them--'dyed in the wool, ' as a Bradfordman would say. "

"Why do you quote what Bradford men say? I cannot imagine what makesyou go among a crowd of weavers, when you might be at Eltham Castlewith gentlemen. "

"I will tell you why. At Eltham we yawn and stagnate together. Theweavers prick and pinch me in a thousand places. They make me dreamof living. "

"Drink your tea, Antony and don't be foolish. "

He shrugged his shoulders and laughed. Upon the whole, he rather likedthe look of astonishment in his sister's gray eyes, and the air ofpuzzled disapproval in her manner. He regarded ignorance on a greatmany matters as the natural and admirable condition of womanhood. 

"It is very good tea, Elizabeth, and I like this American news. I shallnot go to the Tyrol now. Two new specimens of humanity to study arebetter than glaciers. "

"Antony, do remember that you are speaking of your own cousins--'twonew specimens of humanity'--they are Hallams at the root. "

"I meant no disrespect; but I am naturally a little excited at theidea of American Hallams--Americans in Hallam-Croft! I only hope theshades of Hengist and Horsa wont haunt the old rooms out of simplecuriosity. When are they to be here?"

"They will be in Liverpool about the end of May. You have two weeksto prepare yourself, Antony. "

Antony did not reply, but just what kind of a young lady his cousinPhyllis Fontaine might be he had no idea. People could not in thosedays buy their pictures by the dozen, and distribute them, so thatAntony's imagination, in this direction, had the field entirely toitself. His fancy painted her in many charming forms, and yet he wasnever able to invest her with any other distinguishing traits thanthose with which he was familiar--the brilliant blonde beauty andresplendent health of his countrywomen. 

Therefore, when the real Phyllis Fontaine met his vision she was arevelation to him. It was in the afternoon of the last day of May, and Hallam seemed to have put on a more radiant beauty for theoccasion. The sun was so bright, the park so green, the garden sosweet and balmy. Heart's-ease were every-where, honeysuckles filledthe air, and in the wood behind, the blackbirds whistled, and thechaffinches and tomtits kept up a merry, musical chattering. Thesquire, with his son and daughter, was waiting at the great open doorof the main entrance for his visitors, and as the carriage stopped hecried out, cheerily, "Welcome to Hallam!" Then there was a few minutesof pleasant confusion, and in them Phyllis had made a distinct pictureon every mind. 

"She's a dainty little woman, " said the squire to himself, as he satcalmly smoking his pipe after the bustle of the arrival was over; "notmuch like a Hallam, but t' eye as isn't charmed wi' her 'ell hev nowhite in it, that's a' about it. "

Antony was much interested, and soon sought his sister. 

"If that is Cousin Phyllis, she is beautiful. Don't you think so, Elizabeth?"

"Yes; how perfectly she was dressed. "

"That is a woman's criticism. Did you see her soft, dark eyes, hersmall bow-shaped mouth--a beauty one rarely finds in English women--her exquisite complexion, her little feet?"

"That is a man's criticism. How could you see all that in a momentor two of such confusion?"

"Easily; how was she dressed?"

"In a plain dress of gray cloth. The fit was perfect, the linen collarand cuffs spotless, the gray bonnet, with its drooping, gray featherbewitching. She wore gray gloves and a traveling cloak of the samecolor, which hung like a princess's mantle. "

"How could you see all that in a moment or two of such confusion?"

"Do not be too clever, Antony. You forget I went with her to herrooms. "

"Did you notice Richard?"

"A little; he resembles his sister. Their foreign look as they stoodbeside you and father was very remarkable. Neither of them are likeHallams. "

"I am so glad of it; a new element coming into life is like a freshwind 'blowing through breathless woods. '"

But Elizabeth sighed. This dissatisfaction with the old, and cravingfor the new, was one of the points upon which Antony and his fatherwere unable to understand each other. Nothing permanent pleased Antony, and no one could ever predicate of him what course he would pursue, or what side he would take. As a general rule, however, he preferredthe opposition in all things. Now, the squire's principles and opinionswere as clear to his own mind as his own existence was. He believedfirmly in his Bible, in the English Constitution, and in himself. Headmitted no faults in the first two; his own shortcomings toward Heavenhe willingly acknowledged; but he regarded his attitude toward hisfellow-man as without fault. All his motives and actions proceededfrom well-understood truths, and they moved in consistent and admirablegrooves. 

Antony had fallen upon different times, and been brought under moreuncertain influences. Oxford, "the most loyal, " had been in a religiousferment during his stay there. The spirit of Pusey and Newman wasshaking the Church of England like a great wind; and though Antonyhad been but little touched by the spiritual aspect of the movement, the temporal accusations of corruption and desertion of duty were goodlances to tilt against the Church with. It gave him a curiously mixedpleasure to provoke the squire to do battle for her; partly fromcontradiction, partly that he might show off his array of second-handlearning and logic; and partly, also, for the delight of assertinghis own opinions and his own individuality. 

Any other dispute the squire would have settled by a positiveassertion, or a positive denial; but even the most dogmatic of menare a little conscientious about religious scruples. He had, therefore, allowed his son to discuss "the Church" with him, but in some subtleway the older man divined that his ideas were conviction; whileAntony's were only drifting thoughts. Therefore, the moral strengthof the argument was with him, and he had a kind of contempt for aHallam who could be moved by every Will-o'-the-wisp of religious orPolitical opinions. 

But Elizabeth was greatly impressed by her brother's accomplishments, and she loved him, and believed in him with all her heart. The Hallamshitherto had no reputation for mental ability. In times of need Englandhad found them good soldiers and ready givers; but poets and scholarsthey had never been. Antony affected the latter character. He spokeseveral languages, he read science and German philosophy, and he talkedsuch radical politics to the old gardener, that the man privatelydeclared himself "fair cap't wi' t' young squire. "

Yet after all, his dominant passion was a love of power, and of moneyas the means by which to grasp power. Below all his speculations andaffectations this was the underlying thought. True, he was heir ofHallam, and as the heir had an allowance quite equal to his position. But he constantly reflected that his father might live many years, and that in the probable order of things he must wait until he wasa middle-aged man for his inheritance; and for a young man who felthimself quite competent to turn the axle of the universe, it seemeda contemptible lot to grind in his own little mill at Hallam. He hadnot as yet voiced these thoughts, but they lay in his heart, andcommunicated unknown to himself an atmosphere of unrest andunreliability to all his words and actions. 

It was soon evident that there would be little sympathy between Richardand Antony. Richard Fontaine was calm, dignified, reticent; nevertempted to give his confidence to any one; and averse to receive theconfidences of others; therefore, though he listened with politeattention to Antony's aspirations and aims, they made very littleimpression upon him. Both he and Phyllis glided without effort intothe life which must have been so new to them; and in less than a week, Hallam had settled happily down to its fresh conditions. But nothinghad been just as Antony expected. Phyllis was very lovely, but notlovely specially for him, which was disappointing; and he could nothelp soon seeing that, though Richard was attentive, he was alsounresponsive. 

There is one charming thing about English hospitality, it leaves itsguests perfect freedom. In a very few days Phyllis found this out;and she wandered, unnoticed and undisturbed, through the longgalleries, and examined, with particular interest, the upper rooms, into which from generation to generation unwelcomed pictures andunfashionable furniture had been placed. There was one room in theeastern turret that attracted her specially. It contained an oldspinet, and above it the picture of a young girl; a face ofmelancholy, tender beauty, with that far-off look, which the Frenchcall _predestinee_, in the solemn eyes. 

It is folly to say that furniture has no expression; the small couch, the faded work-table, the straight chairs, with their twistedattenuated legs, had an unspeakable air of sadness. One day shecautiously touched the notes of the instrument. How weak and thin andhollow they were! And yet they blended perfectly with something inher own heart. She played till the tears were on her cheeks, it seemedas if the sorrowful echoes had found in her soul the conditions fortheir reproduction. When she went back to her own room the influenceof the one she had left followed her like a shadow. 

"How can I bring one room into another?" she asked herself, and sheflung wide the large windows and let the sunshine flood the pinkchintzes and the blooming roses of her own apartment. There was a tapat the door, and Elizabeth entered. 

"I have brought you a cup of tea, Phyllis. Shall I drink mine besideyou?"

"I shall enjoy both your company and the tea. I think I have been inan unhappy room and caught some of its spirit--the room with the oldspinet in it. "

"Aunt Lucy's room. Yes, she was very unhappy. She loved, and the manwas utterly unworthy of her love! She died slowly in that room--awasted life. "

"Ah, no, Elizabeth! No life is waste in the great Worker's hands. Ifhuman love wounds and wrongs us, are we not circled by angels as thestars by heaven? Our soul relatives sorrow in our sorrow; and outof the apparent loss bring golden gain. I think she would know thisbefore she died. "

"She died as the good die, blessing and hoping. "

Elizabeth looked steadily at Phyllis. She thought she had never seenany face so lovely. From her eyes, still dewy with tears, the holysoul looked upward; and her lips kept the expression of the prayerthat was in her heart. She did not wonder at the words that had fallenfrom them. After a moment's silence, she said:

"My mother loved Aunt Lucy very dearly. Her death made a deal ofdifference in mother's life. "

"Death is always a great sorrow to those who love us; but forourselves, it is only to bow our heads at going out, and to enterstraightway another golden chamber of the King's, lovelier than theone we leave. "

Elizabeth scarce knew how to answer. She had never been used to discusssacred subjects with girls her own age; in fact, she had a vague ideathat such subjects were not to be discussed out of church, or, atleast, without a clergyman to direct the conversation. And Phyllis'schildish figure, glowing face, and sublime confidence affected herwith a sense of something strange and remote. Yet the conversationinterested her greatly. People are very foolish who restrain spiritualconfidences; no topic is so universally and permanently interestingas religious experience. Elizabeth felt its charm at once. She lovedGod, but loved him, as it were, afar off; she almost feared to speakto him. She had never dared to speak of him. 

"Do you really think, Phyllis, that angels care about our earthlyloves?"

"Yes, I do. Love is the rock upon which our lives are generally builtor wrecked. Elizabeth, if I did not believe that the love of Godembraced every worthy earthly love, I should be very miserable. "

"Because?"

"Because, dear, I love, and am beloved again. "

"But how shall we know if the love be worthy?"

"Once in class-meeting I asked this question. That was when I firstbecame aware that I loved John Millard. I am not likely to forget theanswer my leader gave me. "

"What was it?"

"Sister Phyllis, " he said, "ask yourself what will your love be toyou a thousand ages hence. Ask yourself if it will pass the rollingtogether of the heavens like a scroll, and the melting of the elementswith fervent heat. Ask if it will pass the judgment-day, when thesecret thoughts of all hearts will be revealed. Dare to love only onewhom you can love forever. "

"I have never thought of loving throughout all eternity the one whomI love in time. "

"Ah! but it is our privilege to cherish the immortal in the man welove. Where I go I wish my beloved to go also. The thought of our lovesevered on the threshold of paradise makes me weep. I cannot understandan affection which must look forward to an irrevocable separation. Nay, I ask more than this; I desire that my love, even there assuminghis own proper place, should be still in advance of me--my guide, mysupport, my master every-where. "

"If you love John Millard in this way, he and you must be very happy. "

"We are, and yet what earthly light has not its shadow?"

"What is the shadow, Phyllis?"

"Richard dislikes him so bitterly; and Richard is very, very near anddear to me. I dare say you think he is very cool and calm and quiet. It is the restraint which he puts upon himself; really Richard hasa constant fight with a temper, which, if it should take possessionof him, would be uncontrollable. He knows that. "

"You spoke as if you are a Wesleyan, yet you went to Church lastSunday, Phyllis. "

"Why not? Methodists are not bigots; and just as England is mymother-country, Episcopacy is my mother-Church. If Episcopacy shouldever die, Elizabeth, Methodism is next of kin, and would be heir toall her churches. "

"And Wesleyans and Methodists are the same?"

"Yes; but I like the old name best. It came from the pen of thegolden-mouthed Chrysostom, so you see it has quite an apostolic haloabout it. "

"I never heard that, Phyllis. "

"It is hardly likely you would. It was used at first as a word ofreproach; but how many such words have been adopted and made gloriousemblems of victory. It was thus in ancient Antioch the first followersof Christ were called 'Christians. '"

"But how came Chrysostom to find a name for John Wesley's followers?"

"Richard told me it was used first in a pamphlet against Whitefield. I do not remember the author, but he quoted from the pages ofChrysostom these words, 'To be a Methodist is to be beguiled. ' Ofcourse, Chrysostom's 'Methodist' is not our Methodist. The writer knewhe was unjust and meant it for a term of reproach, but the word tookthe popular fancy, and, as such words do, clung to the people at whomit was thrown. They might have thrown it back again; they did better;they accepted it, and have covered it with glory. "

"Why, Phyllis, what a little enthusiast you are!" and Elizabeth lookedagain with admiration at the small figure reclining in the deep chairbeside her. 

Its rosy chintz covering threw into vivid relief the exquisite palenessof Phyllis's complexion--that clear, warm paleness of the South--andcontrasted it with the intense blackness of her loosened hair. Herdark, soft eyes glowed, her small hands had involuntarily claspedthemselves upon her breast. "What a little enthusiast you are!" Thenshe stooped and kissed her, a most unusual demonstration, for Elizabethwas not emotional. Her feelings were as a still lake, whose depthswere only known to those who sounded them. 

The conversation was not continued. Fine souls have an instinctiveknowledge of times and seasons, and both felt that for that day thelimit of spiritual confidence had been reached. But it was Phyllis'squicker nature which provided the natural return to the material life. 

"I know I am enthusiastic, about many things, Elizabeth. The worldis so full of what is good and beautiful! Look at those roses! Couldflowers be more sweet and perfect? I always dream of happy thingsamong roses. "

"But you must not dream now, dear. It is very near dinner-time. Wehave had a very pleasant hour. I shall think of all you have said. "

But the thing she thought most persistently of was Richard Fontaine'stemper. Was it possible that the equable charm and serenity of hismood was only an assumed one? As she went to the dining-room she sawhim standing in the great hall caressing two large hounds. In the samemoment he raised his head and stood watching her approach. It seemedto him as if he had never seen her before. She advanced slowly towardhim through the level rays of the westering sun, which projectedthemselves in a golden haze all around her. Those were not the days offlutings and bows and rufflings innumerable. Elizabeth's dress was along, perfectly plain one, of white India mull. A narrow black beltconfined it at the waist, a collar of rich lace and a brooch of gold at thethroat. Her fair hair was dressed in a large loose bow on the crown, and lay in soft light curls upon her brow. Her feet were sandaled, her large white hands unjeweled and ungloved, and with one she liftedslightly her flowing dress. Resplendent with youth, beauty, andsunshine, she affected Richard as no woman had ever done before. Shewas the typical Saxon woman, the woman who had ruled the hearts andhomes of his ancestors for centuries, and she now stirred his to itssweetest depths. He did not go to meet her. He would not lose a stepof her progress. He felt that at last Jove was coming to visit him. It was a joy almost solemn in its intensity and expectation. He heldout his hand, and Elizabeth took it. In that moment they saw eachother's hearts as clearly as two drops of rain meeting in air mightlook into each other if they had life. 

Yet they spoke only of the most trivial things--the dogs, and theweather, and Richard's ride to Leeds, and the stumbling of Antony'shorse. "We left the Squire in the village, " said Richard. "A womanwho was apparently in very great trouble called him. "

"A woman who lives in a cottage covered with clematis?"

"I think so. "

"It must have been Martha Craven. I wonder what is the matter!" andthey walked together to the open door. The squire had just alightedfrom his horse, and was talking earnestly to his favorite servant. He seemed to be in trouble, and he was not the man to keep eitherSorrow of joy to himself. "Elizabeth! my word, but I'm bothered!Here's Jonathan Clough murdered, and Ben Craven under lock and keyfor it!"

"Why, father! Ben would never do a thing like that!"

"Not he! I'd be as like to do it mysen. Thou must go thy ways and seeMartha as soon as iver t' dinner is eat. I s'all stand by Martha andBen to t' varry last. Ben Craven murder any-body! Hee! I crack't outlaughing when I heard tell o' such nonsense. "

In fact, the squire had been touched in a very tender spot. MarthaCraven's mother had been his nurse, and Martha herself, for many years, his wife's maid and confidential servant. He felt the imputation asa personal slander. The Cravens had been faithful servants of theHallams for generations, and Clough was comparatively a new-comer. Right or wrong, the squire would have been inclined to stand by anold friend, but he had not a doubt of Ben's innocence. 

"What have you done about it?" asked Antony. 

"I've been to see Israel Potter, and I've bound him to stand up forBen. What Israel doesn't know 'bout law, and what Israel can't do witht' law, isn't worth t' knowing or t' doing. Then I went for t' Wesleyanminister to talk a bit wi' Martha, poor body? She seemed to wantsomething o' t' kind; and I'm bound to say I found him a varrygentlemanly, sensible fellow. He didn't think owt wrong o' Ben, nomore than I did. "

"People would wonder to see you at the Wesleyan's door. "

"May be they'll be more cap't yet, son Antony. I'll ask neither catnor Christian what door to knock at. I wish I may nivver stand at aworse door than Mr. North's, that's a'. What say you to that, then?"

"I say you are quite right, father. "

"I'm nivver far wrong, my lad; nobody is that lets a kind heart leadthem, and it would be against nature if I didn't stand up for anyCraven that's i' trouble. "

Phyllis, who was sitting beside him, laid her hand upon his a moment, and he lifted his eyes and met hers. There was such a light and lookof sympathy and admiration in them, that she had no need to say a word. He felt that he had done the right thing, and was pleased with himselffor doing it. In a good man there is still a deal of the divinity fromwhich he has fallen, and in his times of trial his heart throbs upward. 

Dinner was insensibly hurried, and when Elizabeth rose Phyllis followedher. "I must go with you dear; if Martha is a Methodist she is mysister, and she has a right to my sympathy and my purse, if it isnecessary to her. "

"I shall be glad. It is only a pleasant walk through the park, andAntony and Richard can meet us at the park gates. I think you willlike Martha. "

Few words were spoken by the two girls as they went in the ambertwilight across the green, green turf of the park. Martha saw themcoming and was at her door when they stepped inside the fragrant patchwhich she called her garden. She was a woman very pleasant to lookat, tall and straight, with a strong ruddy face--and blue eyes, alittle dim with weeping. Her cotton dress of indigo blue, covered withgolden-colored moons, was pinned well up at the back, displaying herhome-knit stockings and low shoes fastened with brass latchets. Shehad on her head a cap of white linen, stiffly starched, and a checkeredkerchief was pinned over her ample bosom. 

Even in her deep sorrow and anxiety her broad sweet mouth could notforget its trick of smiling. "Come this ways in, Joy, " she said toElizabeth, at the same moment dropping a courtesy to Phyllis, anold-fashioned token of respect, which had no particle of servilityin it. 

"This is my cousin, Miss Fontaine, from America, Martha. "

"Well, I'm sure I'm right suited at meeting her. Mother used to talkabove a bit about Sibbald Hallam as crossed t' seas. She looked forhim to come back again. But he nivver came. "

"I am his granddaughter. I am very sorry, Sister Martha, to hear ofyour trouble. "

"Why-a! Is ta a Methodist, dearie?"

Phyllis nodded brightly and took her hand. 

"Well I nivver! But I'm fain and glad! And as for trouble, I'll notfear it. Why should I, wi' t' love o' God and t' love o' man to helpme?"

"When did it happen, Martha?"

"Last night, Miss Hallam. My Ben and Jonathan Clough wern't as goodfriends as might be. There's a lass at t' bottom o' t' trouble; there'sallays that. She's a good lass enough, but good 'uns mak' as muchtrouble as t' bad 'uns sometimes, I think. It's Jonathan's daughter, Mary. She's ta'en Ben's fancy, and she's ta'en Bill Laycock's fancy, too. T' lass likes my Ben, and Clough he liked Laycock; for Laycockis t' blacksmith now, and owns t' forge, and t' house behind it. MyBen is nobbut Clough's overlooker. "

"It is a pity he stopped at Clough's mill, if there was ill-feelingbetween them. "

"T' lad's none to blame for that. Clough is makkin' some new kind o'figured goods, and t' men are all hired by t' twelvemonth, and boundover to keep a quiet tongue i' their mouths about t' new looms as doest' work. Two days ago Clough found out that Tim Bingley hed told t'secret to Booth; and Clough wer' neither to hold nor bind. He putBingley out o' t' mill, and wouldn't pay him t' balance o' t' year, and somehow he took t' notion that Ben was in t' affair. Ben's noneso mean as that, I'm sure. "

"But Bingley is a very bad man. My father sent him to the tread-milllast year for a brutal assault. He is quite capable of murder. Hasno one looked for him?"

"Bingley says he saw my Ben shoot Clough, and Clough says it was Ben. "

"Then Clough is still alive?"

"Ay, but he'll die ere morning. T' magistrates hev been wi' him, andhe swears positive that Ben Craven shot him. "

"Where was Ben last night?"

"He came from t' mill at six o'clock, and hed a cup o' tea wi' me. He said he'd go to t' chapel wi' me at eight o'clock; and after I hedwashed up t' dishes, I went to sit wi' Sarah Fisher, who's bad offwi' t' fever; and when I came back Ben was standing at t' door, andfolks wer' running here, and running there, and all t' village wasfair beside itseln. We wer' just reading a bit in t' Bible, whenconstables knocked at t' door and said they wanted Ben. My heart sankinto my shoes, Miss Hallam, and I said, 'That's a varry unlikely thing, lads; you're just talking for talking's sake. ' And Jerry Oddy said, 'Nay, we bean't, dame; Jonathan Clough is dying, and he says BenCraven shot him. ' Then I said, 'He'll die wi' t' lie on his lips ifhe says that, thou tell him so. ' And Jerry Oddy said, 'Not I, dame, keep a still tongue i' thy mouth, it'll mebbe be better for thee. '"

"Martha! How could you bear it?"

"I didn't think what I wer' bearing at t' time, Miss Hallam; I wer'just angry enough for any thing; and I wer' kind o' angry wi' Bentakkin' it so quiet like. 'Speak up for thysen, lad, ' I said; 'hesn'tta got a tongue i' thy head to-neet?'"

"Poor Ben! What did he say?"

"He said, 'Thou be still, mother, and talk to none but God. I'm asinnocent o' this sin as thou art;' and I said, 'I believe thee, mylad, and God go wi' thee, Ben. ' There's one thing troubles me, MissHallam, and it bothered t' squire, too. Ben was in his Sunday clothes--that wasn't odd, for he was going to t' chapel wi' me--but Jerrynoticed it, and he asked Ben where his overlooker's brat and cap was, and Ben said they wer' i' t' room; but they wern't there, Miss Hallam, and they hevn't found 'em either. "

"That is strange. "

"Ay, its varry queer, and t' constables seemed to think so. Jerrynivver liked Ben, and he said to me, 'Well, dame, it's a great pitythat last o' t' Cravens should swing himsen to death on t' gallows. 'But I told him, 'Don't thee be so sure that Ben's t' last o' t'Cravens: Thou's makkin' thy count without Providence, Jerry;' and I'mnone feared, " she added, with a burst of confidence; "I'll trust inGod yet! I can't see him, but I can feel him. "

"And you can hold fast to his hand, Sister Martha; and the darker itgets, you can cling the closer, until the daylight breaks and theshadows flee away. "

"That I can, and that I will! Look there, my dearies!" and she pointedto a little blue and white tea-pot on the high mantle-shelf, abovethe hearth on which they were sitting. "Last night, when they'd takenBen away, and I couldn't finish t' psalm and I couldn't do much morepraying than a little bairn thet's flayed and troubled in t' darknight, I lifted my eyes to thet tea-pot, and I knew t' words thet wason it, and they wer' like an order and a promise a' in one; and I said, 'There! thet's enough, Lord!' and I went to my bed and slept, for Iknew there 'ud be a deal to do to-day, and nothing weakens me likemissing my sleep. "

"And did you sleep, Martha?"

"Ay, I slept. It wasn't hard wi' t' promise I'd got. "

Then Phyllis took a chair and stood upon it, and carefully lifted downthe tea-pot. It was of coarse blue and white pottery, and had beenmade in Staffordshire, when the art was emerging from its rudeness, and when the people were half barbarous and wholly irreligious--oneof half a dozen that are now worth more than if made of the rarestchina, the Blue Wesley Tea-pot; rude little objects, yet formed byloving, reverential hands, to commemorate the apostolic labors of JohnWesley in that almost savage district. His likeness was on one side, and on the other the words, so often in his mouth, "_In God wetrust. _" Phyllis looked at it reverently; even in that poorportraiture recognizing the leader of men, the dignity, theintelligence, and the serenity of a great soul. She put it slowly back, touching it with a kind of tender respect; and then the two girls wenthome. In the green aisles of the park the nightingales were singing, and the sweet strength of the stars and the magic of the moon touchedeach heart with a thoughtful melancholy. Richard and Antony joinedthem, and they talked softly of the tragedy, with eloquent pauses ofsilence between. 

On the lowest terrace they found the squire--Fanny walking with quietdignity beside him. He joined Elizabeth and Richard, and discussedwith them the plans he had been forming for the unraveling of themystery. He had thought of every thing, even to the amount of moneynecessary. 

"Have they no relations?" asked Richard, a little curiously. It seemedto him that the squire's kindness was a trifle officious. However lowlyfamilies might be, he believed that in trouble a noble independencewould make them draw together, just as birds that scatter wide in thesunshine nestle up to each other in storm and cold. So he asked, "Havethey no relatives?"

"She has two brothers Ilkley way, " said the squire, with a dubioussmile. "I nivver reckoned much on them. "

"Don't you think she ought to send for them?"

"Nay, I don't. You're young, Richard, lad, and you'll know more someday; but I'll tell you beforehand, if you iver hev a favor to ask, ask it of any body but a relation--you may go to fifty, and not findone at hes owt o' sort about 'em. "

They talked for half an hour longer in a desultory fashion, as thosetalk who are full of thoughts they do not share; and when they partedRichard asked Elizabeth for a rose she had gathered as they walkedhome together. He asked it distinctly, the beaming glance of his darkeyes giving to the request a meaning she could not, and did not, mistake. Yet she laid it in his hand, and as their eyes met, he knewthat as "there is a budding morrow in the midnight, " so also there wasa budding love in the rose-gift. 

CHAPTER II. 

 "I am with thee, and no man shall set on thee to hurt thee. " Acts xviii, 10. 

 "There I will meet with thee, and I will commune with thee from above the mercy-seat. " Exod. Xxv, 22. 

No man liveth unto himself. In that green, flowery Eden, with the softwinds blowing in at the open doors and windows, and the white sunshineglorifying every thing, there was the whisper of sorrow as well asthe whisper of love. The homely life of the village, with its absorbingtragedy, touched all hearts; for men and women belie their nature whenthey do not weep with those that weep. 

At the close of the London season the Elthams returned to their countryhome, and there was much visiting and good-will. One evening they weresitting in Eltham drawing-room after dinner. The squire had beendiscussing the Clough tragedy with great warmth; for Lord Eltham hadnot unnaturally judged Ben Craven upon the apparent evidence, and wasinclined to think his position, whether he was innocent or guilty, one of great danger. Hallam would not see things in any such light. He had lived only in the morally healthy atmosphere of the woods andfields, and the sinful tragedies of life had not been actual to him. True, he had read of them in his weekly paper, but it was a differentthing when they came to his own door, and called for his activesympathy. 

"Right is right, Eltham, " he said, with the emphasis of one closedhand striking the other; "and it 'ud be a varry queer thing if rightshould turn out to be wrong. It'll do nowt o' t' sort, not it. "

"But, Hallam, it seems to me that you hev made up your mind thatCraven is right--right or wrong--and lawyer Swale told me t' evidencewas all against him. "

"Swale!" replied the squire, snapping his fingers disdainfully. "Why-a!Swale nivver told t' truth i' all his life, if he nobbut hed t' timeto make up a lie. As for Bingley, I wish I hed sent him over t' seaswhen I hed t' chance to do it--he's none fit to breathe t' air in adecent country. "

"But Swale says that Bill Laycock has acknowledged that he alsosaw Craven in his working clothes running over t' moor just about t'time Clough was shot, and Bill and Craven were at one time all butbrothers. "

"Ay, ay; but there's a lass between 'em now--what do you make o'that?"

"As far as I can think it out, it's against Craven. "

"Then think twice about it, Eltham, and be sure to change thy mindt' second time; for I tell thee, Craven is as innocent as thee or me;and though t' devil and t' lawyers hev all t' evidence on their side, I'll lay thee twenty sovereigns that right'll win. What dost ta say, Phyllis, dearie?"

And Phyllis, who had been watching his large, kindly face with thegreatest admiration, smiled confidently back to him, and answered, "I think as you do Uncle Hallam, "'For right is right, since God is God; And right the day must win; To doubt would be disloyalty, To falter would be sin. '"

Hallam looked proudly at her, and then at his opponent, who, withglistening eyes, bowed, and answered: "My dear young lady, that settlesthe question, here. I wish with a' my heart it did so in ivery courtin t' kingdom; but, squire, thou knows little o' this world, I'mfeared. "

"What by that? I don't want to know. As far as I can judge, t'knowledge of t' world is only an acquaintance wi' all sorts o' eviland unjust things. But come thy ways, Eltham, and let's hev a bit ofa walk through t' park. I hear t' cuckoos telling their names to iverytree, and ivery bird in them, and there's few sounds I like better, if it bean't a nightingale singing. "

It was getting late, and the squire's proposition was generallyindorsed. The whole party resolved to walk to the park gates, and thecarriage and Antony's saddle-horse were ordered to meet them there. It was a delightful evening, full of an indescribable tranquillity--atranquillity not at all disturbed by the _craik_ of the rail inthe clover, or the plaintive minor of the cuckoo in the thick groves. Eltham and the squire talked earnestly of the coming election. Phyllis, leaning on Antony's arm, was full of thought, and Richardand Elizabeth fell gradually a little behind them. In that soft lighther white garments and her fair loveliness had a peculiar charm. Shereminded Richard of some Greek goddess full of grace and largeserenity. He had resolved not to tell her how dear she was to him untilhe had better prepared the way for such a declaration; but when thetime comes the full heart must speak, though it be only to call thebeloved one's name. And this was at first all Richard could say:

"Elizabeth! Dear Elizabeth!"

She recognized the voice. It was as if her soul had been waiting forit. From the sweetest depths of her consciousness she whispered"Richard, " and with the word made over her full heart to him. Theystood one wonderful moment looking at each other, then he drew herto his breast and kissed her. The sweetest strongest words of lovewere never written. They are not translatable in earthly language. Richard was dumb with happiness, and Elizabeth understood the silence. As they rode home and sauntered up the terraces, Antony said, "Whata dull evening we have had;" but Phyllis was of the initiated, andknew better. She looked at Elizabeth and smiled brightly, while Richardclasped tighter the dear hand he was holding. 

About an hour later Phyllis went to Elizabeth's room. It was a largechamber open to the east and south, with polished oaken floors, andhung with white dimity. She sat at one of the open southern windows, and the wind, which gently moved the snowy curtains, brought in withit the scent of bleaching clover. There was no light but that shadowof twilight which, in English summers, lingers until it is lost inthe dawning. But it was quite sufficient. She turned her face to meetPhyllis, and Phyllis kissed her, and said, "I know, Elizabeth; and I am so glad. "

"Richard told you?"

"No, indeed! Richard is too much astonished at his own happiness tospeak of it to-night. But when one loves, one understands naturally. It has made me very happy. Why, Elizabeth, you are weeping!"

"I am strangely sorrowful, Phyllis. A shadow which I cannot accountfor chills me. You know that I am neither imaginative nor sentimental;but I am weeping to-night for grief which I apprehend, but which doesnot exist. "

"Why do that? The ills that never come are just the ills that giveus the sorest and most useless sorrow. They are not provided for--nograce is promised for them. "

"That may be, Phyllis, but these intangible griefs are very real oneswhile they haunt us. "

"I once knew a Methodist preacher who, whenever he felt himself hauntedby prospective cares and griefs, took a piece of paper and reducedthem, to writing, and so 'faced the squadron of his doubts. ' He toldme that they usually vanished as he mustered them. Elizabeth, thereare more than sixty admonitions against fear or unnecessary anxietyin the Bible, and these are so various, and so positive, that aChristian has not actually a legitimate subject for worry left. Come, let us face your trouble. Is it because in marrying Richard you willhave to give up this beautiful home?"

"That possibility faces me every day, Phyllis. When Antony marries, he will, of course, bring his wife here, and she will be mistress. I might, for father's sake, take a lower place, but it would be hard. Father did not marry until his three sisters were settled, but Antonylives in another generation. I can hardly hope he will be sothoughtful. "

"Do you fear that uncle will object to your marriage with Richard?"

"No; he is very fond of Richard, and very proud of him. Yesterday hemade me notice now strongly Richard resembled Colonel Alfred Hallam, who was the cavalier hero of our family. And the likeness iswonderful. "

"Has money any thing to do with it?"

"Nothing. "

"Parting with Richard?"

"I think so--the feeling is one of a fear of long or final separation--a shadow like an abyss which neither my love nor my hope can cross. I find that I cannot follow out any dream or plan which includesRichard; my soul stumbles in all such efforts as if it was blind. Nowis there any promise for an uncertain condition like this?"

"Yes, dear, there is a promise with a blessing added to it. 'I willbring the blind by a way that they knew not; I will lead them in pathsthat they have not known: I will make darkness light before them, andcrooked things straight. '" Isa. Xlii, 16. 

"Dear Phyllis, what a little comforter you are! I will be happy. Indeed, I have reason, for I never dreamed of a lover like Richard--andhe says it was the merest accident that brought you to Europe thissummer. "

"Did Richard say 'accident?' Do you know, Elizabeth, I think what mencall 'accident' is really God's own part--his special arrangement orinterposition. We were going to Saratoga, and then one night BishopElliott called, and said he was going to Europe, and as he spoke wereceived a letter saying the rooms which we had always occupied werenot to be had, and the Bishop said, 'Go with me to Europe, ' and so, in five minutes we had decided to do so. Richard will dislike to returnto America without you; have you thought of the many changes you mustface? and some deprivations also, Elizabeth. We are not rich. Ourhome, beautiful in its way, is very different from Hallam Hall; ourlife altogether is unlike yours. "

"I fear nothing of all that, Phyllis. But my marriage until Antonymarries is out of the question. I could not leave father until he hasanother daughter. That is a thing not to be contemplated. "

"Ah, Elizabeth, in my selfishness I had forgotten that! I was onlythinking that when Richard had you, he could better spare me, and thatJohn and I might have a hope also. But, of course, Uncle Hallam comesfirst. "

"Yes; as long as my father needs me, my first duty is to him. "

"Even if it be to the end of his life?"

"That is an event I never dare to call to mind. My soul shrinks backfrom the thought. A good parent is immortal to a good child, I think. "

She said it very calmly, but no one would have thought of disputingher position. The still assured face partially uplifted, and the largewhite hands firmly clasped upon her knee, were a kind of silent amento it. 

Then Phyllis said "Good-night" and went away; but dim as the lightwas, she took with her a certain sense of warmth and color. The longpink dressing-gown she had worn and the pink rose in her hair had madea kind of glow in the corner of the wide window where she had sat. "How beautiful she is!" The words sprang spontaneously to Elizabeth'slips; and she added to them in her thoughts, "Few girls are so lovely, so graceful, and so clever, and yet she is as pure and unspoiled bythe world as if God had just made her. "

The formal ratification of the engagement was very quietly done. Thesquire had a conversation with Richard, and after it went for a longwalk in the park. When he next met his daughter he looked at hersteadily with eyes full of tears, and she went to him, and put herarms around his neck, and whispered some assurance to him, which herepaid with a hearty "God bless thee, Elizabeth!"

Antony was the least pleased. He had long had a friendship with GeorgeEltham, Lord Eltham's younger son; and among many projects which theyoung men had discussed, one related to the marriage of Elizabeth. She had, indeed, no knowledge of their intentions, which were on amercenary basis, but this did not prevent Antony from feeling thatRichard had in some degree frustrated his plans. But he allowedHimself no evidences of this feeling; he gave Richard hiscongratulations, and in a merry way "supposed that the kindest thinghe could now do for all parties was to choose a wife also. "

But very soon he ordered his horse and rode thoughtfully over toEltham. The Hon. George was in his apartments reading "Blackwood, "though there was a riding party gathering on the lawn. 

"Are you not going with them?" asked Antony, indicating the laughinggroup outside with a motion of his hand. 

"Not I. I hope to do something more with my life than be my elderbrother's lieutenant. Last night I spoke to Lord Eltham concerningour intentions. He thinks well of them, Antony, and promises all thehelp he can give us. "

"I am sorry to tell you, George, that Elizabeth is to marry cousinFontaine. The engagement is formally made and sanctioned. "

"I am very sorry. It is a great disappointment to me. "

"You were too dilatory. I advised you to speak to Elizabeth some monthsago. "

"I tried to do so, but it was impossible to say pretty things to her. I felt abashed if I tried to compliment her, and she always appearedso unconscious of a fellow, that it was depressing. "

"Well, it is too late now. "

"How do you know that? When Mr. Fontaine has gone--"

"It will not make a particle of difference, George; let me tell youthat. Elizabeth will be true to him, if she never sees him again. Iknow her, you do not. "

"What is to be done, then?"

"I was thinking of Selina Digby. "

"O you know she is not pretty at all!"

"We agreed not to let such things as that influence us. "

"And she is older than I am. "

"She has L50, 000, that is more than double Elizabeth's fortune. A mancan't have every thing. It is entirely at her own disposal also. Yourbrother-in-law is far too much absorbed in politics to interfere--theground there is clear for you. "

"If I succeed?"

"I will promise to find capital equal to yours. What did my lord sayconcerning our plan?"

"He said we must have some instruction, and that he would speak toSir Thomas Harrington. My father secured his seat in Parliament, andhe is sure to allow us to enter his house. We shall have every facilitythere for acquiring a rapid practical knowledge of banking and finance. I told father it was that or the colonies. I have no idea of being'only Lord Francis's brother. '"

"Money is the axle on which the world turns, George. When you and Ihave it we can buy titles--if we want them. "

The fever of fortune-making had seized both young men. They wereambitious in the most personal sense of the word. George's positionas younger son constantly mortified him. He had had dreams of obtaininghonor both as a scholar and a soldier, but he had satisfied himselfthat for one career he had not the mental ability, and for the otherneither the physical courage nor endurance necessary. Of mere rankhe was not envious. He had lived among noble men, and familiarity hadbred its usual consequence. But he did want money. He fully recognizedthat gold entered every earthly gate, and he felt within himself thecapacity for its acquirement. He had also precedents for thisdetermination which seemed to justify it. The Duke of Norham'syounger son had a share in an immense brewery and wielded a power farbeyond that of his elder brother, who was simply waiting for a dukedom. Lord Egremont, a younger son of the Earl of Soho, controlled largeamounts of railway stock, and it was said held a mortgage on the familycastle. To prove to his father and mother that no law of primogeniturecould disinherit him, appeared to George Eltham an object worthstriving for. 

With these thoughts simmering in his heart he met Antony Hallam atOxford. They speedily became friends. Antony wanted money also. Butin him the craving arose from a more domineering ambition. He wishedto rule men, to be first every-where. He despised the simple provincialtitle to which he was born, and the hall, with all its sweet grayantiquity, was only a dull prison. He compared its mediaeval strength, its long narrow lattices, its low rambling rooms, its Saxon simplicity, with the grand mansions of modern date in which he visited. It mustbe remembered that it is only recently old houses and old furnitureand early English have become fashionable. Antony's dream of a homewas not of Hallam, but of a grander Eltham castle, whose rooms shouldbe twice as large and lofty and splendid. 

He would control men through their idol, gold; he would buy some oldearldom, and have orders and honors thrust upon him. His long, honorable descent would be a good foundation to build upon. He toldhimself that the Hallams ought to have built upon it generations ago. He almost despised his ancestors for the simple lives they had led. He could not endure to think of himself sitting down as squire Hallamand ruling a few cottagers and tilling a few hundred acres. In GeorgeEltham he found a kindred spirit. They might work for differentmotives, but gold was the aim of both. 

Many plans had been entertained and discussed, but they had finallysettled upon a co-partnership in finance. They would discount bills, make advances, and secure government contracts. The latter was thespecial aim of Antony's desires. But they were not foolish enough tothink they could succeed without some preliminary initiation, and thisthey proposed to acquire in the great banking house of Sir ThomasHarrington. M. P. Lord Eltham had approved the plan. It now remainedto secure the squire's agreement and co-operation. As for the moneynecessary, George Eltham proposed to acquire it by marriage. Antonyhad his own plan; he was only waiting until the Fontaines' visit wasover, and "that contemptible Craven affair settled. "

For he saw plainly that for the time the squire's mind was full ofoutside interests, and when Antony discussed a subject so vital tohimself, he was resolved his father should be in a position to feelits importance, and give it his undivided attention. Personally hehad no ill-feeling toward Ben Craven, but he was annoyed at theintrusion of so vulgar an object of sympathy into his home. Thesquire's advocacy at Eltham had irritated him. He was quietly angryat Elizabeth and Phyllis daily visiting the dame. And when theMethodist preacher had been twice to Hallam to see the squire on thesubject, he could not treat the affair with his usual tolerantindifference. 

"I have changed my mind, " he said, one evening, with that smilingpositiveness which is so aggravating: "I am very much inclined tobelieve that Ben Craven did kill Clough. "

The squire looked at him, first with amazement, then with anger, andasked, "When did ta lose thy good sense, and thy good-will, sonAntony?"

"I had a talk with Swale to-day, and in his judgment--"

"Thou knows what I think o' Swale. Was there ever a bigger old cheatthan he is? I'll put my heart afore Swale's judgment, Ben Craven'sall right. "

"He will have strong evidence and a clever lawyer against him. He issure to be convicted. "

"Don't thee reckon to know so much. Ben's got a clever lawyer, too;but if he'd nobbut God and his mother to plead for him, his cause 'udbe in varry good hands, thou may be sure o' that. "

"I am only saying, father, what Swale says every-where. "

"I'll warrant he'll talk. There's no tax on lying. My word, if therewas, Swale'd hev to keep his mouth shut. "

"I cannot imagine, father, what makes you trouble yourself so muchabout the Cravens. "

"Thou can't, can't ta? Then thou canst imagine gratitude for faithfulservice given cheerfully for three hundred years. Why-a lad, 'twasa Craven saved Alfred Hallam's life at Worcester fight. "

"I suppose he paid him for the service. Any how the debt is not ours. "

"Ay, is it. It's my debt, and it's thine, too. Ben may live to do theea service for aught thou knows. "

Antony smiled contemptuously, and the squire continued, almost angrily, "There's things more unlikely; look here, my lad, nivver spit in anywell: thou may hev to drink of t' water. "

When the words were said the squire was sorry for them. They had comefrom his lips in that forceful prophetic way some speeches take, andthey made an unpleasant impression on both father and son; just suchan impression as a bad dream leaves, which yet seems to be whollyirrelevant and unaccountable. 

Craven was in Leeds jail, and the trial was fixed for the summer term. All things may be better borne than suspense, and all were glad whenBen could have a fair hearing. But every thing was against him, andat the end of the second day's trial, the squire came home in sinceretrouble; Ben had been found guilty, but a conviction of his innocence, in spite of the evidence, seemed also to have possessed the jury, forthey had strongly recommended him to her majesty's mercy. 

Elizabeth and Phyllis went with sick, sorrowful heart to see the dame. The strain had told upon her before the trial, and she had lost hercheerfulness somewhat. But she had come to a place now where angerand sense of wrong and impatience were past. 

"Lost confidence, sister Phyllis, " she said; "not I; I hev only stoppedreckoning on any man or woman now, be 't queen's sen; and I hev putmy whole trust i' God. Such like goings on as we've hed! Paper andink and varry little justice; but God'll sort ivery thing afore long. "

"The case is to come before the queen. "

"That's well enough. Miss Hallam, but I'll tak' it mysen into God'scouncil-chamber--there's no key on that door, and there's no fee topay either. He'll put ivery thing right, see if he doesn't!"

"And besides, Sister Martha, things may not be as far wrong as we thinkthey are--may not be wrong at all. God moves in a mysterious way. "

"And he needs to, Sister Phyllis. There's many a soul 'ud run awayfrom him, even when he was coming to help 'em, if they knew it washim. " "I understand what you mean, Martha--'as a thief in the night. 'He breaks all bars and bursts all doors closed against him when hevisits either a soul or a cause. I heard you were at Leeds. Do youmind telling us how things went? The squire will not talk to any one. "

"I nivver was one to shut my grief up i' my heart, and let it poisonmy life; not I, indeed. It seemed to me, though, as varry little fightwere made for Ben Clough afore he died; he'd signed a paper, declaringpositive as it were Ben who shot him; and t' case were half done whenthat were said. Then Bingley were sworn, and he said, as he werecoming ovver t' moor, about half past six, he heard a shot, and sawBen Craven come from behind a whin bush, and run toward t' village;and a minute after Bill Laycock came in sight; and Ben, he said, ranpast him, also; and Laycock looked after Ben, and said to Bingley--'that's Ben Craven; he's in a bit of a hurry, I think. '"

"Was Laycock coming from the moor also?"

"Nay, he was coming from t' village, and was going across t' moor toa knur match on Eltham Common. "

"Did Laycock swear to that?"

"Ay, he did. He were varry loth to do it; for Ben and him hed lakedtogether when they were lads, and been thick as thack iver since, tillMary Clough came between 'em. But I noticed one thing, and I thinkthe jury saw it, too--when Laycock were asked, 'if he were sure itwas Ben that passed him, ' he turned white to the varry lips, and couldscarce make out to whisper, _'Ay, he were sure. '_ Then Ben lookedat him, and I'll nivver forget that look, no, nor any body else thatsaw it, and least of a' t' man hes got it. "

"You think Laycock swore to a lie?"

"I know he swore to a lie. "

"It is a pity that Ben's working-suit has never been found. "

"It'll come to light; see if it doesn't. "

"Who spoke for Ben?"

"I did. I told t' truth, and there's none that knows me hes a doubto' that. I said that Ben came home a bit early. He hed his cup o' teawi' me, and I told him how bad off Sarah Fisher was; and I said, 'I'llwash up t' tea things, lad, and go bide wi' her till it's chapel time;and so thou be ready to go wi' me. ' Before I went out I looked intoBen's room, and he'd dressed himsen up i' his Sunday clothes, and weresitting studying i' a book called 'Mechanics;' and I said, 'Why, Ben!Whatever hes ta put thy best clothes on for?' I knew right well itwas for Mary Clough, but I wasn't too well pleased wi' Mary, and soI couldn't help letting him see as he weren't deceiving me; and Bensaid, 'Nivver thee mind, mother, what clothes I've on, and don't betoo late for t' chapel. '"

"And yet Bingley and Laycock swore that Ben had his working-clotheson?"

"Ay, they sware that. "

"You are come into deep waters, Martha. "

"Ay, I am; but there's One on t' water wi' me. I hev his hand, andhe's none going to let me sink. And good-night to you, dearies, now;for I want to be alone wi' him. He isn't far off; you can tak' t' wordof a sorrowful woman that he lets himsen be found, if nobbut you'rei' earnest seeking him. "

She turned from them, and seated herself before her lonely hearthstone, and Phyllis saw her glance upward at the four words, that even in thedarkest night was clear to her--_"In God we trust. "_

"Martha used to be so curious, so gossippy, so well acquainted withall her neighbors, so anxious for their good opinion, that it strikesme as singular, " said Elizabeth, "that she seems to have forgottenthe whole village, and to be careless as to its verdict. Does sorrowmake us indifferent, I wonder?"

"No, I think not; but the happy look at things upon their own level--the earth-level; the sorrowful look up. "

Not far from Martha's garden gate they met the Methodist preacher. He was going to see Martha, but hearing of her wish to be alone, heturned and walked with Phyllis and Elizabeth toward the park. He wasa little man, with an unworldly air, and very clear truthful eyes. People came to their cottage doors and looked curiously at the trio, as they went slowly toward the hall, the preacher between the girls, and talking earnestly to them. 

"Well I nivver!" said old Peggy Howarth, nodding her head wisely, "what does ta think o' that, Jane Sykes?"

"It beats ivery thing! There's Ezra Dixon. He's on his way to aclass-meeting, I'll lay thee owt ta likes; Ezra!"

"Well, woman! What does ta want?"

"Does ta see Miss Hallam and that American lass wi' t' preacher?"

"For sure I do. They're in varry good company. "

"They'll hev been at Martha Cravens, depend on't. They say Martha taksit varry quiet like. "

"Ay, she's none o' them as whimpers and whines. Now if it wer' thee, Peggy, thou'd worrit, and better worrit; as if worritting wer' thytrade, and thou hed to work at it for thy victuals. Martha's none likethat. Is ta going to thy class to-night?"

"Nay, then, I'm not going. "

"I'd go if I was thee, Peggy. Thou'lt hev thysen to talk about there, and thou'lt not be tempted to say things about t' Cravens thou wontbe able to stand up to. "

"I'd hev some human nature in me, Ezra Dixon, if I was thee. To thinko' this being t' first murder as iver was i' Hallam! and thou talkingas if I ought to buckle up my tongue about it. "

"Thou ought; but 'oughts' stand for nothing. To be sure thou'll talkabout it; but go and talk i' thy class-meeting wi' Josiah Banks lookingi' thy face, and then thou'll talk wi' a kind heart. Do as I tellthee. "

"Nay, I'll not do it. "

"Thou nivver will disappoint t' devil, Peggy. "

Peggy did not answer; she was too much interested in the rector'sproceedings. He was actually crossing the road and joining the ladiesand the preacher. 

"Now, then! Dost ta see that, Ezra? Whativer's coming to folk? Why-a!They're a' going on together!"

"Why not? T' rector's a varry good man. It 'ud be strange if he didn'tfeel for poor Martha as well as ivery other kind heart. Her troublehes made a' maks o' Christians feel together. "

"If Martha was nobbut a Church o' England woman. "

"Dost ta really think that t' rector is cut on that sort o' a pattern?Not he. A man may be a Christian, Peggy, even if he isn't a WesleyanMethody. Them's my principles, and I'm not a bit 'shamed o' them. "

It was quite true; the rector had joined the girls and the preacher, and they walked on together as far as the park gates, talking of Marthaand her great sorrow and great faith. Then the preacher turned back, carrying with him to his little chapel the strength that comes fromreal Christian sympathy and communion. 

"What clear prophetic eyes that Mr. North has, " said the rector, asthey walked thoughtfully under the green arches of the elms. 

"He lives very near to the other world, " said Phyllis; "I think hiseyes have got that clear far-off look with habitually gazing intoeternity. It is a great privilege to talk to him, for one always feelsthat he is just from the presence of God. "

"I have heard that you are a Dissenter, Miss Fontaine. "

"O no, I am not. I am a Methodist. "

"That is what I meant. "

"But the two are not the same. I am quite sure that the line betweenDissent and Methodism has been well defined from the beginning. "

The rector smiled tolerantly down at Phyllis's bright thoughtful face, and said: "Do young ladies in America study theological history?"

"I think most of them like to understand the foundation upon whichtheir spiritual faith is built. I have found every side study ofMethodism very interesting. Methodism is a more charitable and a morespiritual thing than Dissent. "

"Are you sure of that?"

"Yes. Dissenters began every-where with showing how fallen was theChurch, how unworthy were her ministers; but Methodism beganevery-where with showing her hearers how fallen they themselves were, and how utterly unworthy. Dissent was convinced that Episcopacy waswrong; Methodism sprang from a sense of personal guilt. Dissentdiscussed schemes of church government, as if the salvation of theworld depended upon certain forms; Methodism had one object, to savesouls and inculcate personal holiness. Dissent boldly separated herselffrom the Church; Methodism clung with loving affection to her mother. Her separation was gradual, and accompanied with fond regrets. "

"I like that reasoning, Miss Fontaine. "

"Do not give me credit for it; it comes from those who have authorityto speak upon such matters. But ought not a young lady to know as muchabout the origin and constitution of her Church as of her country?"

"I suppose she ought. What do you say, Miss Hallam?"

"That I will begin and study the history of my Church. I am ashamedto say I know nothing about it. "

"And I say that I will look into Methodism a little. John Wesley, asa man, has always possessed a great attraction to me. It was a pityhe left the Church. "

"But he never did leave it. Just as St. Peter and St. Paul and St. John went up to the temple at Jerusalem to pray, so Wesley, until thevery last, frequented the Church ordinances. I think he was reallya very High-Churchman. He was even prejudiced against Presbyterians;and a very careless reader of his works must see that he was deeplyimpressed with the importance of Episcopacy, and that he regarded itas an apostolic institution. If he were to return to this world again, he would undoubtedly give in his membership to the American MethodistEpiscopal Church. "

"But remember how he countenanced field-preaching and religiousservices without forms. "

"Do you think it a sin to save souls out of church? Don't youthink the Sermon on the Mount a very fair precedent in favor offield-preaching?"

"Miss Fontaine, you argue like a woman. That question is not in logicalsequence. Here come Mr. Fontaine and the squire. I hope some othertime you will allow me to resume this conversation. "

The squire's face brightened when he saw the rector. "A 'good-evening, 'parson. Thou thought I'd be in a bit o' trouble to-night, didn't ta?"

"I knew your kind heart, squire, and that it would be sad for Marthaand Ben Craven to-night. "

"Ay, to be sure. " He had clasped Phyllis's hand in one of his own, and turned round with the party; as he did so, drawing the rector'sattention by a significant glance to Elizabeth, who had fallen behindwith Richard. 

"I am very glad if that is the case, squire. "

"Ay, it pleases me, too. But about poor Martha, hev you seen her?"

"She wishes to be alone. "

"And no wonder. I'm sure I don't know whativer must be done. "

"Perhaps the queen will have mercy. "

"Mercy! He'll get a life sentence, if that is mercy. Hanging isn'tany better than its called, I'll be bound; but if I was Ben, I'd a-dealrather be hung, and done wi' it. That I would!"

"I think Ben Craven will yet be proved innocent. His mother is sureof it, uncle. "

"That's t' way wi' a mother. You can't make 'em understand--they willhang on. "

"Yes, " said the rector. "Mother-love almost sees miracles. "

"Mother-love _does_ see miracles, " answered Phyllis. "The motherof Moses would 'hang on, ' as uncle defines it, and she saw a miracleof salvation. So did the Shunammite mother, and the Syro-phoenicianmother, and millions of mothers before and since. Just as long asMartha hopes, I shall hope; and just as long as Martha prays, she willhope. "

"Does ta think Martha can pray against t' English Constitution?"

"I heard the rector praying against the atmospheric laws last Sunday, and you said every word after him, uncle. When you prayed for fineweather to get the hay in, did you expect it in spite of all theconditions against it--falling barometer, gathering clouds? If youdid, you were expecting a miracle. "

"Ay, I told t' beadle, mysen, that there wasn't a bit o' good prayingfor fine weather as long as t' wind kept i' such a contrary quarter;and it's like enough to rain to-night again, and heigh, for sure! itsbegun mizzling. We'll hev to step clever, or we'll be wet before wereach t' hall. "

The rector smiled at the squire's unconscious statement of his ownposition; but the rain was not to be disregarded, and, indeed, beforethey reached shelter the ladies' dresses were wet through, and therewas so many evidences of a storm that the rector determined to stayall night with his friends. When Elizabeth and Phyllis came down indry clothing, they found a wood fire crackling upon the hearth, anda servant laying the table for supper. 

"Elizabeth, let's hev that round o' spiced beef, and some cold chicken, and a bit o' raspberry tart, and some clouted cream, if there's owto' t' sort in t' buttery. There's nothing like a bit o' good eating, if there's owt wrong wi' you. "

The rector and the squire were in their slippers, on each side of theample hearth, and they had each, also, a long, clean, clay pipe intheir mouth. The serenity of their faces, and their air of thoroughcomfort was a delightful picture to Phyllis. She placed herself closeto her uncle, with her head resting on his shoulder. The two men weretalking in easy, far-apart sentences of "tithes, " and, as the subjectdid not interest her, she let her eyes wander about the old room, noting its oaken walls, richly carved and almost black with age, andits heavy oaken furniture, the whole brightened up with many-coloredrugs, and the gleaming silver and crystal on the high sideboard, andthe gay geraniums and roses in the deep bay windows. The table, coveredwith snowy damask, seemed a kind of domestic altar, and Phyllis thoughtshe had never seen Elizabeth look so grandly fair and home-like asshe did that hour, moving about in the light of the fire and candles. She did not wonder that Richard heard nothing of the conversation, and that his whole attention was given to his promised wife. 

The squire got the delicacies he wanted, and really it appeared asif his advice was very good medicine. Happiness, hope, and a senseof gratitude was in each heart. The old room grew wonderfully cozyand bright; the faces that gathered round the table and the fire werefull of love, and sweet, reasonable contentment. When supper was overRichard and Elizabeth went quietly into the great entrance hall, wherethere was always a little fire burning. They had their own hopes andjoys, in which no heart, however near and dear, could intermeddle, and this was fully recognized. Phyllis only gave them a bright smileas they withdrew. The squire ignored their absence; Antony was atEltham; for an hour the two little groups were as happy as mortalsmay be. 

The rector had another pipe after supper, and still talked fitfullyabout "tithes. " It seemed to be a subject which fitted in comfortablyto the pauses in a long pipe. But when he had finished his "thimbleful"of tobacco, and shaken out its ashes carefully, he looked at Phylliswith a face full of renewed interest, and said, "Squire, do you know that your niece thinks John Wesley was aHigh-Churchman?"

"What I meant, sir, was this: Wesley had very decided views in favorof the Episcopacy. He would suffer none to lay unconsecrated handsupon the sacraments; and in personal temperament, I think he was asascetic as any monk. "

"Do you think, then, that if he had lived before the Reformation hemight have founded an order of extreme rigor, say, like La Trappe?"

"No, indeed, sir! He might have founded an order, and it would, doubtless, have been a rigorous one; but it would not have been oneshut up behind walls. It would have been a preaching order, severelydisciplined, perhaps, but burning with all the zeal of theRedemptionist Fathers on a mission. "

The squire patted the little hand, which was upon his knee, and proudlyasked, "Now, then, parson, what does ta say to that?"

"I say it would be a very good description of 'the people calledMethodists' when they began their crusade in England. "

"It is always a good description of them when they have missionarywork to do. We have had brave soldiers among the Fontaines, and wisestatesmen, also; but braver than all, wiser than all, was mygrandfather Fontaine, who went into the wilderness of Tennessee anapostle of Methodism, with the Bible in his heart and his life in hishand. If I was a man, I would do as Richard always does, lift my hatwhenever his name is mentioned. "

"Such ministers are, indeed, spiritual heroes, Miss Fontaine; men, of whom the world is not worthy. "

"Ah, do not say that! It was worthy of Christ. It is worthy of them. They are not extinct. They are still preaching--on the savannas ofthe southwest--on all the border-lands of civilization--among thesavages of the Pacific isles, and the barbarians of Asia and Africa;voices crying in the wilderness, 'God so loved the world, that he gavehis only begotten Son' for its salvation. A Methodist preacher isnecessarily an evangelist. Did you ever happen to read, or to hearWesley's 'charge' to his preachers?"

"No, I never heard it, Miss Fontaine. "

"If ta knows it, Phyllis, dearie, let him hev it. I'se warrant it'llfit his office very well. "

"Yes, I know it; I have heard it many a time from my grandfather'slips. In his old age, when he was addressing young preachers, he neversaid any thing else to them. 'Observe, ' charged Wesley, 'it is notyour business to preach so many times, or to take care of this or thatsociety, but to save as many souls as you can. '"

"Now, then, that's enough. Phyllis, dearie, lift t' candle and botho' you come wi' me; I've got summat to say mysen happen. "

He had that happy look on his face which people wear who are consciousof having the power to give a pleasant surprise. He led them to a largeroom above those in the east wing which were specially his own. Itwas a handsome bedroom, but evidently one that was rarely used. 

"Look 'ee here, now;" and he lifted the candle toward a picture overthe fire place. "Who do you mak' that out to be?"

"John Wesley, " said Phyllis. 

"For sure; it's John Wesley, and in this room he slept at intervalsfor thirty years. My great grandfather, Squire Gregory Hallam, wasa Methodist--one o' t' first o' them--and so you see, Phyllis, my lass, you hev come varry naturally by your way o' thinking. "

The rector was examining the face with great interest. "It is awonderful countenance, " he said; "take a look at it, Miss Fontaine, and see if it does not bear out what I accidentally said about LaTrappe. "

"No, indeed, it does not! I allow that it is the face of a refined, thorough-bred ecclesiastic. He was the son of the Church. "

"Yes; he came, indeed, from the tribe of Levi. "

"It is a fine, classical, clearly-chiseled face--the face of a scholarand a gentleman. "

"A little of the fanatic in it--admit that. I have seen pictures ofgrand inquisitors, by Velasquez, which resemble it. "

"You must not say such things, my dear rector. Look again. I admitthat it is a clever face, and I have seen it compared to that ofRichelieu and Loyola, as uniting the calm iron will and acute eye ofthe one with the inventive genius and habitual devotion of the other;but I see more than this, there is the permeation of that serenitywhich comes from an assurance of the love of God. "

"God love thee, Phyllis! Thou'lt be makkin' a Methodist o' me, whetherI will or no. I hed no idea afore there was a' that in t' picture. I wont stay here any longer. Thanks be! It's sleeping-time, missee. "

"I should like to sleep in this room, squire. "

"Why, then, rector, thou shall. A bit o' fire and some aired bed-clothesis a' it wants. Thou's sure to sleep well in it, and thou'lt hev t' sunriseto wake thee up. "

And Phyllis thought, when she saw him in the morning, that he had keptsome of the sunshine in his face. He was walking up and down theterrace softly humming a tune to himself, and watching the pigeonspromenade with little, timid, rapid steps, making their necks changelike opals with every movement. The roofs and lintels and the softearth was still wet, but the sun shone gloriously, and the clear airwas full of a thousand scents. 

"How beautiful all is, and how happy you look, " and Phyllis put herhand in the rector's, and let him lead her to the end of the terrace, where she could see the green country flooded with sunshine. 

"Did you sleep well in Wesley's chamber?"

"I slept very well; and this morning the pleasantest thing happened. Upon a little table I saw a Bible lying, and I read the morning lesson, which was a very happy one; then I lifted another book upon the stand. It was 'The Pilgrim's Progress;' and this was the passage I lightedupon: 'The Pilgrim they laid in a large upper chamber facing thesunrising. The name of the chamber was Peace. ' There was a pencil-markagainst the passage, and I fancy John Wesley put it there. It was alittle thing, but it has made me very happy. "

"I can understand. "

"God bless you, child! I am sure you can. "

CHAPTER III. 

 "He shall call upon me, and I will answer him: I will be with him in trouble; I will deliver him, and honor him. " Psa. Xci, 15. 

 "Alas for hourly change! Alas for all The loves that from his hand proud Youth lets fall, Even as the beads of a told rosary!"

That very day Richard received a letter from Bishop Elliott. He wasgoing to the Holy Land and wished Richard to join him in Rome, andthen accompany him to Palestine. Richard preferred to remain at Hallam, but both Elizabeth and Phyllis thought he ought to respond to theBishop's desire. He was an aged man among strangers, and, apart frominclination, it seemed to be a duty to accede to his request. So ratherreluctantly Richard left Hallam, half-inclined to complain thatElizabeth was not sorry enough to part with him. In truth she wasconscious of feeling that it would be pleasant to be a little whilealone with the great joy that had come to her; to consider it quietly, to brood over it, and to ask some questions of her soul which it mustanswer very truthfully. 

People of self-contained natures weary even of happiness, if happinessmakes a constant demand upon them. She loved Richard with the firstlove of her heart, she loved him very truly and fondly, but she wasalso very happy through the long summer days sitting alone, or withPhyllis, and sewing pure, loving thoughts into wonderful pieces offine linen and cambric and embroidery. Sometimes Phyllis helped her, and they talked together in a sweet confidence of the lovers so dearto them, and made little plans for the future full of trueunselfishness. 

In the cool of the day they walked through the garden and the parkto see Martha; though every day it became a more perplexing and painfulduty. The poor woman, as time went by, grew silent and even stern. She heeded not any words of pity, she kept apart from the world, andfrom all her neighbors, and with heart unwaveringly fixed upon God, waited with a grand and pathetic patience the answer to her prayers. For some reason which her soul approved she remained in the littlechapel with her petition, and the preacher going in one day, unexpectedly, found her prostrate before the communion table, pleadingas mothers only can plead. He knelt down beside her, and took her hand, and prayed with her and for her. 

Quite exhausted, she sat down beside him afterward and said, amidheart-breaking sobs, "It isn't Ben's life I'm asking, sir. God gavehim, and he's a fair right to tak' him, when and how he will. I hevgiven up asking for t' dear lad's life. But O if he'd nobbut clearhis good name o' the shameful deed! I know he's innocent, and God knowsit; but even if they hang Ben first, I'll give my Maker no peace tillhe brings the guilty to justice, and sets t' innocent in t' leet o'his countenance. "

"'The kingdom of heaven suffereth violence, ' Martha, 'and the violenttake it by force. ' Don't get weary. Christ had a mother, and he lovedher. Does he not love her still?"

"Thank you, sir, for that word. I'll be sure and remind him o' her. I'd forget that there was iver any mother but me; or any son but myson. " "Say a word for all other weeping mothers. Think of them, Martha, all over the world, rich and poor, Christian and heathen. How manymothers' hearts are breaking to-day. You are not alone, Martha. A greatcompany are waiting and weeping with you. Don't be afraid to ask forthem, too. There is no limit to God's love and power. "

"I'll pray for ivery one o' them, sir. "

"Do, Martha, and you'll get under a higher sky. It's a good thing topray for ourselves; it's a far grander thing to pray for others. Godbless you, sister, and give you an answer of peace. "

Very shortly after this conversation one of those singular changesin public opinion, which cannot be accounted for, began to manifestitself. After Clough's positive dying declaration, it was hardly tobe expected that his daughter Mary could show any kindness to her oldlover, Ben Craven. But week after week went by, and people saw thatshe positively refused to speak to Bill Laycock, and that she shrankeven from his passing shadow, and they began to look queerly at theman. It amounted at first to nothing more than that; but as a mistcreeps over the landscape, and gradually possesses it altogether, sothis chill, adverse atmosphere enfolded him. He noticed that oldacquaintances dropped away from him; men went three miles farther offto get a shoe put on a horse. No one could have given a clear reasonfor doing so, and one man did not ask another man "why?" but the factneeded no reasoning about. It was there. At the harvest festivals themen drew away from him, and the girls would not have him for a partnerin any rural game. He was asked to resign his place in the knur club, and if he joined any cricket eleven, the match fell to the ground. 

One September evening Elizabeth and Phyllis went to the village toleave a little basket of dainties in Martha's cottage. They now seldomsaw her, she was usually in the chapel; but they knew she was gratefulfor the food, and it had become all they could do for her in the hardstruggle she was having. The trees were growing bare; the flowers werefew and without scent; the birds did not sing any more, but were shy, and twittered and complained, while the swallows were restless, likethose going a long journey. Singing time was over, life burning down, it was natural to be silent and to sigh a little. 

They left the basket on Martha's table and went quietly up thestreet. In a few minutes they met the preacher, but he also seemedstrangely solemn, and very little inclined to talk. At the chapelgates there were five or six people standing. "We are going to havea prayer-meeting, " he said, "will you come in?"

"It will soon be dark, " answered Elizabeth, "we must reach home asquickly as possible. "

Just then Martha Craven came out of the chapel. A sorrow nobly borneconfers a kind of moral rank. Her neighbors, with respect and pity, stood aside silently. She appeared to be quite unconscious of them. At Phyllis and Elizabeth she looked with great sad eyes, and shookher head mournfully. To the preacher she said, "It's t' eleventh hour, sir, and no answer yet!"

"Go thy ways, Martha Craven. It will come! It is impossible thy prayersshould fail! As the Lord liveth no harm shall come to thee or tothine!"

The plain little man was transfigured. No ancient prophet at the heightof his vision ever spoke with more authority. Martha bowed her headand went her way without a word; and Elizabeth and Phyllis, full ofa solemn awe, stood gazing at the man whose rapt soul and clear, prophetic eyes looked into the unseen and received its assurance. Heseemed to have forgotten their presence, and walked with uplifted faceinto the chapel. 

Elizabeth was the first to speak. "What did he mean?"

"He has had some assurance from God. _He knows. "_

"Do you mean to say, Phyllis, that God speaks to men?"

"Most surely God speaks to those who will hear. Why should you doubtit? He changeth not. When God talked with Enoch, and Abraham spokewith God, no one was astonished. When Hagar wandered in the desert, and saw an angel descend from heaven with succor, she was notsurprised. In those days, Elizabeth, men whose feet were in the dustbreathed the air of eternity. They spoke to God, and he answered them. "

"Does Methodism believe that this intercourse is still possible?"

"Methodism knows it is possible. The doctrine of assurance is eithera direct divine interposition or it is a self-deception. It is outof the province of all human reason and philosophy. But it isimpossible that it can be self-deception. Millions of good men andwomen of every shade of mental and physical temperament have witnessedto its truth. "

"And you, Phyllis?"

"I know it. "

How wonderfully certain moods of nature seem to frame certain statesof mind. Elizabeth never forgot the still serenity of that Septemberevening; the rustling of the falling leaves under their feet, thegleaming of the blue and white asters through the misty haze gatheringover the fields and park. They had expected to meet the squire at thegates, but they were nearly at home ere they saw him. He was evidentlyin deep trouble; even Fanny divined it, and, with singular caninedelicacy, walked a little behind him, and forebore all her usualdemonstrations. 

Antony was sitting at the hall fire. His handsome person wasfaultlessly dressed, and, with a newspaper laid over his knee, he wasapparently lost in the contemplation of the singular effects made bythe firelight among the antlers and armor that adorned the wall. Heroused himself when the girls entered, and apologized for not havingcome to meet them; but there was an evident constraint and unhappinessin the home atmosphere. Even the "bit o' good eating, " which was thesquire's panacea, failed in his own case. Antony, indeed, sat andlaughed and chatted with an easy indifference, which finally appearedto be unbearable to his father, for he left the table before the mealwas finished. 

Then a shadow settled over the party. Elizabeth had a troubled look. She was sure there had been some very unusual difference between Antonyand his father. They soon separated for the night, Elizabeth goingwith Phyllis to her for room a final chat. There was a little firethere, and its blaze gave a pleasant air of cozy comfort to the room, and deepened all its pretty rose tints. This was to the girls theirtime of sweetest confidence. They might be together all the day, butthey grew closest of all at this good-night hour. 

They spoke of the squire's evident distress, but all Elizabeth'ssuppositions as to the cause fell distant from the truth. In fact, the squire had received one of those blows which none but a livinghand can deal, for there are worse things between the cradle and thegrave than death--the blow, too, had fallen without the slightestwarning. It was not the thing that he had feared which had happenedto him, but the thing which he had never dreamed of as possible. Hehad been walking up and down the terrace with Fanny, smoking his pipe, and admiring the great beds of many-colored asters, when he saw Antonycoming toward him. He waited for his son's approach, and met him witha smile. Antony did not notice his remark about the growing shortnessof the days, but plunged at once into the subject filling his wholeheart. 

"Father, George Eltham and I are thinking of going into businesstogether. "

"Whatever is ta saying? Business? What business?"

"Banking. "

"Now, then, be quiet, will ta? Such nonsense!"

"I am in dead earnest, father. I cannot waste my life any longer. "

"Who asks thee to waste thy life? Hev I iver grudged thee any thingto make it happy? Thou hes hed t' best o' educations. If ta wants totravel, there's letters o' credit waiting for thee. If ta wants work, I've told thee there's acres and acres o' wheat on the Hallam marshes, if they were only drained. I'll find ta money, if ta wants work. "

"Father, I could not put gold in a marsh, and then sit down and waitfor the wheat to grow; and all the wheat on Hallam, unless it boregolden ears, would not satisfy me. George and I are going into SirThomas Harrington's for a few months. Lord Eltham has spoken to him. Then George is to marry Selina Digby. She has fifty thousand pounds;and we are going to begin business. "

"Wi' fifty thousand pounds o' Miss Digby's money! It's t' meanestscheme I iver heard tell on! I'm fair shamed o' thee!"

"I must put into the firm fifty thousand pounds also; and I want tospeak to you about it. "

"For sure! How does ta think to get it out o' me now?"

"I could get Jews to advance it on my inheritance, but I would donothing so mean and foolish as that. I thought it would be better tobreak the entail. You give me fifty thousand pounds as my share ofHallam, and you can have the reversion and leave the estate to whomyou wish. "

The squire fairly staggered. Break the entail! Sell Hallam! The youngman was either mad, or he was the most wicked of sons. 

"Does ta know what thou is talking about! Hallam has been ours fora thousand years. O Antony! Antony!"

"We have had it so long, father, that we have grown to it likevegetables. "

"Has ta no love for t' old place? Look at it. Is there a bonnier spotin t' wide world? Why-a! There's an old saying, "'When a' t' world is up aloft, God's share will be fair Hallam-Croft. '

"Look at ta dear old home, and t' sweet old gardens, and t' great parkfull o' oaks that hev sheltered Saxons, Danes, Normans--ivery racethat has gone to make up t' Englishman o' to-day. "

"There are plenty of fairer spots than Hallam. I will build a housefar larger and more splendid than this. There shall be a Lord Hallam, an Earl Hallam, perhaps. Gold will buy any thing that is in themarket. "

"Get thee out o' my sight! And I'll tell Lord Eltham varry plainlywhat I think o' his meddling in my affairs. In order to set up hisyoungest son I must give up t' bond on t' home that was my fatherswhen his fathers were driving swine, the born thralls of the Kerdicsof Kerdic Forest. Thou art no Hallam. No son o' mine. Get out o' mysight wi' thee!"

Antony went without anger and without hurry. He had expected even aworse scene. He sat down by the hall fire to think, and he was by nomeans hopeless as to his demand. But the squire had received a shockfrom which he never recovered himself. It was as if some evil thinghad taken all the sweetest and dearest props of love, and struck himacross the heart with them. He had a real well-defined heart-ache, for the mental shock had had bodily sympathies which would haveprostrated a man of less finely balanced _physique_. 

All night long he sat in his chair, or walked up and down his room. The anger which comes from wronged love and slighted advantages andfalse friendship alternately possessed him. The rooms he occupied inthe east wing had been for generations the private rooms of the mastersof Hallam, and its walls were covered with their pictures--fair, largemen, who had for the most part lived simple, kindly lives, doing theirduty faithfully in the station to which it had pleased God to callthem. He found some comfort in their pictured presence. He stood longbefore his father, and tried to understand what he would have donein his position. Toward daylight he fell into a chill, uneasy sleep, and dreamed wearily and sadly of the old home. It was only a dream, but dreams are the hieroglyphics of the other world if we had the keyto them; and at any rate the influences they leave behind are realenough. "Poor Martha!" was the squire's first thought on rousinghimself. "I know now what t' heart-ache she spoke of is like. I'mfeared I heven't been as sorry as I might hev been for her. "

Yet that very night, while the squire was suffering from the firstshock of wounded, indignant amazement, God had taken Martha's casein his own hand. The turn in Ben's trouble began just when thepreacher spoke to Martha. At that hour Bill Laycock entered the villageale-house and called for a pot of porter. Three men, whom he knew well, were sitting at a table, drinking and talking. To one of them Billsaid, "It's a fine night, " and after a sulky pause the man answered, "It ails nowt. " Then he looked at his mates, put down his pot, andwalked out. In a few minutes the others followed. 

Laycock went back to his house and sat down to think. There was nouse fighting popular ill-will any longer. Mary would not walk on thesame side of the street with him. It was the evident intention of thewhole village to drive him away. He remembered that Swale had toldhim there was "a feeling against him, " and advised him to leave. ButSwale had offered to buy his house and forge for half their value, and he imagined there was a selfish motive in the advice. "And it'sSwale's doing, I know, " he muttered; "he's been a-fighting for it iversince. Well, I'll tak t' L300 he offers, wi' t' L80 I hev in t' house, I can make shift to reach t' other side o' t' world, and one side ishappen as good as t' other side. I'll go and see Swale this varryhour. "

He was arrested by a peculiar sound in the cellar beneath his feet, a sound that made him turn pale to the very lips. In a few momentsthe door opened, and Tim Bingley stepped into the room. 

"Thou scoundrel! What does ta want here?"

"Thou get me summat to eat and drink, and then I'll tell thee whatI want. "

His tone was not to be disputed. He was a desperate man, and Laycockobeyed him. 

"Thou told me thou would go abroad. "

"I meant to go abroad, but I didn't. I got drunk and lost my brass. Thou'll hev to give me some more. I'll go clean off this time. "

"I've got none to give thee. "

"Varry well, then I'll hev to be took up; and if I'm sent to YorkCastle, thou'lt hev lodgings varry close to me. Mak' up thy mind tothat, Bill Laycock. "

"I didn't kill Clough, and thou can't say I did. "

Bingley did not answer. He sat munching his bread and casting evilglances every now and then at his wretched entertainer. 

"What does ta want?"

"Thou hed better give me a fresh suit o' clothes; these are fair wornout--and L20. I'll be i' Hull early to-morrow, and I'll tak' t' varryfirst ship I can get. "

"How do I know thou will?"

"Thou'lt hev to trust my word--it's about as good as thine, I reckon. "

O but the way of the transgressor is hard! There was nothing else tobe done. Hatefully, scornfully, he tossed him a suit of his ownclothes, and gave him L20 of his savings. Then he opened the door andlooked carefully all around. It was near midnight, and all was so stillthat a bird moving in the branches could have been heard. But Laycockwas singularly uneasy. He put on his hat and walked one hundred yardsor more each way. 

"Don't be a fool, " said Bingley, angrily; "when did ta iver know anybody about at this time o' night, save and it might be at Hallam orCrossley feasts?"

"But where was ta a' day, Bingley? Is ta sure nobody saw thee? Andwhen did ta come into my cellar?"

"I'll tell thee, if ta is bad off to know. I got into Hallam at threeo'clock this morning, and I hid mysen in Clough's shut-up mill a' day. Thou knows nobody cares to go nigh it, since--"

"Thou shot him. "

"Shut up! Thou'd better let that subject drop. I knew I were safethere. When it was dark and quiet, I came to thee. Now, if ta'll letme pass thee, I'll tak' Hull road. "

"Thou is sure nobody has seen thee?"

"Ay, I'm sure o' that. Let be now. I hevn't any time to waste. "

Laycock watched him up the Hull road till he slipped away like a shadowinto shade. Then he sat down to wait for morning. He would not stayin Hallam another day. He blamed himself for staying so long. He wouldtake any offer Swale made him in the morning. There would be neitherpeace nor safety for him, if Tim Bingley took it into his will toreturn to Hallam whenever he wanted money. 

At daylight Dolly Ives, an old woman who cleaned his house and cookedhis meals, came. She had left the evening before at six o'clock, andif any thing was known of Bingley's visit to Hallam, she would likelyhave heard of it. She wasn't a pleasant old woman, and she had nota very good reputation, but her husband had worked with Laycock'sfather, and he had been kind to her on several occasions when she hadbeen in trouble. So she had "stuck up for Bill Laycock, " and herpartisanship had become warmer from opposition. 

It was at best a rude kind of liking, for she never failed to tellany unkind thing she heard about him. She had, however, nothing freshto say, and Bill felt relieved. He ate his breakfast and went to hisforge until ten o'clock. Then he called at Swale's. He fancied thelawyer was "a bit offish, " but he promised him the money that night, and with this promise Bill had to be content. Business had long beenslack; his forge was cold when he got back, and he had no heart torekindle it. Frightened and miserable, he was standing in the doortying on his leather apron, when he saw Dolly coming as fast as shecould toward him. 

He did not wait, but went to meet her. "Whativer is ta coming herefor?"

"Thou knows. Get away as fast as ta can. There hev been men searchingt' house, and they hev takken away t' varry suit Bingley wore at BenCraven's trial. Now, will ta go? Here's a shilling, it's a' I hev. "

Terrified and hurried, he did the worst possible thing for his owncase--he fled, as Dolly advised, and was almost immediately followedand taken prisoner. In fact, he had been under surveillance, evenbefore Bingley left his house at midnight. Suspicion had been arousedby a very simple incident. Mary Clough had noticed that a stone jar, which had stood in one of the windows of the mill ever since it hadbeen closed, was removed. In that listless way which apparently trivialthings have of arresting the attention, this jar had attracted Maryuntil it had become a part of the closed mill to her. It was in itsusual place when she looked out in the morning; at noon it haddisappeared. 

Some one, then, was in the mill. A strong conviction took possessionof her. She watched as the sparrow-hawk watches its prey. Just at duskshe saw Bingley leave the mill and steal away among the alders thatlined the stream. She suspected where he was going, and, by a shorterroute, reached a field opposite Laycock's house, and, from behind thehedge, saw Bingley push aside the cellar window and crawl in. He hadtried the door first, but it was just at this hour Laycock was in theale-house. The rector was a magistrate; and she went to him with hertale, and he saw at once the importance of her information. He postedthe men who watched Laycock's house; they saw Bingley leave it, andwhen he was about a mile from Hallam they arrested him, and took himto Leeds. Laycock's arrest had followed as early as a warrant couldbe obtained. He sent at once for Mr. North, and frankly confessed tohim his share in the tragedy. 

"It was a moment's temptation, sir, " he said, with bitter sorrow, "andI hev been as miserable as any devil out o' hell could be iver since. T' night as Clough were shot, I had passed his house, and seen MaryClough at t' garden gate, and she hed been varry scornful, and toldme she'd marry Ben Craven, or stay unmarried; and I were feeling badabout it. I thought I'd walk across t' moor and meet Clough, and tellhim what Mary said, and as I went along I heard a shot, and saw a manrunning. As he came near I knew it was Bingley i' Ben Craven's workingclothes. He looked i' my face, and said, 'Clough thinks Ben Cravenfired t' shot. If ta helps me away, thou'lt get Mary. Can I go to thycottage?' And I said, 'There's a cellar underneath. ' That was all. He had stole Ben's overworker's brat and cap from t' room while Benwas drinking his tea, and Ben nivver missed it till Jerry Oddy askedwhere it was. At night I let him burn them i' my forge. I hev wantedto tell t' truth often; and I were sick as could be wi' swearing awayBen's life; indeed I were!"

Before noon the village was in an uproar of excitement. Laycockfollowed Bingley to Leeds, and both were committed for trial to YorkCastle. Both also received the reward of their evil deed: Bingleyforfeited his life, and Laycock went to Norfolk Island to serve outa life sentence. 

The day of Ben's release was a great holiday. Troubled as the squirewas, he flung open the large barn at Hallam, and set a feast for thewhole village. After it there was a meeting at the chapel, and Bentold how God had strengthened and comforted him, and made his prisoncell a very gate of heaven. And Martha, who had so little to say toany human being for weeks, spoke wondrously. Her heart was burningwith love and gratitude; the happy tears streamed down her face; shestood with clasped hands, telling how God had dealt with her, andtrying in vain to express her love and praise until she broke intoa happy song, and friends and neighbors lifted it with her, and therafters rang to

 "Hallelujah to the Lamb, Who has purchased our pardon! We will praise him again When we pass over Jordan. "

If we talk of heaven on earth, surely they talk of earth in heaven;and if the angels are glad when a sinner repents, they must also feeljoy in the joy and justification of the righteous. And though Marthaand Ben's friends and neighbors were rough and illiterate, they sangthe songs of Zion, and spoke the language of the redeemed, and theygathered round the happy son and mother with the unselfish sympathyof the sons and daughters of God. Truly, as the rector said, whenspeaking of the meeting, "There is something very humanizing inMethodism. "

"And something varry civilizing, too, parson, " answered the squire;"if they hedn't been in t' Methodist chapel, singing and praising God, they 'ud hev been in t' ale-house, drinking and dancing, and varrylike quarreling. There's no need to send t' constable to a Methodistrejoicing. I reckon Mary Clough'll hev to marry Ben Craven in t' longrun, now. "

"I think so. Ben is to open the mill again, and to have charge of itfor Mary. It seems a likely match. "

"Yes. I'm varry glad. Things looked black for Ben at one time. "

"Only we don't know what is bad and what good. "

"It's a great pity we don't. It 'ud be a varry comfortable thing whenaffairs seemed a' wrong if some angel would give us a call, and tellus we were a bit mistaken. There's no sense i' letting folks beunhappy, when they might be taking life wi' a bit o' comfort. "

"But, then, our faith would not be exercised. "

"I don't much mind about that. I'd far rather hev things settled. Idon't like being worritted and unsettled i' my mind. "

The squire spoke with a touching irritability, and every one lookedsadly at him. The day after Antony's frank statement of his plans, the squire rode early into Bradford and went straight to the houseof old Simon Whaley. For three generations the Whaleys had been thelegal advisers of the Hallams, and Simon had touched the lives ormemory of all three. He was a very old man, with a thin, cute face, and many wrinkles on his brow; and though he seldom left his house, age had not dimmed his intellect, or dulled his good-will toward thefamily with whom he had been so frequently associated. 

"Why-a! Hallam! Come in, squire; come in, and welcome. Sit thee down, old friend. I'm fain and glad to see thee. What cheer? And whativerbrings thee to Bradford so early?"

"I'm in real trouble, Whaley. "

"About some wedding, I'll be bound. "

"No; neither love nor women folk hev owt to do wi' it. Antony Hallamwants me to break t' entail and give him L50, 000. "

"Save us a'! Is t' lad gone by his senses?"

Then the squire repeated, as nearly as possible, all that Antony hadsaid to him; after which both men sat quite still; the lawyer thinking, the squire watching the lawyer. 

"I'll tell thee what, Hallam, thou hed better give him what he asks. If thou doesn't, he'll get Hallam into bad hands. He has thought o'them, or he would nivver hev spoke o' them; and he'll go to them, rather than not hev his own way. Even if he didn't, just as soon as hewas squire, he'd manage it. The Norfolk Hallams, who are next to him, are a poor shiftless crowd, that he'd buy for a song. Now dost thouwant to keep Hallam i' thy own flesh and blood? If ta does, I'll tellthee what to do. "

"That is the dearest, strongest wish I hev; and thou knows it, Whaley. "

"Then go thy ways home and tell Antony Hallam he can hev L50, 000, ifhe gives up to thee every possible claim on Hallam, and every possibleassistance in putting it free in thy hands to sell, or to leave asthou wishes. "

"He'll do that fast enough. "

"Then thou choose a proper husband for thy daughter and settle it uponher. Her husband must take the name o' Hallam; and thy grandchildrenby Elizabeth will be as near to thee as they would be by Antony. "

"Elizabeth has chosen her husband. He is a son of my aunt, MarthaHallam; the daughter of Sibbald Hallam. "

"What does ta want better? That's famous!"

"But he's an American. "

"Then we must mak' an Englishman o' him. T' Hallams must be kept up. What's his name?"

"Fontaine. "

"It's a varry Frenchified name. I should think he'd be glad to getrid o' it. Where is he now? At Hallam?"

"He is in t' Holy Land somewhere. "

"Is he a parson?"

"No, he's a planter; and a bit o' a lawyer, too. "

"Whativer does he want in t' Holy Land, then?"

"He's wi' a Bishop. "

"Ay? Then he's pious?"

"For sure; he's a Methodist. "

"That's not bad. Squire Gregory was a Methodist. He saved more 'ana bit o' money, and he bought all o' t' low meadows, and built mainpart o' t' stables, and laid out best half o' t' gardens. There nivverwas a better or thriftier holder o' Hallam. Ay, ay, there's a kindo' fellowship between Methodism and money. This Mr. Fontaine will douncommon well for Hallam, squire, I should think. "

"If I got Antony to come to thee, Whaley, could ta do owt wi' him, thinks ta?"

"I wouldn't try it, squire. It would be breath thrown away. Soon orlater thy son Antony will take his own way, no matter where it leadshim. Thou hes t' reins i' thy hand now, tak' my advice, and settlethis thing while thou hes. It's a deep wound, but it's a clean woundyet; cut off t' limb afore it begins to fester and poison t' wholebody. And don't thee quarrel wi' him. He's a man now, and there hesto be a' mak's o' men to do t' world's work. Let Antony be; he'll mebbebe a credit to thee yet. "

"I don't believe, Whaley, thou understands what a sorrow this is tome. "

"Don't I? I've got a heart yet, Hallam, though thou'd happen thinkI've varry little use for it at eighty-nine years old; but I'll tellthee what, instead o' looking at t' troubles thou hes, just tak' alook at them thou hesn't. I nivver gave thee a bit o' advice betterworth seven-and-sixpence than that is. "

"What does ta mean?"

"I'll tell thee. Thou's fretting because Antony wants to go intobusiness, and to get hold o' as much gold and honor as iver he canput his hands on. Now suppose he wanted to spend a' t' money he couldget hold of, and to drag thy old name through t' mire o' jockey fieldsand gambling houses, and t' filth that lies at t' month o' hell. Wouldn't that be worse?"

"Ay, it would. "

"And they who hanker after an earldom'll be varry like to pick up somegood things on t' road to it. When ta can't mak' t' wind suit thee, turn round and sail wi' t' wind. "

"Thou sees, Whaley, I hev saved a good bit o' money, and I gave Antonyt' best education Oxford could hand over for it; and I reckoned onhim getting into Parliament, and makkin' a bit o' a stir there, andbuilding up t' old name wi' a deal o' honor. "

"Varry good; but _strike t' nail that'll go!_ What is t' use o'hitting them that will only bend and break i' thy hand, and get mebbet' weight o' t' blow on thy own finger-ends. Go thee home and talkreasonably to thy son. He's gotten a will o' his own--that's a waywi' t' Hallams--and he'll tak' it. Mak' up thy mind to that. "

"But children ought to obey their fathers. "

"Ought hesn't been t' fashion since iver I remember; and t' youngpeople o' these days hev crossed out Fifth Commandment--happen that'st' reason there is so few men blessed wi' the green old age that Iasked for wi' the keeping o' it. "

The squire pondered this advice all day, keeping apart from his family, and really suffering very keenly. But toward evening he sent for hisson. As Antony entered his room he looked at him with a more consciousand critical regard than he had ever done before. He was forced toadmit that he was different from his ancestors, though inheriting theirphysical peculiarities. They were mostly splendid animals, with facesradiant with courage and high spirits and high health. Antony's facewas clearer and more refined, more complex, more suggestive. His form, equally tall, was slighter, not hampered with superfluous flesh, notso aggressively erect. One felt that the older Hallams would havewalked straight up to the object of their ambition and demanded it, or, if necessary, fought for it. One was equally sure that Antony had theability to stoop, to bow, to slide past obstacles, to attain his objectby the pleasantest road possible. 

He met his father with marked respect and a conciliating manner;standing, with one hand leaning on the central table, until told tosit down. 

"Thou can hev what ta wants on thy own terms, son Antony. "

"Thank you, sir. "

"Nay, I want no thanks. I hev only made t' best o' a bad job. "

"I hope you may live to see that it is not a bad job, sir. I intendno dishonor to our name. I am as proud of it as you are. I only desireto make it a power and an influence, and to give it the honor itdeserves. "

"Ay, ay; thou's going to light thy torch at t' sun, no doubt. I hevheard young men talk afore thee. There is Squire Cawthorpe--he wasat college wi' me--what a grand poem he was going to write! He's mastero' Bagley fox hounds now, and he nivver wrote a line as I heard tello'. There's Parson Leveret! He was going to hand in t' millennium, and now he cares for nowt i' t' world but his tithes and a bottle o'good port. Howiver, there's no use talking. Whaley will manage t'business, and when thou art needed he'll go up to London to see thee. As long as thou art young Squire Hallam I shall continue thy allowance;when thou hest signed away thy birthright thou wilt hev L50, 000, andnivver another penny-piece from Hallam. "

"That is just and right. "

"And sooner thou leaves Hallam, and better it will be for both o' us, I'm sure. It hurts me to my heart to see thee; that it does, "--andhe got up suddenly, and walked to the window to hide the tears thatforced themselves into his eyes. 

"Shake hands with me, father. "

"Nay, I'd rather not. "

He had his hands under his coat, behind his back, and he kept themthere, staring the while resolutely into the garden, though his largeblue eyes were too full to see any thing clearly. Antony watched hima moment, and then approached him. 

"Forget, sir, what I am going to do. Before I leave Hallam give meyour hand, father, as you would give it to your son Antony. "

The squire was not able to resist this appeal. He sunk into his chairand covered his face, saying mournfully: "O, Antony! Antony! Thou hesbroken my heart. "

But when Antony knelt down by his side, and kissed the hand that layso pathetically suggestive upon the broad knee, he made no movementof dissent. In another minute the door closed softly, and he wasalone--as really a bereaved father as if he stood at an open grave. 

Antony's adieu to Phyllis was easily made, but his parting with hissister hurt him in his deepest affections. Whatever of unselfish lovehe felt belonged to Elizabeth, and she returned to her brother thevery strongest care and tenderness of her nature. They had a longconference, from which Antony came away pale and sick with emotion, leaving his sister sobbing on her couch. It is always a painful thingto witness grief from which we are shut out, and Phyllis was unhappywithout being able to weep with her uncle and cousins. But it is oneblessing of a refined household that sorrow must be put aside for theduties and courtesies of life. The dinner table was set, and the squirewashed his face, and put on his evening suit, his long white vest andlace kerchief, and, without being conscious of it, was relieved bythe change. And Elizabeth had to rouse herself and take thought forher household duties, and dress even more carefully than usual, inorder to make her white cheeks and sorrowful eyes less noticeable. And the courtesies of eating together made a current in the tide ofunhappy thought; so that before the meal was over there had been somesmiles; and hope, the apprehender of joy, the sister of faith, hadwhispered to both father and sister, "Keep a good heart! Things maybe better than they appear to be. "

As the squire rose from the table, he said: "Now, Elizabeth, I hevsomething varry particular to say to thee. Phyllis will bide by herselfan hour, and then we'll hev no more secrets, and we'll try to be ashappy as things will let us be. "

Elizabeth was in some measure prepared for what her father had to say;but she was placed in a very unhappy position. She did what was kindestand wisest under the circumstances, accepted without remonstrance thepart assigned her. The young are usually romantic, and their firstimpulses are generously impracticable ones. Elizabeth was not wiserthan her years by nature, but she was wiser by her will. For the firstfew minutes it had seemed to her the most honorable and womanly thingto refuse to stand in her brother's place. But her good heart and goodsense soon told her that it would be the kindest course to submit. Yet she was quite aware that her succession would be regarded by thetenants and neighbors with extreme dislike. They would look uponRichard and herself as supplanters; Richard's foreign birth would bea constant offense; her clear mind took in all the consequences, andshe felt hurt at Antony for forcing them upon her. 

She sat pale and silent, listening to all the squire said, and vainlytrying to find some honorable and kind way out of the position. 

"Thou must know what thou art doing, Elizabeth, " he said, "and musttake the charge wi' thy eyes open to a' it asks of thee. "

Then he showed her the books of the estate, made her understand thevalue of every field and meadow, of every house and farm and youngplantation of wood. "It's a grand property, and Antony was a born foolto part wi' such a bird in t' hand for any number o' finer ones int' bush. Does ta understand its value?"

"I am sure I do. "

"And thou is proud o' being the daughter o' such land?"

"I love every rood of it. "

"Then listen to me. Thy mother gave thee L5, 000. It was put out atinterest on thy first birthday, and I hev added a L100 now and then, as I could see my way clear to do so. Thou hes now L22, 000 o' thyown--a varry tidy fortune. If ta takes Hallam thou must pay down a'of this to Antony. I'll hev to find t' other L28, 000 by a mortgage. Then I shall sell all t' young timber that's wise to sell, and some o'Hallam marsh, to pay off t' mortgage. That will take time to do wisely, and it will be work enough for me for t' balance or my life. But I'llleave thee Hallam clear if God spare me five years longer, and thenthere'll be few women i' England thou need envy. "

"Whatever I have is yours, father. Do as you think best. I will tryto learn all about the estate, and I promise you most faithfully tohold it in a good stewardship for those who shall come after me. "

"Give me a kiss, my lass, on that promise. I don't say as a lass caniver be to Hallam what Antony should hev been; but thou'rt bound todo thy best. "

"And, father, Antony is very clever. Who can tell what he may do? Ifa man wants to go up, the door is open to wit and skill and industry. Antony has all these. "

"Fair words! Fair words, Elizabeth! But we wont sell t' wheat tillwe have reaped t' field; and Antony's wheat isn't sown yet. He's gottenmore projects in his mind than there's places on t' map. I don't likesuch ways!"

"If Antony is any thing, father, he is clear-sighted for his owninterest. He knows the road he is going to take, you may be very sure. "

"Nay, then, I'm not sure. I'll always suspect that a dark road is abad road until I'm safe off it. "

"We may as well hope for the best. Antony appeared to understand whathe was doing. "

"Antony has got t' gold sickness varry bad, and they'd be fools indeedwho'd consult a man wi' a fever on his own case. But we're nobbuttalking for talking's sake. Let us go to Phyllis. She'll hev been more'an a bit lonely, I'm feared. "

A servant with candles opened the parlor door for them. The rectorwas sitting in the fire-light, and Phyllis softly playing and singingat the piano. She looked up with a smile in her eyes, and finishedher hymn. The four lines seemed like a voice from heaven to the anxiousfather and sister:

 "Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust him for his grace; Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face. "

"Sing them words again, Phyllis, dearie, " said the squire, and as shedid so he let them sink into his heart and fill all its restlesschambers with confidence and peace. 

CHAPTER IV. 

 "Stir the deep wells of life that flow within you, Touched by God's genial hand; And let the chastened sure ambition win you To serve his high command. 

 "And mighty love embracing all things human In one all-fathering name, Stamping God's seal on trivial things and common, With consecrated aim. "

As the weeks went on the squire's confidence insensibly grew. He metLord Eltham one day when he was out riding, and they did not quarrel. On the contrary, Eltham was so conciliating, so patient, and soconfidently hopeful, that it was almost impossible for Hallam not tobe in some measure influenced by him. 

"I'm quite sure t' young fellows will succeed, " he said, "and ifthere's more 'an one son i' a family thou may take my word for it it'sa varry comfortable thing to hev more 'an one living for 'em. "

"And if they spoil t' horn instead o' making t' spoon, what then, Eltham?"

"They'll hev hed t' experience, and they'll be more ready to settledown to what is made for 'em, and to be content wi' it. "

"That's varry fine i' thy case, for t' experience'll cost theenothing. Thou is giving thy younger son a chance out o' t' Digby'sand Hallam's money. "

Eltham only laughed. "Ivery experiment comes out o' somebody's pocket, Hallam--it'll be my turn next happen. Will ta come t' hunt dinner atEltham on Thursday?"

"Nay, I wont. I'll not bite nor sup at thy table again till we seewhat we shall see. If I want to say what I think about thee, I'm nonegoing to tie my tongue aforehand. "

"We'll be fast friends yet. See, if we bean't! Good-bye to thee, Hallam. Thou'lt be going through t' park, I expect?"

"Ay; I'll like enough find company there. "

It was about three o'clock, gray and chill. There had been a good dealof snow, and, except where it was brushed away from the foot-path, it lay white and unbroken, the black trunks of the trees among itlooking like pillars of ebony in the ivory-paved courts of a temple. Up in the sky winter was passing with all his somber train, the cloudsflying rapidly in great grotesque masses, and seeming to touch the topsof the trees like a gloomy, floating veil. 

Phyllis and Elizabeth, wrapped in woolens and furs, walked cheerilyon, Phyllis leaning upon the arm of Elizabeth. They were very happy, and their low laughter and snatches of Christmas carols made a distinctsound in the silent park, for the birds were all quiet and preoccupied, and flitted about the hawthorns with anxious little ways that werealmost human in their care and melancholy. The girls had some crumbsof bread and ears of wheat in a basket, and they scattered them hereand there in sheltered nooks. 

"I'm so glad you remembered it, Phyllis. I shall never forgive myselffor not having thought of it before. "

"It is only bare justice to our winged sisters. God made the berriesfor their winter store, and we have taken them to adorn our housesand churches. Unless we provide a good substitute there is an odorof cruel sacrifice about our festal decorations. And if the poor littlerobins and wrens die of hunger, do you think He, who sees them fall, will hold us innocent?"

"Look how with bright black eyes they watch us scattering the food!I hope it will not snow until all of them have had a good supper. "

Elizabeth was unusually gay. She had had a delightful letter fromRichard, and he was to return to Hallam about the New-Year. There hadalso been one from Antony, beginning "Honored Sir, " and ending withthe "affectionate duty" of Antony Hallam; and, though the squire hadhanded it over to Elizabeth without a word, she understood well thebrighter light in his face and the cheerful ring in his voice. 

They went into Martha's laughing, and found her standing upon a tablehanging up Christmas boughs. The little tea-pot was in a bower of hollyleaves, and held a posy of the scarlet hawthorn berries mixed withthe white, waxy ones of the mistletoe. 

"You wont forget the birds, Martha? You have been stealing from theirlarder, I see. "

"I'm none o' that sort, Miss Phyllis. Look 'ee there;" and she pointedto the broad lintel of her window, which had been scattered over withcrumbs; where, busily picking them up, were two robin redbreasts, whochirruped thankfully, and watched Martha with bright curious eyes. 

"Mary Clough's coming to dinner to-morrow, and her and Ben are goingto t' chapel together. Ben's getten himsen a new suit o' broadcloth, and my word! they'll be a handsome couple!"

"You'll have a happy Christmas, Martha. "

"Nobody in a' England hes more reason to keep a joyful Christmas, MissHallam. "

"No two Christmases are exactly alike; are they, Martha? Last yearyour daughter was with you. Now she is married and gone far away. LastChristmas my brother was at home. He is not coming this year. "

"I found that out long ago, Miss Hallam. First we missed father, thenmother; then it was a brother or a sister, or a child more or less;then my husband went, and last year, Sarah Ann. "

"Will you and Ben come to the hall to-night?"

"Why--mebbe we will. "

"Ben has quite got over his trouble?"

"Ah, Mary helped him a deal. "

"Mary will get a good husband. "

"She will that. Ben Craven is good at home. You may measure a man byhis home conduct, it's t' right place to draw t' line, you may dependupon it. Tak' a bit o' Christmas loaf, and go your ways back now, dearies, for we'll be heving a storm varry soon. "

They went merrily out, and about fifty yards away met Mr. North. Healso looked very happy, and his lips were moving, as if he was silentlysinging. In fact, he was very happy; he had been giving gifts to thepoor, and the blessing of many "ready to perish" was upon him. Hethanked Phyllis and Elizabeth for the Christmas offerings sent to hischapel; and told them of a special service that was to be held on thefirst Sunday of the new year. "I should like you to be there, MissFontaine, " he said, "for I think this peculiar service of Methodismis not held in America. "

His happiness had conquered his timidity. He looked almost handsome, as he gave them at parting "God's blessing, " and the wish for a "MerryChristmas. "

"I wish you would ask him to dinner, Elizabeth?"

"Certainly, I will. I should like to do it. "

They hurried after him, and overtook him, with his hand upon a cottagegate. 

"Will you come and dine with us, Mr. North? It is a gala night at thehall, and many of your people will be there. They will like to seeyou, and you will add to our pleasure also. "

"Thank you, Miss Hallam. It will be very pleasant to me. My duty willbe finished in half an hour, then I will follow you. "

His face was as happy and as candid as a child's, as he lifted hishat, and entered the cottage garden. Elizabeth involuntarily watchedhim. "He seems to tread upon air. I don't believe he remembers he isstill in the body. He looks like a gentleman to-day. "

"He is always a gentleman, Elizabeth. I am told he has about L70 ayear. Who but a gentleman could live upon that and look as he does?Ben Craven has double it, but who would call Ben a gentleman?"

"There is a singular thing about the appearance of Methodist preachers, Phyllis; they all look alike. If you see a dozen of them together, the monotony is tiresome. The best of them are only larger specimensof the same type--are related to the others as a crown piece is relatedto a shilling. You know a Methodist minister as soon as you see him. "

"That is just as it ought to be. They are the Methodist coin, and theybear its image and its superscription. The disciples had evidentlythe same kind of 'monotony. ' People who were not Nazarenes 'tookknowledge of them, that they had been with Jesus. ' But if this is afault, surely the English clergy have it in a remarkable degree. I knowan Episcopal clergyman just as soon and just as far as I can see him. "

"Their cloth--"

"O, it is not only their 'cloth. ' That long surtout, and nicelyadjusted white tie, and general smoothness and trimness, is all verydistinctive and proper; but I refer quite as much to that peculiarself-containedness of aspect and that air of propriety and polish whichsurrounds them like an atmosphere. "

"Now we are quits, Phyllis, and I think we had better walk faster. See what large flakes of snow are beginning to fall!"

The squire had reached home first, and was standing at the door tomeet them, his large rosy face all smiles. There was a roaring, leapingfire in the hall, and its trophies of chase and war were wreathed andcrowned with fir and box and holly. Branches of mistletoe hung abovethe doors and the hearth-stone; and all the rooms were equally bright. The servants tripped about in their best clothes, the men with bitsof hawthorn berries and box on their breast, the women with sprigsof mistletoe. There was the happiest sense of good humor and good-will, the far-away echo of laughter, the tinkling of glass and china andsilver, the faint delicious aroma, through opening doors, of plentifulgood cheer. 

"Whativer kept you so long, dearies? Run away and don yourselves, andmake yourselves gay and fine. Christmas comes but once a year. Anddon't keep dinner waiting; mind that now! T' rector's here, and ifthere's any thing that puts him about, it's waiting for his dinner. "

"We asked Mr. North, father; he will be here soon. "

"I'm uncommon glad you asked him. Go your ways and get your best frockson. I'll go to t' door to meet him. "

In about an hour the girls came down together, Phyllis in a pale graysatin, with delicate edgings of fine lace. It fitted her small formto perfection, close to the throat, close to the wrists, and it hadabout it a slight but charming touch of puritanism. There was a whitejaponica in her hair, and a flame-colored one at her throat, and thesewere her only ornaments. Elizabeth wore a plain robe of dark bluevelvet, cut, as was the fashion in those days, to show the statelythroat and shoulders. Splendid bracelets were on her arms, and onerow of large white pearls encircled her throat. She looked like aqueen, and Phyllis wished Richard could have seen her. 

"She'll be a varry proper mistress o' Hallam-Croft, " thought thesquire, with a passing sigh. But--his eyes dwelt with delight uponPhyllis. "Eh!" he said, "but thou art a bonny lass! T' flowers thatbloom for thee to wear are t' happiest flowers that blow, I'llwarrant thee. "

After dinner the squire and his daughter went to the servants' hallto drink "loving cup" at their table, and to give their Christmasgifts. The rector, in the big chair he loved, sat smoking his longpipe. Mr. North, with a face full of the sweetest serenity andpleasure, sat opposite, his thin white hands touching each other at alltheir finger tips, and his clear eyes sometimes resting on the blazingfire, and sometimes drifting away to the face of Phyllis, or to that ofthe rector. 

"You have been making people happy all day, Mr. North?"

"Yes; it has been a good day to me. I had twelve pounds to give away. They made twelve homes very happy. I don't often have such a pleasure. "

"I have noticed, Mr. North, " said the rector, "that you do very littlepastoral visiting. "

"That is not my duty. "

"I think it a very important part of my duty. "

"You are right. It is. You are a pastor. "

"And you?"

"I am a preacher. My duty is to preach Christ and him crucified. Tosave souls. There are others whose work it is to serve tables, andcomfort and advise in trouble and perplexity. "

"But you must lose all the personal and social influence of a pastor. "

"If I had desired personal and social influence, I should hardly havechosen the office of a Methodist preacher. 'Out of breath pursuingsouls, ' was said of John Wesley and his pretorian band of helpers. I follow, as best I can, in their footsteps. But though I have no timefor visiting, it is not neglected. "

"Yes?" said the rector, inquiringly. 

"Our class-leaders do that. John Dawson and Jacob Hargraves and HannahSarum are the class-leaders in Hallam and West Croft. You know them?"

"Yes. "

"They are well read in the Scriptures. They have sorrowed and suffered. They understand the people. They have their local prejudices andfeelings. They have been in the same straits. They speak the sametongue. It is their duty to give counsel and comfort, and materialhelp if it is needed; to watch over young converts; to seek those thatare backsliding; to use their influence in every way for such of theflock as are under their charge. John Dawson has twenty-two men andJacob Hargraves nineteen men under their care. Hannah Sarum has a verylarge class. No one pastor could do as regards meat and money matterswhat these three can do. Besides, the wealthy, the educated, and theprosperous cannot so perfectly enter into the joys and sorrows of thepoor. If a woman has a drunken husband, or a disobedient child, shewill more readily go to Hannah for comfort and advice than to me; andwhen James Baker was out of work, it was John Dawson who loaned himfive pounds, and who finally got him a job in Bowling's mill. I couldhave done neither of these things for him, however willing I mighthave been. "

"I have never understood the office, then. It is a wonderfularrangement for mutual help. "

"It gives to all our societies a family feeling. We are what we callourselves--brothers and sisters;" and, with a smile, he stretched outhis hand to take the one which Phyllis, by some sympatheticunderstanding, offered him. 

"There was something like it in the apostolic Church?"

"Yes; our class-leader is the apostolic diaconate. The apostles werepreachers, evangelists, hasting here and there to save souls. Thedeacons were the pastors of the infant churches. I preach seven timesa week. I walk to all the places I preach at. It is of more importanceto me that men are going to eternal destruction, than that they areneeding a dinner or a coat. "

"But if you settled down in one place you would soon become familiarwith the people's needs; you would only have to preach two sermonsa week, and you could do your own pastoral duty. "

"True; but then I would not be any longer a Methodist preacher. AMethodist pastor is a solecism; Methodism is a moving evangelism. Whenit settles down for a life pastorate it will need a new name. "

"However, Mr. North, it seems to me, that a preacher should bring everypossible adjunct to aid him. The advantages of a reputation for piety, wisdom, and social sympathy are quite denied to a man who is only apreacher. "

"He has the cross of Christ. It needs no aid of wealth, or wisdom, or social sympathy. It is enough for salvation. The banner of theMethodist preacher is that mighty angel flying over land and sea, andhaving the everlasting Gospel to preach!"

His enthusiasm had carried him away. He sighed, and continued, "ButI judge no man. There must be pastors as well as preachers. I was sentto preach. "

For a moment there was silence, then the fine instinct of Phyllisperceived that the conversation had reached exactly that point whenit demanded relief in order to effect its best ends. She went to thepiano and began to sing softly some tender little romance of home andhome joys. In the midst of it the squire and Elizabeth entered, andthe conversation turned upon Christmas observances. So, it fell outnaturally enough that Phyllis should speak of her southern home, anddescribe the long rows of white cabins among the live oaks, and thekind-hearted dusky dwellers in them; and, finally, as she became almosttearful over her memories, she began to sing one of the "spirituals, "then so totally unknown beyond plantation life, singing it _sottovoce_, swaying her body gently to the melody, and softly clappingher small hands as an accompaniment:

 "My soul! Massa Jesus! My soul! My soul! Dar's a little thing lays in my heart, An' de more I dig him, de better he spring: My soul! Dar's a little thing lays in my heart, An' he set my soul on fire: My soul! Massa Jesus! My soul! My soul!"

Then changing the time and tune, she continued:

 "De water deep, de water cold, Nobody here to help me! O de water rise! De water roll! Nobody here to help me! Dear Lord, Nobody here to help me!"

She had to sing them and many others over and over. Mr. North's eyeswere full of tears, and the rector hid his face in his hands. As forthe squire, he sat looking at her with wonder and delight. 

"Why did ta nivver sing them songs afore, Phyllis? I nivver heard suchmusic. "

"It never has been written down, uncle. "

"Who made it up for 'em?"

"It was never made. It sprung from their sorrows and their captivity. The slave's heart was the slave's lyre. "

They talked until a deputation came from the servant's hall and askedfor Mr. North. They belonged to the Christmas waits, and if he wasgoing back to the village they wished to accompany him home; an offerhe readily accepted. 

"I have had a happy evening, squire;" and his smile included everyone in the blessing he left behind. They all followed him to the door, and watched the little crowd take their way through the white park. The snow had quite ceased, the moon rode full and clear in mid-heaven, and near by her there was one bright, bold, steady star. 

In a short time Elizabeth went with Phyllis to her room, and they laidaside their dresses and ornaments, and, sitting down before the fire, began to talk of Richard and Antony, of Rome and America, and of thoseinnocent, happy hopes which are the joy of youth. How bright theirfaces were! How prettily the fire-light glinted in their white robesand loosened hair! How sweetly their low voices and rippling laughterbroke the drowsy silence of the large, handsome room! Suddenly thegreat clock in the tower struck twelve. They counted off the strokeson their white fingers, looking into each other's faces with a brightexpectancy; and after a moment's pause, out clashed the Christmasbells, answering each other from hill to hill through the moonlitmidnight. Phyllis was in an ecstasy of delight. She threw open herwindow and stood listening, "O, I know what they say, Elizabeth. Glorybe to God on high! And hark! There is singing!"

"It is the waits, Phyllis. "

A company of about fifty men and women were coming through the park, filling the air as they came with music, till all the hills and valleysre-echoed the "In Excelsis Gloria" of the sweet old carol:

 "When Christ was born of Mary free, In Bethlehem that fair citie, The angels sang in holy glee, 'In excelsis gloria!'"

They finished the last verses under the Hall windows, and then, aftera greeting from the rector and the squire, they turned happily backto the village, singing Herrick's most perfect star song:

 "Tell us, thou clear and heavenly tongue, Where is the Babe that lately sprung? Lies He the lily-banks among?"

Phyllis was weeping unrestrainedly; Elizabeth, more calm andself-contained, held her against her breast, and smiled down at thehappy tears. Blessed are they who have wept for joy! They haveknown a rapture far beyond the power of laughter to express. 

The next week was full of visiting and visitors. The squire kept openhouse. The butler stood at the sideboard all day long, and there wasbesides one large party which included all the families within a fewmiles of Hallam that had any acquaintance with the squire. It was, perhaps, a little trial at this time for Phyllis to explain toElizabeth that she could not dance. 

"But father is expecting to open the ball with you. He will be verymuch disappointed. "

"I am sorry to disappoint him; but, indeed, I cannot. "

"I will teach you the step and figure in half an hour. "

"I do not wish to learn. I have both conscientious and womanly scruplesagainst dancing. "

"I forgot. The Methodists do not sanction dancing, I suppose; but youmust admit, Phyllis, that very good people are mentioned in the Bibleas dancing. "

"True, Elizabeth; but the religious dances of Judea were triumphantadoration. You will hardly claim so much for the polka or waltz. Allancient dances were symbolical, and meant something. Every motion wasa thought, every attitude a sentiment. If the daughter of Herodiashad danced a modern cotillion, do you think that John the Baptist'shead would have fallen at her feet?"

"Don't associate modern dancing with such unpleasant things. We donot want it to mean any thing but pleasure. "

"But how can you find rational pleasure in spinning round like ateetotum in a room of eighty degrees temperature?"

"All people do not waltz; I do not myself. "

"The square dances, then? What are they but slouching mathematicaldawdling, and 'promiscuous' bobbing around?"

"But people must do something to pass the time. "

"I do not see that, Elizabeth. We are told not 'to pass the time, 'but to 'redeem' it. I think dancing a foolish thing, and folly andsin are very close kin. "

"You said 'unwomanly' also?"

"Yes; I think dancing is unwomanly in public. If you waltz with LordFrancis Eltham, you permit him to take a liberty with you in publicyou would not allow under any other circumstances. And then just lookat dancers! How heated, flushed, damp, and untidy they look after theexercise! Did you ever watch a lot of men and women dancing when youcould not hear the music, but could only see them bobbing up and downthe room? I assure you they look just like a party of lunatics. "

Elizabeth laughed; but Phyllis kept her resolution. And after the ballwas over, Elizabeth said, frankly, "You had the best of it, Phyllis, every way. You looked so cool and sweet and calm in the midst of theconfusion and heat. I declare every one was glad to sit down besideyou, and look at you. And how cheerfully you sang and played! You didnot dance, but, nevertheless, you were the belle of the ball. "

On the first Sabbath of the new year Phyllis was left at the littleMethodist chapel. Her profession had always been free from thatobtrusive demonstration of religious opinion which is seldom unitedwith true piety. While she dwelt under her uncle's roof it had seemedgenerally the wisest and kindest thing to worship with his family. It involved nothing that hurt her conscience, and it prevented manydisputes which would probably have begun in some small householddisarrangement, and bred only dislike and religious offense. HerMethodism had neither been cowardly nor demonstrative, but had beenmade most conscious to all by her sweet complaisance and charitableconcessions. 

So, when she said to the squire, "Uncle, Mr. North tells me there isto be a very solemn Methodist service to-morrow, and one which I neversaw in America; I should like you to leave me at the chapel, " heanswered: "To be sure, Phyllis. We would go with thee, but there's nonebut members admitted. I know what service thou means well enough. "

She found in the chapel about two hundred men and women, for they hadcome to Hallam from the smaller societies around. They were mostlyfrom what is often called "the lower orders, " men and women whose handswere hard with toil, and whose forms were bowed with labor. But whata still solemnity there was in the place! No organ, no dim religiouslight, no vergers, or beadles, or robed choristers, or priest in sacredvestments. The winter light fell pale and cold through the plainwindows on bare white-washed walls, on a raised wooden pulpit, andon pews unpainted and uncushioned. Some of the congregation were veryold; some, just in the flush of manhood and womanhood. All were inthe _immediate_ presence of God, and were intensely consciousof it. There was a solemn hymn sung and a short prayer; then Mr. North's gaze wandered over the congregation until it rested upon a manin the center--a very old man--with hair as white as wool. 

"Stephen Langside, can you stand up before God and man to-day?"

The old man rose, and, supported by two young farmers, lifted-up aface full of light and confidence. 

"They tell me that you are ninety-eight years old, and that this isthe seventy-first time that you will renew your covenant with theeternal Father. Bear witness this day of him. "

"His word is sure as t' everlasting hills! I hev been young, and nowI'm old, and I hev hed a deal to do wi' him, and he hes hed a dealto do for me; and he nivver hes deceived me, and he hes nivver failedme, and he has nivver turned t' cold shoulder to me; ay, and he hesstuck up to his promises, when I was none ready to keep mine. There'smany good masters, but he is t' best Master of a'! There's many truefriends, but he is the truest of a'! Many a kind father, but no fatherso kind as him! I _know_ whom I hev believed, and I can trusthim even unto death!"

"Brothers and sisters, this is the Master, the Friend, the Father, whom I ask you to enter into covenant with to-day--a holy solemncovenant, which you shall kneel down and make upon your knees, andstand up and ratify in the sight of angels and of men. "

Not ignorantly did Phyllis enter into this covenant with her Maker. She had read it carefully over, and considered well its awfulsolemnity. Slowly the grand abnegation, the solemn engagement, wasformed; every sentence recited without haste, and with fullconsciousness of all its obligations. Then Mr. North, after a shortpause for mental examination, said:

"Remember now that you are in the actual presence of the Almighty God. He is nearer to you than breathing, closer than hands and feet. Hebesets you before and behind. He lays his hand upon you. Thereforelet all who, by standing up, give their soul's assent to thisconsecration, remember well to whom they promise. "

Slowly, one by one, the congregation arose; and so they remainedstanding, until every face was lifted. Then the silence was brokenby the joyful singing of Doddridge's fine hymn, "O happy day that fixed my choice, "

and the service closed with the administration of the Holy Communion. 

"Thou looks very happy, Phyllis, " said the squire to her, as they bothsat by the fire that night. 

"I am very happy, uncle. "

"Thou beats me! I told t' rector where ta had gone to-day, and he saidit were a varry singular thing that thou should take such an obligationon thee. He said t' terms of it would do for t' varry strictest o'Roman Catholic orders. "

"Do you not think, uncle, that Protestants should be as strictregarding personal holiness as Catholics?"

"Nay, I know nowt about it, dearie. I wish women were a' like thee, though. They'd be a deal better to live wi'. I like religion in awoman, it's a varry reliable thing. I wish Antony hed hed his sensesabout him, and got thee to wed him. Eh! but I would have been a happyfather!"

"Uncle, dear--you see--I love somebody else. "

"Well I nivver! Thee! Why thou's too young! When did ta begin to thinko' loving any body?"

"When I was a little girl John Millard and I loved each other. I don'tknow when I began to love him, I always loved him. "

"What is ta talking about? Such nonsense!"

"Love is not nonsense, uncle. You remember the old English song youlike so much:

 "'O 'tis love, 'tis love, 'tis love That makes the world go round'"

"Now be quiet wi' thee. It's nowt o' t' sort. Songs and real life arevarry different things. If ta comes o real life, it's money, and notlove; t' world would varry soon stick without a bit o' money. "

About the middle of January Richard returned to Hallam. The Bishopwas with friends in Liverpool, but he wished to sail immediately, andRichard thought it best to sail with him. Phyllis was willing to go. She had had a charming visit, but she had many duties and friends onthe other side, and her heart, also, was there. As for danger ordiscomfort in a winter passage, she did not think it worthconsideration. Some discomfort there must be; and if storm, or evendeath came, she was as near to heaven by sea as by land. 

The squire had not written to Richard about his plans for thesuccession of Hallam. He had felt more uncertainty on the subject thanhe would admit even to his own heart. He thought he would prefer toexplain matters to him in person. So, one morning, as they weretogether, he said "Look 'ee here, Richard!" and he led him to theportrait of Colonel Alfred Hallam. "Thou can see where ta comes from. Thou is t' varry marrow o' that Hallam!"

Richard was much pleased at the incident, and he traced with pleasurethe resemblances between them. 

"Richard, I am going to leave Hallam to thee. "

It was not in the squire's nature to "introduce" a subject. He couldnever half say a thing. His bald statement made Richard look curiouslyat him. He never for a moment believed him to mean what the wordsimplied. So he only smiled and bowed. 

"Nay, thou needn't laugh! It's no laughing matter. I'll tell thee allabout it. "

In the squire's way of telling, the tale was a very short one. Thefacts were stated in a few sentences, without comment. They amazedRichard, and left him for a moment speechless. 

"Well, what does ta say?"

"I will be as frank as you have been, uncle. I cannot possibly acceptyour offer. "

"Thou'lt hev a reason?"

"More than one. First, I would not change my name. I should feel asif I had slandered the Fontaines. My father was a brave soldier; mygrandfather was a missionary, whose praise is in all our churches. I need go no farther back. If I had been born 'Hallam' I would havestood by the name just as firmly. "

"Then, thou wilt hev to give up Elizabeth. Succession must go in herchildren and in her name. "

"Miss Hallam and you accepted me as Richard Fontaine. Have I not theright to expect that both she and you will keep your word with me?"

"Thou forgets, Richard. Her duty to her father and to her ancestorsstands before thee. If thy duty to thine will not let thee give upthy name, hers may well be due to home and lands that hold her by atenure o' a thousand years. But neither Miss Hallam nor Hallam Hallneed go a-begging, lad. I ask thy pardon for offering thee owt soworthless. "

"Dear uncle, do not be angry with me. "

"Ay, ay; it's 'dear uncle, ' and 'dear father, ' but it's also, 'I'lltak' my own way', wi' both Antony and thee. I'm a varry unhappy oldman. I am that!"

He walked angrily off, leaving Richard standing before the picturewhich so much resembled him. He turned quickly, and went in searchof Elizabeth. She was sitting with Phyllis in the breakfast parlor. Phyllis, who was often inclined to a dreamy thoughtfulness, was soinclined at that hour, and she was answering Elizabeth's remarks, farmore curious of some mental vision than of the calm-browed woman, sitting opposite to her, sewing so industriously. Richard came in likea small tempest, and for once Elizabeth's quiet, inquiring regardseemed to irritate him. 

"Elizabeth;" and he took her work from her hand, and laid it on thetable. "My dear love! does Phyllis know?"

"What, Richard?"

"About Antony and the Hallam estate?"

"No; I thought it best to let you tell her. "

"Because you were sure I would refuse it?--Phyllis!"

"Yes, Richard. "

"Your uncle is going to disinherit Antony; and he wishes me to becomehis heir and take his name. "

"But that is impossible. You could not take Antony's place. You couldnot give up your name--not for a kingdom. "

"Then, " said Elizabeth, a little proudly, "he must give me up. I cannotdisobey my father. "

Phyllis quietly rose and went out. She could not interfere with thelovers, but she felt sorry enough for them. Richard's compliance wasforbidden by every sentiment of honor. Elizabeth was little likelyto give way. Richard held her to her promise, and pleaded for itsfulfillment. He wanted no fortune. He was quite content that herfortune should go to free Hallam. But he did not see that her lifeand happiness, and his, also, should be sacrificed to Antony's insaneambition. "He will marry, doubtless, " he urged. "He may have a largefamily; cannot one of them, in such case, be selected as heir?"

This was the only hope Elizabeth would admit. In her way she was asimmovable as Richard. She had made up her mind as to what was her dutyin the premises, and her lover could not move her from this position. And, as the unhappy can seldom persuade themselves that "sufficientunto the day is the evil thereof, " each heart was heavy with theprobable sorrows that were to flow from this complication of affairs. 

Phyllis, musing thoughtfully at her own room window, saw the squirewalking on the terrace. Her first impulse was to go to him, but shesat down to consider the inclination. Her class-leader, a shrewd, piousold Scotchman, had once said to her--"Nine impulses oot o' ten, SisterPhyllis, come fra the de'il. Just put an impulse through its catechismbefore ye go the gate it sends ye. " So she sat down to think. "Whatright have I to interfere? Ought I to solicit a confidence? Can I dogood? Might I not do harm? A good word spoken out of season is oftena bad word; and I am not sure what is the good word in this case. Ihad better be still and wait. "

Her patience had in some measure its reward. Toward afternoon Elizabethcame to her room. Her eyes were red with weeping, but she said, "Fatherand Richard have shaken hands, Phyllis; there is to be no ill-willabout the disappointment. "

"I am very glad. But is it to be a disappointment--to you, I mean, Elizabeth?"

"I fear so; I must stand by father's side as regards Hallam. I canwait and love on. But I will not bind Richard. He is free. "

"I am quite sure he is not free. Richard will never be free while thereremains a hope of eventually winning you. "

"He says that nothing but my marriage to some other person shall makehim lose hope; but men say these things and forget. "

"Richard means what he says. He will not forget; and time gives withboth hands to the patient and the truthful. Is the squire satisfied?"

"I don't think he blames Richard. The shadow I felt on the night ofour betrothal has begun to creep toward me, Phyllis. I am in its chilland gloom. It will darken all our remaining hours together, and theyare few now. "

"Make the most of them, dear. Get all the sunshine you can; stay withRichard. I am going to the village to bid Martha good-bye. "

"Richard says you are to sail Wednesday?"

"Yes; what is the use of drawing out a parting? We have had a happyholiday. Let us go ere its spirit is over. There must be times andseasons, Elizabeth; it is the part of love and wisdom never to forcethem. Besides, uncle has a very sore place in his heart, and Richardcan hardly avoid rubbing against it. It is best for us to go. "

Martha was a little dull, and Phyllis was struck with her explanation:"I'm a bit selfish to-day; and t' heart that isn't loving isn'tcheerful. Ben and me hev been so much to each other, that it comesa bit hard to hev to step aside for a lass as one doesn't care muchfor. " She put her checked apron to her eyes, and wiped away a fewtears. 

"But Ben can never forget what you did for him. "

"It was Mary after a' that saved him. I nobbut prayed night and day. She brought the magistrate and t' constable. Men don't count much onprayer. "

"Dear Martha, God sends by whom he will send. If he had thought itbest, you would have got the order. God looks afar off--for the yearsthat are to come--when you may be where all tears are wiped away. "

"I know, I know. "

"Don't let Ben think you grudge him the fullest measure of hishappiness and deliverance. Mothers must have a deal to bear. The bestof children are blind, I think. "

Martha was crying quietly. "He was t' last left me. I hev carried himi' my heart for months, till my heart is fair empty without him. Iwanted him a little bit to mysen. She's a good girl, is Mary, and I'mtrying hard to love her; but I've got a weight on me that's bad tobide. "

"If it's a bitter cup, drink it, Martha. "

"My lass, I'll do that. There'll be a blessing in t' bottom o' it, never fear. I'm nobbut standing as a bairn does wi' a cup o' medicine;and when a thing is hard to take, its nobbut human nature to say it'snone nice. "

"I am come to say 'good-bye' Martha; I don't want to leave you intears. "

"Nay then is ta! Surely to goodness thou isn't going in t' dead o'winter?"

"Yes. We leave Hallam to-morrow. "

"Then bide a bit. I'll mak' a cup o' tea in t' little Wesley tea-pot;and I'll toast thee a Yorkshire cake, and we'll eat a mouthful togetherin this world before we part. We'll be none like to meet again. "

She wiped away every trace of tears, and drew the little table to thehearth-stone, and set out her humble service. And she quite put awayher own trouble and spoke cheerfully, and served Phyllis with busyhospitality. 

"For, you see, " she said, as she knelt before the fire toasting thecake, "I feel as if you were a pilgrim, Sister Phyllis, that had comeacross my little cottage on your way to the kingdom. And if I didn'tmak' you welcome, and say a hearty, loving 'Godspeed' to you, I'dhappen miss a bit o' my own welcome when I enter the gates o' thekingdom. So, eat and drink, dearie; and may the bread strengthen you, and the cup be full o' blessing. "

"I shall never forget you, Martha. I think we shall know each otherwhen we meet again. "

"For sure we will. It will be in 'Jerusalem the golden' I don't doubt. Farewell, sister!" and she took the sweet young face between her largehands and kissed it. 

Her smile was bright, her words cheerful, but Phyllis went down thestreet with a heavy heart. She stopped at the house where Mr. Northlodged and asked to see him. He came down to her with a smile; butwhen she said, "It is a good-bye, Mr. North, " his face grew pale, hiseyes full of trouble; he was unable to answer her. The silence becamepainful, and Phyllis rose. 

"Let me walk a little way with you. Pardon me, I was not prepared forthis--blow. "

Then Phyllis knew that he loved her. Then he knew it himself. A greatpity was in her heart. She was silent and constrained, and they walkedtogether as two who are walking toward a grave. 

"It is very hard for me to say 'good-bye, ' Miss Fontaine. I shallnever, never forget you. "

"There are many hard things in life, Mr. North; we can but bear them. "

"Is that all?"

"That is all. "

"God help me!" He lifted her gloved hand and touched it with his lips. No knight could have expressed in the act more respect, more hopelesstenderness. Then he turned silently away. Phyllis's lips parted, butno words would come. She was full of sorrow for the noble, suffering, humble heart. She longed to say a kind word, and yet felt that it wouldbe unkind; and she stood still watching him as he went farther andfarther away. At a bend in the road he turned and saw her standing. The level rays of the sun set her in a clear amber light. He gazedat her steadily for a moment, raised his hand slowly, and passedforever from her sight. 

There was something so pathetic and yet so lofty in the slight, vanishing figure, with the hand lifted heavenward, that she feltstrangely affected, and could scarcely restrain her tears. 

When people come to the end of a pleasure, so many little things showit. The first enthusiasms are gone, there is a little weariness injoy, the heart begins to turn to those fundamental affections and thosehomely ties which are the main reliance of life. It seemed to Phyllisthat, for the first time, she was homesick. The low, white, ramblingwooden house, spreading itself under moss-covered trees, began to growvery fair in her memory. The mocking-birds were calling her acrossthe sea. She remembered the tangles of the yellow jasmine, the merrydarkies chatting and singing and laughing, and her soul turned westwardwith an indescribable longing. 

And she thought to herself, as she stood upon the terrace and lookedover the fair land she was leaving with so little regret, "When thetime comes for me to go to my heavenly home, I shall be just as willingto leave the earthly one. "

CHAPTER V. 

 "I loved you alway, I will not deny it; not for three months, and not for a year; but I loved you from the first, when I was a child, and my love shall not wither, till death shall end me. "--GAeLIC SONG. 

 "Our own acts are our attending angels, in whose light or shadow we walk continually. "

The Fontaine place was a long, low, white building facing a tumblingsea, and a stretch of burnt sea-sands. It had no architectural beauty, and yet it was a wonderfully picturesque place. Broad piazzas drapedin vines ran all around the lower story, and the upper revealed itselfonly in white glimpses among dense masses of foliage. And what didit matter that outside the place there were brown sand-hills andpale-sailed ships? A high hedge of myrtles hid it in a large gardenfull of the scents of the sun-burnt South--a garden of fragrant beauty, where one might dream idly all day long. 

It was four o'clock in the afternoon of an August day, and every thingwas still; only the _cicadas_ ran from hedge to hedge tellingeach other, in clear resonant voices, how hot it was. The house doorstood open, but all the green jalousies were closed, and not a breathof air stirred the lace curtains hanging motionless before the windows. The rooms, large and lofty, were in a dusky light, their atmospherestill and warm and heavy with the scent of flowers. On the back piazzahalf a dozen negro children were sleeping in all sorts of picturesqueattitudes, a bright mulatto women was dozing in a rocking-chair, andthe cook, having "fixed" his dinner ready for the stove, had rolledhimself in his blanket on the kitchen floor. Silence and dusk wereevery-where, the dwelling might have been an enchanted one, and lifein it held in a trance. 

In one of the upper rooms there was an occupant well calculated tocarry out this idea. It was Phyllis, fast asleep upon a white couch, with both hands dropped toward the floor. But the sewing which hadfallen from them, and the thimble still upon her finger, was guaranteefor her mortality. And in a few minutes she opened her soft, dark eyes, and smiled at her vacant hands. Then she glanced at the windows; thecurtains were beginning to stir, the gulf breeze had sprung up, thebirds were twittering, and the house awakening. 

But it was pleasant to be quiet and think in such an indolent mood;and Phyllis had some reasons for finding the "thinking" engrossing. First, she had had a letter from Elizabeth, and it was in a veryhopeful tone. Antony and George Eltham were doing very well, and, asLord Eltham had become quietly interested in the firm, the squire feltmore easy as to its final success. Second, Mr. North was leavingHallam, his term there had expired, and the Conference, which woulddetermine his next movement, was then sitting. Her thoughts weredrifting on these two topics when a woman softly entered the room. Shelooked at Phyllis's closed eyes, and with a smile went here and therelaying out clean white muslins, and knots of pink ribbons, and all thepretty accessories of a young maiden's evening toilet. 

"Thar now, Miss Phill! I'se ready--and I 'spects thar's some good newsfor you, honey!"

Phyllis opened her eyes. "I heard you, Harriet. I was not asleep. Asfor good news, I think you are always expecting it--besides, I hadsome to-day. "

"Dat's de reason, --Miss Phill--'whar you going good news? Jest wharI'se been afore. ' Dat's de way. I reckon I knows 'bout it. "

"What makes you know this time, Harriet? Has the postman been, or abird whispered it to you, or have some of Waul's servants been makinga call here?"

"I don't 'ceive any of de Waul's servants, Miss Phill. I'se notwanting my char'ctar hung on ebery tree top in de county. No, I drawsmy s'picions in de properest way. Mass'r Richard git a letter dismorning. Did he tell you, Miss Phill?"

"I have not seen him since breakfast. "

"I thought he'd kind ob hold back 'bout dat letter. I knows dat letterfrom Mass'r John. I'se sure ob it. "

"Did you look--at the outside of it, I mean--Harriet?"

"No, Miss Phill, I didn't look neider at de outside, nor de inside;I's not dat kind; I look at Mass'r Richard's face. Bless you, MissPhill! Mass'r Richard kaint hide nothing. If he was in love Harrietwould know it, quick as a flash--"

"I think not, Harriet. "

"Den I tell you something, Miss Phill. Mass'r Richard been in loveeber since he come back from ober de Atterlantic Ocean. P'raps youdon't know, but I done found him out. "

Phyllis laughed. 

"I tell you how I knows it. Mass'r Richard allays on de lookout forde postman; and he gits a heap ob dem bluish letters wid a lady's facein de corner. "

"That is Queen Victoria's face. You don't suppose Master Richard isin love with Queen Victoria?"

"Miss Phill, de Fontaines would fall in love wid de moon, and thinkdey pay her a compliment--dey mighty proud fambly, de Fontaines; butI'se no such fool as not to know de lady's head am worth so many centsto carry de letter. But, Miss Phill, who sends de letters? Dat am dequestion. "

"Of course, that would decide it. "

"Den when Mass'r Richard gits one of dem letters, he sits soquiet-like, thinking and smiling to himself, and ef you speak to him, heanswers you kind ob far-away, and gentle. I done tried him often. Buthe didn't look like dat at all when he git de letter dis morning. Mass'r Richard got powerful high temper, Miss Phill. "

"Then take care and not anger him, Harriet. "

"You see, when I bring in de letter, I bring in wid me some freshmyrtles and de tube roses for de vases, and as I put dem in, andfixed up de chimley-piece, I noticed Mass'r Richard through delooking-glass--and he bit his lips, and he drew his brows together, and he crush'd de letter up in his hand. "

"Harriet, you have no right to watch your master. It is a very meanthing to do. "

"Me watch Mass'r Richard! Now, Miss Phill, I'se none ob dat kind! ButI kaint shut my eyes, 'specially when I'se 'tending to de flowervases. "

"You could have left the vases just at that time. "

"No, Miss Phill, I'se very partic'lar 'bout de vases. Dey has to be'tended to. You done told me ober and ober to hab a time for eberything, and de time for de vases was jist den. "

"Then, the next time you see Master Richard through the glass, tellhim so, Harriet; that is only fair, you know. "

"Go 'way, Miss Phill! I'se got more sense dan tell Mass'r Richard anysich thing. "

Phyllis did not answer; she was thinking of a decision she might becompelled to make, and the question was one which touched her verynearly on very opposite sides. She loved her brother with all herheart. Their lives had been spent together, for Phyllis had been leftto his guardianship when very young, and had learned to give him anaffection which had something in it of the clinging reliance of thechild, as well as of the proud regard of the sister. But John Millardshe loved, as women love but once. He was related by marriage to theFontaines, and had, when Phyllis and Richard were children, spent muchof his time at the Fontaine place. 

But even as boys Richard and John had not agreed. To ask "why" is toask a question which in such cases is never fully answered. It is easyto say that Richard was jealous of his sister, and jealous of John'ssuperiority in athletic games, and that John spoke sneeringly ofRichard's aristocratic airs, and finer gentleman ways; but there wassomething deeper than these things, a natural antipathy, for whichthere seemed to be no reason, and for which there was no cure but thecompelling power of a divine love. 

John Millard had been for two years on the frontier, and there hadbeen very meager and irregular news from him. If any one had askedRichard, "Are you really hoping that he has been killed in some Indianfight?" Richard would have indignantly denied it; and yet he knew thatif such a fate had come to his cousin Millard, he would not have beensorry. And now the man with the easy confidence of a soldier who isaccustomed to make his own welcome, wrote to say "that he was comingto New Orleans, and hoped to spend a good deal of his time with them. "

The information was most unwelcome to Richard. He was not anxious forhis sister to marry; least of all, to marry a frontier settler. Hecould not endure the thought of Phyllis roughing life in some log-cabinon the San Marino. That was at least the aspect in which he put thequestion to himself. He meant that he could not endure that JohnMillard should at the last get the better of him about his own sister. And when he put his foot down passionately, and said, between hisclosed teeth, "He shall not do it!" it was the latter thought heanswered. 

He felt half angry at Phyllis for being so lovely when she sat downopposite him at dinner time. And there was an unusual light in hereyes and an indescribable elation in her manner which betrayed herknowledge of the coming event to him. 

"Phyllis, " he asked, suddenly, "who told you John Millard was coming?"

"Harriet told me you had a letter from him this morning. "

"Confound--"

"Richard!"

"I beg your pardon, Phyllis. Be so good as to keep Harriet out of myway. Yes; I had a letter--a most impertinent one, I think. Civilizedhuman beings usually wait for an invitation. "

"Unless they imagine themselves going to a home. "

"Home?"

"Yes. I think this is, in some sense, John's home. Mother always madehim welcome to it. Dear Richard, if it is foolish to meet troubles, it is far more foolish to meet quarrels. "

"I do not wish to quarrel, Phyllis; if John does not talk to you ashe ought not to talk. He ought to have more modesty than to ask youto share such a home as he can offer you. "

"Richard, dear, you are in a bad way. There is a trustees' meetingto-night, and they are in trouble about dollars and cents; I wouldgo, if I were you. "

"And have to help the deficiency?"

"Yes; when a man has been feeling unkindly, and talking unkindly, thebest of all atonements is to do a good deed. "

"O, Phyllis! Phyllis!"

"Yes, Richard; and you will see the Bishop there, very likely; andyou can tell the good old man what is in your heart, and I know whathe will say. 'It is but fair and square, son Richard, to treat a mankindly till he does you some wrong which deserves unkindness. ' He willsay, 'Son Richard, if you have not the proofs upon which to blame aman, don't blame him upon likelihoods. '"

"My good little sister, what do you want me to do?"

"I want you to meet John, as we were met at Hallam, with trustingcourtesy. "

"If you will promise me to--"

"I will promise you to do nothing secretly; to do nothing my motherwould blame me for. To ask more, is to doubt me, and doubt I do notdeserve. Now put on your hat and go to church. They will bedisappointed if you are absent. "

"It will cost me $100. "

"A man ought to pay his debts; and it is nicer to go and pay them thanto compel some one to call here and ask you to do it. "

"A debt?"

"Call it a gift, if you like. When I look over the cotton-fields, Richard, and see what a grand crop you are going to have this year, somehow I feel as if you ought to have said $200. "

"Give me my hat, Phyllis. You have won, as you always do. " And hestooped and kissed her, and then went slowly through the garden tothe road. 

She did not see him again that night, but in the morning he was verybright and cheerful "I am going to ride to Greyson's Timbers, Phyllis, "he said; "I have some business with Greyson, and John will be almostsure to 'noon' there. So we shall likely come back together. "

She smiled gladly, but knew her brother too well to either inquireinto his motives or comment upon them. It was sufficient that Richardhad conquered his lower self, and whether the victory had been asingle-handed one, or whether the Bishop had been an ally, was notof vital importance. One may enjoy the perfume of a good action withoutinvestigating the processes of its production. 

In the middle of the afternoon she heard their arrival. It was apleasant thing to hear the sound of men's voices and laughter, andall that cheerful confusion, which as surely follows their advent asthunder follows lightning. And Phyllis found it very pleasant to liestill and think of the past, and put off, just for an hour or two, whatever of joy or sorrow was coming to meet her; for she had not seenJohn for two years. He might have ceased to love her. He might be sochanged that she would not dare to love him. But in the main shethought hopefully. True love, like true faith, when there seems to, be nothing at all to rest upon, "Treads on the void and finds The rock beneath. "

Few women will blame Phyllis for being unusually careful about hertoilet, and for going down stairs with a little tremor at her heart. Even when she could hear Richard and John talking, she still delayedthe moment she had been longing for. She walked into the dining-room, looked at the boy setting the table, and altered the arrangement ofthe flowers. She looked into the parlor, raised a curtain, and openedthe piano, and then, half ashamed of her self-consciousness, went tothe front piazza, where the young men were sitting. 

There was a subtle likeness between Richard and his English ancestorsthat neither intermarriage, climate, nor educational surroundings hadbeen able to overcome; but between him and John Millard there wereradical dissimilarities. Richard was sitting on the topmost of thebroad white steps which led from the piazza to the garden. With theexception of a narrow black ribbon round his throat, he was altogetherdressed in white; and this dress was a singularly becoming contrastto his black hair and glowing dark eyes. And in every attitude whichhe took he managed his tall stature with an indolent grace suggestiveof an unlimited capacity for pride, passion, aristocratic--orcottonocratic--self-sufficiency. In his best moods he was well awareof the dangerous points in his character, and kept a guard over them;otherwise they came prominently forward; and, sitting in John Millard'spresence, Richard Fontaine was very much indeed the Richard Fontaineof a nature distinctly overbearing and uncontrolled. 

John Millard leaned against the pillar of the piazza, talking to him. He had a brown, handsome face, and short, brown, curly hair. His eyeswere very large and blue, with that steely look in them which snapslike lightning when any thing strikes fire from the heart. He was verytall and straight, and had a lofty carriage and an air of command. His dress was that of an ordinary frontiersman, and he wore no armsof any kind, yet any one would have said, with the invincible assuranceof a sudden presentiment, "The man is a soldier. "

Richard and he were talking of frontier defense, and Richard, out ofpure contradiction, was opposing it. In belittling the cause he hadsome idea that he was snubbing the man who had been fighting for it. John was just going to reply when Phyllis's approach broke the sentencein two, and he did not finish it. He stood still watching her, hiswhole soul in his face; and, when he took her hands, said, heartily, "O, Phyllis, I am so happy to see you again! I was afraid I neverwould!"

"What nonsense!" said Richard, coldly; "a journey to Europe is atrifle--no need to make a fuss about it; is there, Phyllis? Come, letus go to dinner. I hear the bell. "

Before dinner was over the sun had set and the moon risen. Themocking-birds were singing, the fire-flies executing, in the sweet, languid atmosphere, a dance full of mystery. The garden was like aland of enchantment. It was easy to sit still and let the beauty ofheaven and earth sink into the heart. And for some time John wascontented with it. It was enough to sit and watch the white-robedfigure of Phyllis, which was thrown into the fairest relief by thegreen vines behind it. And Richard was silent because he was trying toconquer his resentment at John finding satisfaction in the exquisitepicture. 

Perhaps few people understand how jealous a true brotherly love canbe, How tenderly careful of a sister's welfare, how watchful of allthat pertains to her future happiness, how proud of her beauty andher goodness, how exacting of all pretenders to her favor. His idealhusband for Phyllis was not John Millard. He wondered what she couldsee to admire in the bronzed frontier soldier. He wondered how Johncould dare to think of transplanting a gentlewoman like Phyllis fromthe repose and luxury of her present home to the change and dangersand hardships of pioneer life. 

It would have been an uncomfortable evening if the Bishop had notcalled. He looked at John and loved him. Their souls touched each otherwhen they clasped hands. Perhaps it was because the nature of bothmen was militant--perhaps because both men loved frontier fighting. "I like, " said the old soldier of Christ, "I dearly like to followthe devil to his outposts. He has often fine fellows in them, soulswell worth saving. I was the first Methodist--I may say the firstProtestant preacher--that entered Washington County, in Texas. Texaswas one of our mission stations in 1837. I never was as happy as whenlifting the cross of Christ in some camp of outlaws. "

"Did they listen to you?"

"Gladly. Many of them clung to it. The worst of them respected andprotected me. One night I came to a lonely log-house in the Brazoswoods--that was 'far, far West' then. I think the eight men in it werethieves; I believe that they intended to rob, and perhaps to murder, me. But they gave me supper, and took my saddle-bags, and put up myhorse. 'Reckon you're from the States, ' one said. 'Twelve months ago. ''Any news?' 'The grandest. If you'll get your boys together I'll tellyou it. '"

"They gathered very quickly, lit their pipes, and sat down; and, sitting there among them, I preached the very best sermon I everpreached in my life. I was weeping before I'd done, and they were justas wretched as I like to see sinners. I laid down among them and sleptsoundly and safely. Ten years afterward I gave the sacrament to fourof these very men in Bastrop Methodist Church. If I was a young manI would be in the Rio Grande District. I would carry 'the glad tidings'to the ranger camps on the Chicon and the Secor, and the United Statesforts on the Mexican border. It is 'the few sheep in the wilderness'that I love to seek; yea, it is the scape-goats that, loaded with thesins of civilized communities, have been driven from among them!"

Richard started to his feet. "My dear father, almost you persuade meto be a missionary!"

"Ah, son Richard, if you had the 'call' it would be no uncertain one!You would not say 'almost;' but it is a grand thing to feel your heartstir to the trumpet, even though you don't buckle on the armor. A respectable, cold indifference makes me despair of a soul. I havemore hope for a flagrant sinner. "

"I am sure, " said John, "our camp on the San Saba would welcome you. One night a stranger came along who had with him a child--a littlechap about five years old. He had been left an orphan, and the manwas taking him to an uncle that lived farther on. As we were sittingabout the fire he said, 'I'm going into the wagon now. I'm going tosleep. Who'll hear my prayers?' And half a dozen of the boys said, 'I will, ' and he knelt down at the knee of Bill Burleson, and claspedhis hands and said 'Our Father;' and I tell you, sir, there wasn'ta dry eye in camp when the little chap said 'Amen. ' And I don't believethere was an oath or a bad word said that night; every one felt asif there was an angel among us. "

"Thank you, John Millard. I like to hear such incidents. It's hardto kill the divinity in any man. And you are on the San Saba? Tellme about it. "

It was impossible for Richard to resist the enthusiasm of theconversation which followed. He forgot all his jealousy and pride, and listened, with flashing eyes and eager face, and felt no angryimpulse, although Phyllis sat between the Bishop and John, and Johnheld her hand in his. But when the two young men were left alone thereaction came to Richard. He was shy and cold. John did not perceiveit; he was too happy in his own thoughts. 

"What a tender heart your sister has, Richard. Did you see howinterested she was when I was telling about the sufferings of the womenand children on the frontier?"

"No; I fancied she was rather bored. "

John was at once dashed, and looked into Richard's face, and felt asif he had been making a bragging fool of himself. And Richard wasangry, and ashamed, for a gentleman never tells a lie, though it beonly to his own consciousness, without feeling unspeakably mean. And bya reflex motion of accountability he was angry with John for provokinghim into so contemptible a position. 

The "good-night" was a cooler one than the evening had promised; butRichard had recollected himself before he met John in the morning;and John, for Phyllis's sake, was anxious to preserve a kindly feeling. Love made him wise and forbearing; and he was happy, and happinessmakes good men tolerant; so that Richard soon saw that John would givehim no excuse for a quarrel. He hardly knew whether he was glad orsorry, and the actions and speech of one hour frequently contradictedthose of the next. 

Still there followed many days of sunshine and happy leisure, ofboating and fishing, of riding upon the long stretch of hard sands, of sweet, silent games of chess in shady corners, of happy communionin song and story, and of conscious conversations wherein so few wordsmeant so much. And perhaps the lovers in their personal joy grew alittle selfish, for; one night the Bishop said to Phyllis, "Come andsee me in the morning, daughter, I have something to say to you. "

He was sitting waiting for her under an enormous fig-tree, a tree solarge that the space it shadowed made a pretty parlor, with roof andwalls of foliage so dense that not even a tropical shower couldpenetrate them. He sat in a large wicker-chair, and on the rustic tablebeside him was a cup of coffee, a couple of flaky biscuits, and a plateof great purple figs, just gathered from the branches above him. WhenPhyllis came, he pulled a rocking-chair to his side, and touched alittle hand-bell. "You shall have some coffee with me, and some breadand fruit; eating lubricates talking, dear, and I want to talk to you--very seriously. "

"About John, father?"

"Yes, about John. You know your own mind, Phyllis Fontaine? You arenot playing with a good man's heart?"

"I told you two years ago, father, that I loved John. I love him still. I have applied the test my leader gave me, and which I told you of. I am more than willing to take John for eternity; I should be miserableif I thought death could part us. "

"Very good--so far; that is, for John and yourself. But you must thinkof Richard. He has claims upon you, also. Last night I saw how hesuffered, how he struggled to subdue his temper. Phyllis, any momentthat temper may subdue him, and then there will be sorrow. You mustcome to some understanding with him. John and you may enjoy the romanceof your present position, and put off, with the unreasonableselfishness of lovers, matter-of-fact details, but Richard has a rightto them. "

"Am I selfish, father?"

"I think you are. "

"What must I do?"

"Send John to speak plainly to Richard. That will give your brotheran opportunity to say what he wishes. If the young men are not likelyto agree, tell John to propose my advice in the matter. You can trustme to do right, daughter?"

"Yes, I can. "

In the evening Phyllis called on the Bishop again. He was walking inhis garden enjoying the cool breeze, and when he saw her carriage hewent to meet her. A glance into her face was sufficient. He led herinto the little parlor under the fig-tree. "So you are in trouble, Phyllis?"

"Yes, father. The conversation you advised had unfortunately takenplace before I got an opportunity to speak to John. There has beena quarrel. "

"What was said?"

"I scarcely know how the conversation began; but Richard told John, that people were talking about his intimacy with me; and that, asmarriage was impossible between us, the intimacy must cease. "

"What else?"

"I do not know; many hard things were said on both sides, and Johnwent away in a passion. "

"Go home and see your brother, and make some concessions to his claimupon your love. Tell him that you will not marry John for two years;that will give John time to prepare in some measure for your comfort. Promise in addition any thing that is reasonable. I fear Richard'stemper, but I fear John's more; for the anger of a patient man is adeep anger, and John has been patient, very. Don't you be impatient, Phyllis. Wait for time to carry you over the stream, and don't flingyourself into the flood, and perish. "

"Two years!"

"But reflect--a quarrel becomes a duel here very readily--dare youprovoke such a possibility?"

"Dear father, pray for me. "

"I will. Trust God, and every rod shall blossom for you. Be patientand prudent. Birds build their nests before they mate, and love needsthe consecration of a home. Tell John to make one for you, and thento come and speak to Richard again. I don't say, wait for riches; butI do say, wait for comforts. Comforts keep men innocent, bind themto virtue by the strong cords of friends, families, homes, and thekindnesses of kindred. "

But when Phyllis arrived at home Richard was not there. He had goneto the plantation, and left word for his sister that he might notreturn until late the following day. Phyllis was very wretched. Shecould hardly trust the message. It was possible that Richard hadconsidered flight from temptation the wisest course, and that heexpected John would leave during his absence. On the other hand, it wasjust as likely that John would not leave, and that the quarrel would berenewed at the hotel, or upon the street, under circumstances whereevery influence would be against the young men. 

She was sure that if she had John's promise to keep peace with Richard, that he would not break it; but she did not know whether he was stillin the village or had gone away altogether. If the latter, she wouldcertainly receive some message from him; and, if no message came, shemust conclude that he was waiting for an opportunity to see her. 

Harriet was sure that he was at the village 'hotel. ' "Dime done seenhim thar, " she said, positively, "and Mass'r John no sich fool as go'way widout talkin' up for himself. I was 'stonished dis afternoon, Miss Phill, he took Mass'r Richard's worryin' dat quiet-like; but Icould see de bearin's ob things mighty plain. "

"You heard the quarrel, then, Harriet?"

"Couldn't help hearin' ob it, Miss Phill, no way; 'case I right thar. I was in de dinin'-room fixin' up de clean window curtains, and deyoung gen'lemen were on de p'azza. Cassie never do fix de curtainsright; she's not got de hang ob dem, Miss Phill; so I jist made upmy mind to do 'em myself; and while I was busy as a honey-bee 'boutdem, Mass'r Richard, he walk proud-like up to Mass'r John, and say, 'he want to speak a few words wid him. ' Den I kind ob open my ears, case, Miss Phill, when gen'lemen want to 'say a few words, ' dey'remost ob de time onpleasant ones. "

"Did Master John answer?"

"He looked kind ob 'up-head, ' and says he, 'Dat all right. I'se nothin''gainst you sayin' dem. ' So Mass'r Richard he tell him dat he hearsome talk down town, and dat he won't have you talked 'bout, and datas thar was to be no marryin' 'tween you two, Mass'r John better go'way. " "Did Master Richard say 'go away, ' Harriet?"

"Dat's jist what he say--'go 'way, ' and Mass'r John he flash up like, and say, he sorry to be turn'd out ob de ole home, and dat he'll goas soon as he see you. Den Mass'r Richard, he git up in one ob hiswhite-hot still tempers, and he say, 'No gen'lemen need more 'an oneword;' and Mass'r John say, 'No gen'leman eber say dat one word;'and Mass'r Richard say, 'Sir, you in my house, and you 'sume on datposition;' and Mass'r John say he 'mighty soon be in some oder house, and den Mass'r Richard not hab sich 'cuse;' and, wid dat, he stamphis foot, and walk off like both sides ob de argument 'long to him. "

"Then what, Harriet?"

"Mass'r Richard tear roun' to de stables, and he tole Moke to saddleup Prince, and whilst de poor boy doin' his best, he storm roun' atdis thing and dat thing, till Prince work himself up in a fury, too, and I 'spects dey's both tired out by dis time. Prince he jist rearedand kicked and foamed at de mouth, and did all de debil's own horsecould do to fling Mass'r Richard, and Mass'r Richard, he de whitestwhite man any body eber seen. Ki! but de whip come down steady, MissPhill. "

"O, Harriet, how wretched you do make me. "

"Dar isn't a bit need to worry, Miss Phill. Prince done tried himselfwid Mass'r Richard 'fore dis, and he allus come in de stable meek asa lamb. When Mass'r Richard's got dat dumb debil in him, he'd ridea ragin' lion, and bring him home like a lamb. "

"It's not that, Harriet; it's not that. But if he meet Master Johnthere will be trouble--and O, the sin of it. "

"Dat am true as preachin', Miss Phill. "

"If I could only see John Millard. "

"I'll mighty soon go for him, ef you say so. "

"No; that will not do. "

For Phyllis was aware that such a messenger would only make moretrouble. Harriet was known to be her maid, and John was known to beher lover. To do anything which would give cause for ill-naturedremarks was to find Richard the excuse which would permit him activeinterference. "I must avoid the appearance of evil, " she said, anxiously. "What must I do?"

"Clar' I don't know, Miss Phill. 'Pears like you'se on a bery dangerousroad. I reckon you'd best pray for de grace to choose de cleanest, safest steppin'-stones. "

"Yes; that is best, Harriet. "

But Phyllis was not one of those rash beings who rush into the presenceof God without thought or solemnity. Slowly bending, body and soul, she communed with her own heart and was still, until it burned withinher, and the supplication came. When she rose from her knees, she wasresigned in all things to God's will, no matter what self-denial itinvolved; and she was not unhappy. For, O believe this truth, thesaddest thing under the sky is a soul incapable of sadness! Mostblessed are those souls who are capable of lodging so great a guestas Sorrow, who know how to regret, and how to desire, and who havelearned that with renunciation life begins. 

And Phyllis foresaw that renunciation would be the price of peace. At the commencement of the inquiry with her own soul she had refusedto entertain the idea. She had tried to find reasons for seeking someother human adviser than Bishop Elliott, because she feared that hewould counsel hard things to her. Ere she slept, however, she haddetermined to go to him very early in the morning. 

But while she was drinking her coffee John Millard entered the room. He took her hands, and, looking sorrowfully into her face, said, "Phyllis, my dearest, it was not my fault. "

"I believe you, John. "

"And you love me, Phyllis?"

"I shall always love you, for I believe you will always try to deservemy love. But we must part at present. I was just going to ask theBishop to tell you this. I can trust you, John, and you can trust me. He will tell you what you ought to do. And don't think hard of me ifI say 'good-bye' now; for though Richard went to the plantation lastnight, he may be back any hour, and for my sake you must avoid him. "

"Phyllis; you are asking a very hard thing. Richard has said wordswhich I can scarcely ignore. Two or three men have inquired if I wasgoing to put up with them?"

"What kind of men?"

"Captain Lefferts and Jim Wade and--"

"Nay, you need say no more. Will you sacrifice my happiness to theopinion of Captain Lefferts and Jim Wade? Are you their slave? Richardis not himself now; if you permit him to force a fight upon you, youwill both sorrow for it all your lives. "

"I will go and see the Bishop, and do whatever he tells me. If I needa defender from ill words--"

"You may safely leave your good name in his care, John. And who woulddare to dispute a word he said? Dear John, I knew I could trust you. Goodbye, my love!"

He drew her to his breast and kissed her, and with a look of fervent, sorrowful love, was leaving the room, when Richard entered by anotherdoor. He intercepted the glance, and returned it to John with one ofcontemptuous defiant anger. It did not help to soothe Richard thatJohn looked unusually handsome. There was a fire and persuasion inhis face, a tenderness and grace in his manner, that was veryirritating, and Richard could neither control his hands nor his tongue. He began at once to feel for his pistol. "Why is John Millard here?" heasked of Phyllis. "Answer me that. "

"He is here to promise me that he will not put the name of PhyllisFontaine in the month of every drunken gambler and scornful man andwoman to satisfy his own selfish, false pride. "

"He is too big a coward to fight a gentleman, he prefers fightinghalf-armed savages; but I propose to honor his behavior with moreattention than it deserves unless he runs away. "

"John, dear John, do not mind what Richard says now. He will be sorryfor it. If you care for me, ever so little, you will not fight aboutme. The shame would kill me. I don't deserve it. I will never marrya man who drags my name into a quarrel. Richard, for our mother's sake, be yourself. Brother, you ought to protect me! I appeal to you! ForGod's sake, dear Richard, give me that pistol!"

"Phyllis, " said John, "I will go. I will not fight. Your desire issufficient. "

"Coward! You shall fight me! I will call you coward wherever I meetyou. "

"No one, who knows us both, will believe you. "

It was not the taunt, so much as the look of deep affection which Johngave Phyllis, that irritated the angry man beyond further control. In a moment he had struck John, and John had cocked his pistol. Inthe same moment Phyllis was between them, looking into John's eyes, and just touching the dangerous weapon. John trembled all over anddropped it. "Go your ways safely, Richard Fontaine. I could kill youas easy as a baby, but for Phyllis's sake you are safe. "

"But I will make you fight, sir;" and as he uttered the threat, heattempted to push Phyllis aside. Ere one could have spoken, she hadfaced Richard and fallen. Her movement in some way had fired the cockedpistol, and, with a cry of horror, he flung it from him. John liftedher. Already the blood was staining the snowy muslin that covered herbreast. But she was conscious. 

"Kiss me, John, and go. It was an accident, an accident, dear. Rememberthat. "

"Stay with her, Richard. I will go for a doctor, my horse is saddledat the door;" and John rode away, as men ride between life and death. Richard sat in a stupor of grief, supporting the white form that triedto smile upon him, until the eyes closed in a death-likeunconsciousness. 

CHAPTER VI. 

 "Who redeemeth thy life from destruction. "

 "Strike--for your altars and your fires; Strike--for the green graves of your sires; God, and your native land!"

The hours that followed were full of suffering to the heart. John cameback with the doctors he summoned, and during their investigation hewalked restlessly up and down the room in which the tragedy hadoccurred. Richard never noticed him. He sat in a chair by the openwindow, with his head in his hands, quite overcome by grief andremorse. It was in John's strong arms Phyllis had been carried to herown room, and no one now disputed his right to watch and to wait forthe doctors' verdict. He was very white; white through all the tanof wind and sun; and, as he paced the room, he wrung his hands in anagony beyond speech. Terrible, indeed, to both men was the silenthouse, with the faint noises of hurried footsteps and closing doors upstairs! What a mockery seemed the cool, clear sunshine outside! What astrange sadness there was in the call of the crickets, and the faintblooms of the last few flowers! There are scenes and sounds which, asbackgrounds to great events in life, photograph themselves in theirsmallest details upon the mind. In the midst of his distress John couldnot help noticing the pattern of the wall-paper, and the rustling ofthe dropping leaves and nuts in the garden. 

He pitied Richard; for, even in the depth of his own sorrow, heperceived a grief he could not touch--the anguish of a remorse whichmight have no end in this life. As the doctors came down stairs Johnwent to meet them, for even a minute's reprieve from his torturinganxiety was worth going for. The foremost made a slight movement, amotion of the lips and eyes which somehow conveyed a hope, and whenhe heard the words, "She may recover, " he hastened back to Richard, and said, "There is a hope for her, and for us. God forgive us!"

Richard never answered a word, and John wandered for hours upon thebeach, gazing at the gray melancholy sea, and trying to understandhow far he had been to blame. Perhaps it is in the want of pity thatthe real _infernal_ of Satan consists; for whenever he sees usoverwhelmed with sorrow, then he casts into our throbbing heart hisfiercest weapons. Doubt, anguish, and prostration of hope, worse thandeath, assailed him. He tried to pray, but felt as if his cries wereuttered to an inexorable silence. 

As for Richard, he was so mentally stunned that it was not until hehad been taken to Phyllis, and she had whispered, "I shall be bettersoon, Richard, " that a saving reaction could be induced. Then the_abandon_ of his grief was terrible; then he felt something ofthat remorse for sin which needs no material fiery adjunct to makea hell for the soul. The Bishop watched him with infinite pity, butfor several days offered him no consolation. He thought it well heshould sorrow; he wished him to know fully that humiliation which Jesusexalts, that wretchedness which he consoles, that darkness which helightens. 

So, when he heard him one night, muttering as he walked gloomily upand down, "O that I could forget! O that I could forget!" he answered, "Not so, son Richard. Can you escape eternity by forgetting it? Andeven for this life to forget is a kind of moral forfeiture, a treasonagainst your own soul. Forget nothing, carry every thing about yourselfto God--your weakness, your regrets, and your desires. "

"How can the infinite God heed my pitiful regrets and desires?"

"Because he loves men individually; he deals with them soul by soul. You, Richard Fontaine, you, your very self, must go to him. You arenot only a sinner in the general mass, but a particular sinner underyour own name and in your special person. So, then, for you he hasa special pardon. He has the special help you need; the very word ofgrace, that your soul, and yours only, may be able to understand. "

"O that God would pity me!"

"You belong to the God of compassions. He resists the proud, but hecomes to abide with the broken in spirit. "

"If I was only sure Phyllis would recover!"

"And if not?"

"Then I have no hope for this life or the other. "

"God will do what seemeth good to him. "

"I do not understand--God seems so indifferent to my cries. "

"My son, God's indifference does not exist; and if to comprehend thecross of Christ, you must suffer to extremity, I would not spare you, Richard; though I love you. There are four words that you can say, which will shake the gates of heaven; which will make the Father meetyou, and the elder Brother welcome you, and the angels sing for joy. Desolate souls, full of anguish, and yet full of hope, havecomprehended them: _Have mercy upon me!_"

But the soul is a great mystery. How often is it called, and will notanswer. Richard for many weeks could neither believe, nor yet ardentlydesire. The hour in which he heard that Phyllis was out of danger wasthe hour of his spiritual deliverance. Then a speechless, overwhelminggratitude took possession of him. He went into his room, and, amidtears and broken prayers of thankfulness, his heart melted. A wondrousrevelation came to him, the revelation of a love greater than his sin. He was lost in its rapture, and arose with the sacred, secret signof the eternal Father in his soul. 

Phyllis saw the change as soon as he knelt down by her side, for hiswhole countenance was altered. She drew near to him, and kissed him. It was after Christmas, and the days bleak and cold; but a great fireof cedar logs burned in the grate, and Phyllis had been lifted to alounge near it. She was whiter than the pillow on which she lay, whitewith that pallor of death which the shadowy valley leaves. But O, whata joy it was to see her there once more, to feel that she was comingback, though as one from the grave, to life again!

After half an hour's happy talk he walked to the window and lookedout. It faced the garden and the beach. The trees were now bare, andthrough their interlacing branches he could see the waters of the gulf. As he stood watching them, a figure came in sight. He knew well thetall erect form, the rapid walk, the pause at the gate, the eager looktoward the house. He had seen it day after day for weeks, and he knewthat, however cold the wind or heavy the rain, it would keep its watch, until Harriet went to the gate with a word of comfort. 

Suddenly a thought came into Richard's heart. He left Phyllis, puton his hat, and walked rapidly down to the gate. John was about fiftyyards away, and he went to meet him. John saw him coming and walkedsteadily forward. He expected unkind words, and was therefore amazedwhen Richard put out his hand, and said, "John, forgive me. "

"With all my heart, Richard. " The tears were in his eyes, his brownface flushed scarlet with emotion. He held Richard's hand firmly, andsaid, "I beg your pardon also, Richard. "

"Will you come in and see Phyllis?"

"Do you really mean such a kindness?"

"I do, indeed; if Phyllis is able to see you. Let us go and ask. "

Harriet was idling about the parlor, dusting the already dustedfurniture as they entered. The face was as impassive as a bronzestatue. "Go and ask Miss Phillis, Harriet, if she is able to see Mr. Millard. "

In a minute she was by Phyllis's side. "Miss Phill, honey, Miss Phill, dar's a miracle down stairs, nothin' at all less. Mass'r Richard andMass'r John sittin' together like two lambs, and Mass'r Richard says, 'Can you see Mass'r John a few minutes?'"

The poetic Greek said, "Destiny loves surprises, " and our Christianforefathers called all unexpected pleasures and profits, "Godsends. "I think such "Godsends" come often to those who ask them. At any rate, Phyllis was asking this very favor, and even while the supplicationwas on her lips it was granted her. It was Richard, too, who broughtJohn to her side; and he clasped their hands in his, and then wentaway and left them together. The solemn tenderness of such a meetingneeded but few words. John thought life could hardly give him againmoments so holy and so sweet. O, how precious are these suddenunfoldings of loving-kindness! These Godsends of infinite love! He hadnot dared to expect any thing for himself; he had only asked for thelife of Phyllis, and it had been given him with that royal compassionthat adds, "grace unto favor. "

The happy come back to life easily; and when the snow-drops werebeginning to peep above the ground, Phyllis, leaning upon John andRichard, stood once more under the blue of heaven, and after that herrecovery was rapid and certain. The months of January and Februarywere peculiarly happy ones, full of delightful intercourse and hopefuldreams. Of course they talked of the future; they knew all itsuncertainties, and faced, with happy hearts, the struggle they mighthave together. 

At the termination of John's last service he had possessed about twothousand dollars, but this sum had been already much encroached upon, and he was anxious to find a career which would enable him to makea home for Phyllis. There seemed, however, but two possible ways forJohn: he must have military service, or he must take up land upon thefrontier, stock it, and then defend it until he had won it. He hadlived so long the free life of the prairie and the woods, that thecrowds of cities and their occupations almost frightened him. Fortheology he had no vocation and no "call. " Medicine he had a mostdecided repugnance to. Law seemed to him but a meddling in otherpeople's business and predicaments. He felt that he would rather facea band of savages than a constant invasion of shoppers; rather standbehind a breastwork than behind a desk and ledger. The planter's lifewas too indolent, too full of small cares and anxieties; his wholecrop might be ruined by an army of worms that he could not fight. Buton the frontier, if there was loss or danger, he could defy it orpunish it. 

He talked to Phyllis of the healthy, happy life of the prairies;of the joy of encamping in forests, and seeing the sun rise betweenthe leaves; of wandering without hinderance; of being satisfied withlittle. It was these sweet, unplanted places of earth, these grandwastes of green, unpartitioned off into squares of mine and thine, that attracted John and charmed Phyllis: for her heart was with his. She thought of the little home that was to have a look southward andeastward, and which she was to make beautiful; and no grand dame, withthe prospect of royal favor and court splendor, was ever half so gladin her future as Phyllis in her dream of a simple and busy Arcadia. It cannot be said that Richard shared her enthusiasm. In his hearthe thought Phyllis "too good" for such a life, and to the Bishop heonce permitted himself a little lament on the subject. 

"But, son Richard, " was the answer, "what kind of men build up newStates and lead the van of the onward march? Are they not the heroesof the republic? brave men of large souls and large views, that gonaturally to the front because they are too big for the ranks?"

"I suppose so. "

"And, depend upon it, the noblest women in the country will love themand go with them. Blessings upon those women who go into the untrampledlands, and serve God and suckle heroes! We forget them too often. ThePilgrim Mothers are as grand as the Pilgrim Fathers, every whit. Themen, rifle in hand, take possession of the wilderness; the women makeit blossom like the rose. No woman is too fair, or bright, or clever, or good to be a pioneer's wife. If John Millard had been willing tomeasure out dry goods, or collect debts, I should have had seriousdoubts about marrying Phyllis to him. If Phyllis had been unwillingto follow John to the frontier, I should have known that she was notworthy of John. "

Three days after this conversation John went to New Orleans with theBishop. The Bishop was upon Church business. John had heard of thecolony which had gone with Stephen Austin to Texas, and wished to makefurther inquiries; for at this time there were three words upon everylip--Santa Anna, Texas, and Houston. At the beginning of John's visitthere had been present in his mind an intention of going from NewOrleans to Texas at its close. He was by no means certain that he wouldstay there, for he mistrusted a Mexican, and was neither disposed tofight under their orders, nor to hold land upon their title. But hehad heard of the wonderful beauty of the country, of its enchantingatmosphere, and of the plenty which had given it its happy name; andthere had been roused in him a vague curiosity, which he was not averseto gratify, especially as the sail was short and pleasant. 

He left the Bishop on Canal Street, and went to the St. Charles Hotel. As he approached it he saw a crowd of men upon the wide steps and thepiazza. They were talking in an excited manner, and were evidentlyunder strong emotion. One of them was standing upon a chair, readingaloud a paper. It was the noble appeal of Sam Houston, "in the holynames of Humanity and Liberty, " for help. Travis and his brave littleband had fallen, like heroes, every soul of them at his post, in theAlamo. Fannin and his five hundred had just been massacred in coldblood, and in defiance of every law of warfare and humanity; andbetween the Anglo-Americans and a brutal, slaughtering army there wasonly Houston and a few hundred desperate men. The New Orleans Greysand a company of young Southern gentlemen from Mobile had just sailed. Every man's heart was on fire for this young republic of Texas. Hershield was scarcely one month old, and yet it had been bathed in theblood of a thousand martyrs for freedom, and riddled with the bulletsof an alien foe. 

John caught fire as spirit catches fire. His blood boiled as helistened, his fingers were handling his weapons. He must see Phyllisand go. That little band of eight hundred Americans gathered roundSam Houston, and defying Santa Anna to enslave them, filled his mind. He could see them retreating across the country, always interposingthemselves between their families and the foe; hasting toward thesettlements on the Trinity River, carrying their wounded and childrenas best they could. Every man, women, and child called him; and hecast his lot in with theirs, never caring what woe or weal it mightbring him. 

The Bishop had promised to call at the hotel for him about fouro'clock. John went no farther. He sat there all day talking over thecircumstances of Texas. Nor could the Bishop resist the enthusiasm. In fact, the condition of the Texans touched him on its religious sidevery keenly. For the fight was quite as much a fight for religiousas for political freedom. Never in old Spain itself had priestcraftwielded a greater power than the Roman priesthood in Texas. They hatedand feared an emigration of Americans, for they knew them to be menopposed to tyranny of all kinds, men who thought for themselves, andwho would not be dictated to by monks and priests. It was, withoutdoubt, the clerical element which had urged on the military elementto the massacre at the Alamo and at Goliad. The Bishop was with hiscountrymen, heart and soul. No man's eye flashed with a nobler angerthan his. "God defend the brave fellows!" he said, fervently. 

"I shall start for Texas to-morrow, " said John. 

"I don't see how you can help it, John. I wish I could go with you. "

"If you hadn't been a preacher, you would have made a grand soldier, father. "

"John, every good preacher would make a good soldier. I have beenfighting under a grand Captain for forty years. And I do acknowledgethat the spirit of my forefathers is in me. They fought with Balfourat Drumelog, and with Cromwell at Dunbar. I would reason with theLord's enemies, surely, John, I would reason with them; but if theywould not listen to reason, and took advantage of mercy andforbearance, I would give them the sword of Gideon and of Cromwell, andthe rifles of such men as are with Houston--men born under a freegovernment, and baptized in a free faith. "

Richard and Phyllis were standing at the garden gate, watching fortheir arrival; and before either of them spoke, Phyllis divined thatsomething unusual was occupying their minds. "What is the matter?"she asked; "you two look as if you had been in a fight, and won avictory. "

"We will take the words as a good prophecy, " answered the Bishop. "Johnis going to a noble warfare, and, I am sure, to a victorious one. Giveus a cup of tea, Phyllis, and we will tell you all about it. "

John did not need to say a word. He sat at Phyllis's side, and theBishop painted the struggling little republic in words that meltedand thrilled every heart. 

"When do you go, John?" asked Phyllis. 

"To-morrow. "

And she leaned toward him, and kissed him--a kiss of consecration, of love and approval and sympathy. 

Richard's pale face was also flushed and eager, his black eyes glowinglike live coals. "I will go with John, " he said; "Texas is my neighbor. It is a fight for Protestant freedom, at my own door. I am not goingto be denied. "

"Your duty is at home, Richard. You can help with your prayers andpurse. You could not leave your plantation now without serious loss, and you have many to think for besides yourself. "

Of the final success of the Texans no one doubted. Their cry for helphad been answered from the New England hills and all down the valleyof the Mississippi, and along the shores of the Gulf of Mexico andthe coasts of Florida. In fact, the first settlers of Texas had beenyoung men from the oldest northern colonies. Mexico had cast longinglooks toward those six vigorous States which had grown into power onthe cold, barren hills of New England. She believed that if she couldinduce some of their population to settle within Mexican limits, shecould win from them the secret of their success. So a band of hardy, working youths, trained in the district schools of New England andNew York, accepted the pledges of gain and protection she offered them, and, with Stephen F. Austin at their head, went to the beautiful landof Western Texas. They had no thought of empire; they were cultivatorsof the soil; but they carried with them that intelligent love offreedom and that hatred of priestly tyranny which the Spanish naturehas never understood, and has always feared. 

Very soon the rapidly-increasing number of American colonistsfrightened the natives, who soon began to oppress the new-comers. TheRoman Catholic priesthood were also bitterly opposed to this newProtestant element; and, by their advice, oppressive taxation of everykind was practiced, especially, the extortion of money for titles toland which had been guaranteed to the colonists by the Mexicangovernment. Austin went to Mexico to remonstrate. He was thrown intoa filthy dungeon, where for many a month he never saw a ray of light, nor even the hand that fed him. 

In the meantime Santa Anna had made himself Dictator of Mexico, andone of his first acts regarding Texas was to demand the surrender ofall the private arms of the settlers. The order was resisted as soonas uttered. Obedience to it meant certain death in one form or other. For the Americans were among an alien people, in a country overrunby fourteen different tribes of Indians; some of them, as theComanches, Apaches, and Lipans, peculiarly fierce and cruel. Besides, many families were dependent upon the game and birds which they shotfor daily food. To be without their rifles meant starvation. Theyrefused to surrender them. 

At Gonzales the people of Dewitt's Colony had a little four-pounder, which they used to protect themselves from the Indians. ColonelUgartchea, a Mexican, was sent to take it away from them. Everycolonist hastened to its rescue. It was retaken, and the Mexicanspursued to Bexar. Just at this time Austin returned from his Mexicandungeon. No hearing had been granted him. Every man was now well awarethat Mexico intended to enslave them, and they rose for their rightsand freedom. The land they were on they had bought with their laboror with their gold; and how could they be expected to lay down theirrifles, surrounded by an armed hostile race, by a bitter and powerfulpriesthood, and by tribes of Indians, some of whom were cannibals?They would hardly have been the sons of the men who defied King John, Charles I. , and George III. , if they had. 

Then came an invading army with the order "to lay waste the Americancolonies, and slaughter all their inhabitants. " And the cry from theseTexan colonists touched every State in the Union. There were cordsof household love binding them to a thousand homes in older colonies;and there was, also, in the cry that passionate protestation againstinjustice and slavery which noble hearts can never hear unmoved, andwhich makes all men brothers. 

This was how matters stood when John Millard heard and answered thecall of Texas. And that night Phyllis learned one of love's hardestlessons; she saw, with a pang of fear and amazement, that in a man'sheart love is not the passion which swallows up all the rest. Humanity, liberty, that strange sympathy which one brave man has for another, ruled John absolutely. She mingled with all these feelings, anddoubtless he loved her the better for them; but she felt it, at first, a trifle hard to share her empire. Of course, when she thought of theposition, she acknowledged the beauty and fitness of it; but, in spiteof "beauty and fitness, " women suffer a little. Their victory is, thatthey hide the suffering under smiles and brave words, that theyresolutely put away all small and selfish feelings, and believe thatthey would not be loved so well, if honor and virtue and valor werenot loved more. 

Still it was a very happy evening. Richard and John were at their best;the Bishop full of a sublime enthusiasm; and they lifted Phyllis withthem. And O, it is good to sometimes get above our own high-water mark!to live for an hour with our best ideas! to make little of facts, totake possession of ourselves, and walk as conquerors! Thus, in someblessed intervals we have been poets and philosophers. We have spreadliberty, and broken the chains of sin, and seen family life elevated, and the world regenerated. Thank God for such hours! for though theywere spent among ideals, they belong to us henceforth, and are goldenthreads between this life and a higher one. 

 "When a flash of truth hath found thee, Where thy foot in darkness trod, When thick clouds dispart around thee, And them standest near to God. When a noble soul comes near thee, In whom kindred virtues dwell, That from faithless doubts can clear thee, And with strengthening love compel; O these are moments, rare fair moments; Sing and shout, and use them well!" --PROF. BLACKIE. 

Richard was the first to remember how many little matters of importancewere to be attended to. The Bishop sighed, and looked at the threeyoung faces around him. Perhaps the same thought was in every heart, though no one liked to utter it. A kind of chill, the natural reactionof extreme enthusiasm was about to fall upon them. Phyllis rose. "Letus say 'good-night, ' now, " she said; "it is so easy to put it off untilwe are too tired to say it bravely. "

"Go to the piano, Phyllis. We will say it in song;" and the Bishoplifted a hymn book, opened it, and pointed out the hymn to Richardand John. 

"Come, we will have a soldier's hymn, two of as grand verses as CharlesWesley ever wrote:

 "Captain of Israel's host, and Guide Of all who seek the land above, Beneath thy shadow we abide, The cloud of thy protecting love: Our strength thy grace, our rule thy word, Our end the glory of the Lord. 

 "By thy unerring Spirit led, We shall not in the desert stray; We shall not full direction need; Nor miss our providential way; As far from danger as from fear, While love, almighty love, is near. "

The Bishop and Richard went with John to New Orleans in the morning. Phyllis was glad to be alone. She had tried to send her lover awaycheerfully; but there is always the afterward. The "afterward" toPhyllis was an extreme sadness that was almost lethargy. Many crushedsouls have these fits of somnolent depression; and it does no goodeither to reproach them, or to point out that physical infirmity isthe cause. They know what the sorrowful sleep of the apostles in thegarden of Olivet was, and pity them. Phyllis wept slow, heavy tearsuntil she fell into a deep slumber, and she did not awaken untilHarriet was spreading the cloth upon a small table for her lunch. 

"Dar, Miss Phill! I'se gwine to bring you some fried chicken and somealmond puddin', and a cup of de strongest coffee I kin make. Hungrysorrow is mighty bad to bear, honey!"

"Has Master Richard come back?"

"Not he, Miss Phill. He's not a-gwine to come back till de black nightdrive him, ef there's any thing strange 'gwine on in de city; dat'sde way wid all men--aint none of dem worth frettin' 'bout. "

"Don't say that, Harriet. "

"Aint, Miss Phill; I'se bound to say it. Look at Mass'r John! gwineoff all in a moment like; mighty cur'ous perceeding--mighty cur'ous!"

"He has gone to fight in a grand cause. "

"Dat's jist what dey all say. Let any one beat a drum a thousand milesoff, and dey's all on de rampage to follow it. "

"The Bishop thought Master John right to go. "

"Bless your heart, Miss Phill! De Bishop! De Bishop! He don't knowno more 'an a baby 'bout dis world! You should ha' seen de way he takeup and put down Mass'r John's rifle. Mighty onwillin' he was to putit down--kind ob slow like. I wouldn't trust de Bishop wid no rifleef dar was any fightin' gwine on 'bout whar he was. De Bishop! He'sjist de same as all de rest, Miss Phill. Dar, honey! here's de chickenand de coffee; don't you spile your appetite frettin' 'bout any ofdem. "

"I wish Master Richard was home. "

"No wonder; for dar isn't a mite ob certainty 'bout his 'tentions. He jist as like to go off wid a lot ob soldiers as any of de boys, only he's so mighty keerful ob you, Miss Phill; and den he's 'spectin'a letter; for de last words he say to me was, 'Take care ob de mail, Harriet. ' De letter come, too. Moke didn't want to gib it up, but I'sisted upon it. Moke is kind ob plottin' in his temper. He thoughtMass'r Richard would gib him a quarter, mebbe a half-dollar. "

"Did you think so, also, Harriet?"

"Dem's de house perquisites, Miss Phill. Moke has nothin' 't all todo wid de house perquisites. "

"Moke has been sick, has he not?"

"Had de fever, he says. "

"Is he not one of your classmates? I think I have heard you say hewas 'a powerful member' of Uncle Isaac's class. "

"'Clar to gracious, Miss Phill, I forgot dat. Brudder Moke kin habde letter and de perquisite. "

"I was sure you would feel that way, Harriet. "

"I'd rather hab you look at me dat shinin' kind ob way dan hab adollar; dat I would, Miss Phill. "

Moke got the perquisite and Richard got his letter, but it did notseem to give him much pleasure. Phyllis noticed that after readingit he was unhappy and troubled. He took an hour's promenade on thepiazza, and then sat down beside her. "Phyllis, " he said, "we haveboth been unfortunate in our love. You stooped too low, and I lookedtoo high. John has not money enough; Elizabeth has too much. "

"You are wronging both Elizabeth and John. What has Elizabeth doneor said?"

"There is a change in her, though I cannot define it. Her letters areless frequent; they are shorter; they are full of Antony and his wild, ambitious schemes. They keep the form, but they lack the spirit, ofher first letters. "

"It is nearly two years since you parted. "

"Yes. "

"Go and see her. Absence does not make the heart grow fonder. If itdid, we should never forget the dead. Those who touch us move us. Goand see Elizabeth again. Women worth loving want wooing. "

"Will you go with me?"

"Do not ask me. I doubt whether I could bear the tossing to and frofor so many days, and I want to stay where I can hear from John. "

There was much further talk upon the subject, but the end of it wasthat Richard sailed for England in the early summer. He hardly expectedto renew the enthusiasm of his first visit, and he was prepared forchanges; and, perhaps, he felt the changes more because those to whomthey had come slowly and separately were hardly conscious of them. Elizabeth was a different woman, although she would have denied it. Her character had matured, and was, perhaps, less winning. She hadfully accepted the position of heiress of Hallam, and Richard couldfeel that it was a controlling influence in her life. Physically shewas much handsomer, stately as a queen, fair and radiant, and "mostdivinely tall. "

She drove into Leeds to meet the stage which brought Richard, and wasquite as demonstrative as he had any right to expect; but he feltabashed slightly by her air of calm authority. He forgot that whenhe had seen her first she was in a comparatively dependent position, and that she was now prospective lady of the manor. It was quitenatural that she should have taken on a little dignity, and it was notnatural that she should all at once discard it for her lover. 

The squire, too, was changed, sadly changed; for he had had a fallin the hunting field, and had never recovered from its effects. Helimped to the door to meet Richard, and spoke in his old hearty way, but Richard was pained to see him, so pale and broken. 

"Thou's welcome beyond ivery thing, Richard, " he said, warmly. "Ifta hed brought Phyllis, I'd hev given thee a double welcome. I'd hevliked to hev seen her bonny face again afore I go t' way I'll nivvercome back. "

"She was not strong enough to bear the journey. "

"Yonder shooting was a bad bit o' work. I've nowt against a gun, butdash pistols! They're blackguardly weapons for a gentleman to carryabout; 'specially where women are around. "

"You are quite right, uncle. That pistol-shot cost me many a day'sheart-ache. "

"And t' poor little lass hed to suffer, too! Well, well, we thoughtabout her above a bit. "

Elizabeth had spoken, of company, but in the joy and excitement ofmeeting her again, Richard had asked no questions about it. It provedto be Antony's intended wife, Lady Evelyn Darragh, daughter of anIrish nobleman. Richard, without admiring her, watched her withinterest. She was tall and pale, with a transparent aquiline nose andpreternaturally large eyes. Her moods were alternations of immoderatemirth and immoderate depression. "She expects too much of life, "thought Richard, "and if she is disappointed, she will proudly turnaway and silently die. " She had no fortune, but Antony was ambitiousfor something more than mere money. For the carrying out of hisfinancial schemes he wanted influence, rank, and the prestige of aname. The Earl of Darragh had a large family, and little to give them, and Lady Evelyn having been selected by the promising young financier, she was not permitted to decline the hand he offered her. 

So it happened she was stopping at Hallam, and she brought a changeinto the atmosphere of the place. The squire was anxious, fearful ofhis son's undertakings, and yet partly proud of his commercial andsocial recognition. But the good-natured evenness of his happytemperament was quite gone. Elizabeth, too, had little cares andhospitable duties; she was often busy and often pre-occupied. It wasnecessary to have a great deal of company, and Richard perceived thatamong the usual visitors at Hallam he had more than one rival. Butin this respect he had no fault to find with Elizabeth. She treatedall with equal regard and to Richard alone unbent the proud sufficiencyof her manner. And yet he was unhappy and dissatisfied. It was notthe Elizabeth he had wooed and dreamed about. And he did not find thathe reached any more satisfactory results than he had done by letter. Elizabeth could not "see her way clear to leave her father. "

"If Antony married?" he asked. 

"That would not alter affairs much. Antony could not live at Hallam. His business binds him to the vicinity of London. "

There was but one new hope, and that was but a far probability. Antonyhad requested permission to repay, as soon as he was able, the L50, 000, and resume his right as heir of Hallam. When he was able to do thisElizabeth would be freed from the duties which specially pertainedto the property. As to her father's claim upon her, that could onlyend with his or her own life. Not even if Antony's wife was mistressof Hallam would she leave the squire, if he wished or needed her love. 

And Elizabeth was rather hurt that Richard could not see the conditionsas reasonable a service as she did. "You may trust me, " she said, "forten, for twenty years; is not that enough?"

"No, it is not enough, " he answered, warmly. "I want you now. If youloved me, you would leave all and come with me. That is how Phyllisloves John Millard. "

"I think you are mistaken. If you were sick, and needed Phyllis foryour comfort, or for your business, she would not leave you. Men mayleave father and mother for their wives, that is their duty; but womenhave a higher commandment given them. It may be an unwritten Scripture, but it is in every good daughter's heart, Richard. "

The squire did not again name to him the succession to Hallam. Antony'sproposal had become the dearest hope of the old man's heart. He wishedto live that he might see the estate honorably restored to his son. He had fully determined that it should go to Elizabeth, unless Antonypaid the uttermost farthing of its redemption; but if he did this, then he believed that it might be safely entrusted to him. For a manmay be reckless with money or land which he acquires by inheritance, but he usually prizes what he buys with money which he himself earns. 

Therefore Richard's and Elizabeth's hopes hung upon Antony's success;and with such consolation as he could gather from this probability, and from Elizabeth's assurance of fidelity to him, he was obliged tocontent himself. 

CHAPTER VII. 

 "For freedom's battle, once begun, Bequeathed by bleeding sire to son, Though baffled alt, is ever won. "

 "The unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame. "

 "With freedom's soil beneath our feet, And freedom's banner streaming o'er us. "

 "And the King hath laid his hand On the watcher's head; Till the heart that was worn and sad, Is quiet and comforted. "

It was a beautiful day at the close of May, 1836, and New Orleans washolding a jubilant holiday. The streets were full of flowers and gaywith flying flags; bells were ringing and bands of music playing; andat the earliest dawn the levee was black with a dense crowd of excitedmen. In the shaded balconies beautiful women were watching; and onthe streets there was the constant chatter of gaudily turbanednegresses, and the rollicking guffaws of the darkies, who had nothingto do but laugh and be merry. 

New Orleans in those days took naturally to a holiday; and a verylittle excuse made her put on her festal garments, and this day shehad the very best of reasons for her rejoicing. The hero of San Jacintowas coming to be her guest, and though he was at death's door withhis long-neglected wound, she was determined to meet him with songsof triumph. As he was carried in his cot through the crowded streetsto the house of the physician who was to attend to his shattered bone, shouts of acclamation rent the air. Men and women and little childrenpressed to the cotside, to touch his hand, or to look upon his noble, emaciated face. And though he had striven with things impossible, andwas worn to a shadow with pain and fever, he must have felt that"welcome" an over-payment for all his toil and suffering. 

Yet it was not alone General Houston that was honored that day by themen of New Orleans. He represented to them the heroes of the TexanThermopylae at the Alamo, the brave five hundred who had fallen incold-blooded massacre at Goliad, and the seven hundred who had stoodfor liberty and the inalienable rights of manhood at San Jacinto. Hewas not only Sam Houston; he was the ideal in whom men honored allthe noblest sentiments of humanity. 

A few friends accompanied him, and among them John Millard. On reachingTexas John had gone at once to Houston's side; and in days and nightsof such extremity as they shared together, friendship grows rapidly. Houston, like the best of great generals, had immense personalmagnetism, and drew close to him the brave and the honest-hearted. John gave him the love of a son for a father, and the homage of aSoldier for a great leader. He rode by his side to victory, and hecould not bear to leave him when he was in suffering and danger. 

Phyllis expected John, and the Bishop went into the city to meet him. O, how happy she was! She went from room to room re-arranging the lacecurtains, and placing every chair and couch in its prettiest position. The table on such holidays is a kind of altar, and she spread it withthe snowiest damask, the clearest crystal, and the brightest silver. She made it beautiful with fresh cool ferns and budding roses. OutsideNature had done her part. The orange-trees filled the air with subtlefragrance, and the warm south wind wafted it in waves of perfumethrough the open doors and windows. Every vine was in its first beauty, every tree and shrub had as yet its spring grace, that luminous emeraldtransparency which seems to make the very atmosphere green. The gardenwas wearing all its lilies and pansies and sweet violets, and the birdswere building, and shedding song upon every tree-top. 

To meet her lover, when that lover comes back from the battle-fieldwith the light of victory on his brow, what women will not put on allher beautiful garments? Phyllis's dark eyes held a wonderfully tenderlight, and the soft, rich pallor of her complexion took just the shadowof color from the dress of pale pink which fell in flowing lines toher small sandaled feet. A few white narcissus were at her belt andin her black hair, and a fairer picture of pure and graceful womanhoodnever gladdened a lover's heart. 

John had taken in and taken on, even in the few weeks of his absence, some of that peculiar air of independence which seems to be the spiritinfusing every thing in Texan land. "I can't help it, " he said, witha laugh; "it's in the air; the very winds are full of freedom; theyknow nothing will challenge them, and they go roving over the prairieswith a sound like a song. "

The Bishop had come back with John, but the Bishop was one of thoseold men who, while they gather the wisdom of age, can still keep theiryoung heart. After supper was over he said: "Phyllis, my daughter, let them put me a chair and a table under the live oaks by the cabins. I am going to have a class-meeting there to-night. That will give methe pleasure of making many hearts glad; and it will give John a coupleof hours to tell you all the wonderful things he is going to do. "

And there, two hours afterward, John and Phyllis went to find him. He was sitting under a great tree, with the servants in little ebonysquads around him at the doors of their white cabins; and singularlywhite they looked, under the swaying festoons of gray moss and in thesoft light; for the moon was far up in the zenith, calm and brightand worshipful. John and Phyllis stood together, listening to hisbenediction; Then they walked silently back to the house, wonderfullytouched by the pathos of a little "spiritual" that an old negressstarted, and whose whispering minor tones seemed to pervade all thegarden--

 "Steal away-steal away! Steal away to Jesus!"

And in those moments, though not a word was uttered, the hearts ofPhyllis and John were knitted together as no sensuous pleasure of danceor song could ever have bound them. Love touched the spiritual elementin each soul, and received its earnest of immortality. And lovers, who have had such experiences together, need never fear that chanceor change of life can separate them. 

"John, " said the Bishop, as they sat in the moonlight, "it is my turnnow. I want to hear about Texas and about Houston. Where did you meethim?"

"I met him falling back from the Colorado. I crossed the Buffalo Bayouat Vance's Bridge, just above San Jacinto, and rode west. Twenty milesaway I met the women and children of the western settlements, and theytold me that Houston was a little farther on, interposing himself andhis seven hundred men between the Mexican army and them. O, how myheart bled for them! They were footsore, hungry, and exhausted. Manyof the women were carrying sick children. The whole country behindthem had been depopulated, and their only hope was to reach the easternsettlements on the Trinity before Santa Anna's army overtook them. I could do nothing to help them, and I hasted onward to join thedefending party. I came up to it on the evening of the 20th of April--adesperate handful of men--chased from their homes by an overpoweringfoe, and quite aware that not only themselves, but their wives andchildren, were doomed by Santa Anna to an exterminating massacre. "

"What was your first impression of Houston, John?"

"That he was a born leader of men. He had the true imperial look. Hewas dressed in buckskin and an Indian blanket, and was leaning uponhis rifle, talking to some of his men. 'General, ' I said, 'I am avolunteer. I bring you a true heart and a steady rifle. '

"'You are welcome, sir, ' he answered. 'We are sworn to win our rights, or to die free men. Now, what do you say?'

"'That I am with you with all my soul. ' Then I told him that therewere two regiments on the way, and that the women of Nashville wereraising a company of young men, and that another company would startfrom Natchez within a week. 'Why, this is great news, ' he said; andhe looked me steadily in the face till both our eyes shone and ourhands met--I know not how--but I loved and trusted him. "

"I understand, John. When soldiers are few they draw close together. Forlorn hopes have their glad hours, and when men press hands beneaththe fire of batteries they touch souls also. It is war that gives usour brother-in-arms. The spiritual warfare knows this also, John. 

 "'O, these are moments, rare fair moments! Sing and shout, and use them well. '"

"The little band were without commissary and without transport; theywere half-clad and half-armed, and in the neighborhood of a powerfulenemy. They had been living three days upon ears of dried corn, butthey had the will of men determined to be free and the hearts ofheroes. I told them that the eyes of the whole country were on them, their sympathies with them, and that help was coming. And who do youthink was with them, father? The very soul and spirit of theirpurpose?"

"Some Methodist missionary, doubtless. "

"Henry Stephenson. He had been preaching and distributing Bibles fromSan Antonia to the Sabine River, and neither soldier nor priest couldmake him afraid. He was reading the Bible, with his rifle in his hand, when I first saw him--a tall, powerful man, with a head like a domeand an eye like an eagle. "

"Well, well, John; what would you?"

 "'In iron times God sends with mighty power, Iron apostles to make smooth his way. '

What did he say to you?"

"Nothing specially to me; but as we were lying around resting andwatching he spoke to all. 'Boys!' he said, 'I have been reading theword of the living God. We are his free-born sons, and the name ofour elder brother, Christ, can't be mixed up with any kind of tyranny, kingly or priestly; we won't have it. We are the children of theknife-bearing men who trampled kingly and priestly tyranny beneaththeir feet on the rocks of New England. We are fighting for our rightsand our homes, and for the everlasting freedom of our children. Strikelike men! The cause commends the blow!'"

"And I wish I had been there to strike, John; or, at least, tostrengthen and succor those who did strike. "

"We had no drums, or fifes, or banners in our little army; none ofthe pomp of war; nothing that helps and stimulates; but the preacherwas worth them all. "

"I can believe that. When we remember how many preachers bore armsin Cromwell's camps, there isn't much miracle in Marston Moor andWorcester fight. You were very fortunate to be in time for SanJacinto. "

"I was that. Fortune may do her worst, she cannot rob me of thathonor. "

"It was a grand battle. "

"It was more a slaughter than a battle. You must imagine Santa Annawith two thousand men behind their breastworks, and seven hundreddesperate Texans facing them. About noon three men took axes, and, mounting their horses, rode rapidly away. I heard, as they mounted, Houston say to them, 'Do your work, and come back like eagles, oryou'll be behind time for the fight. ' Then all was quiet for an houror two. About the middle of the afternoon; when Mexicans are usuallysleeping or gambling, we got the order to 'stand ready. ' In a fewmoments the three men who had left us at noon returned. They werecovered with foam and mire, and one of them was swinging an ax. Ashe came close to us he cried out, 'Vance's Bridge is cut down! Nowfight for your wives and your lives, and remember the Alamo!'

"Instantly Houston gave the order, 'Charge!' And the whole sevenhundred launched themselves on Santa Anna's breastworks like anavalanche. Then there was three minutes of smoke and fire and blood. Then a desperate hand-to-hand struggle. Our men had charged thebreastwork, with their rifles in their hands and their bowie-knivesbetween their teeth. When rifles and pistols had been discharged theyflung them away, rushed on the foe, and cut their path through a wallof living Mexicans with their knives. 'Remember the Alamo!' 'Rememberthe Goliad!' were the cries passed from mouth to mouth whenever theslaughter slackened. The Mexicans were panic-stricken. Of one column offive hundred Mexicans only thirty lived to surrender themselves asprisoners of war. "

"Was such slaughter needful, John?"

"Yes, it was needful, Phyllis. What do you say, father?"

"I say that we who shall reap where others sowed in blood and toil, must not judge the stern, strong hands that labored for us. God knowsthe kind of men that are needed for the work that is to be done. Peaceis pledged in war, and often has the Gospel path been laid o'er fieldsof battle. San Jacinto will be no barren deed; 'one death for freedommakes millions free!'"

"Did you lose many men, John?"

"The number of our slain is the miracle. We had seven killed and thirtywounded. It is incredible, I know; and when the report was made toHouston he asked, 'Is it a dream?'"

"But Houston himself was among the wounded, was he not?"

"At the very beginning of the fight a ball crashed through his ankle, and his horse also received two balls in its chest; but neither mannor horse faltered. I saw the noble animal at the close of theengagement staggering with his master over the heaps of slain. Houston, indeed, had great difficulty in arresting the carnage; far over theprairie the flying foe were followed, and at Vance's Bridge--to whichthe Mexicans fled, unaware of its destruction--there was an awfulscene. The bayou was choked with men and horses, and the water red asblood. "

"Ah, John; could you not spare the flying? Poor souls!"

"Daughter, keep your pity for the women and children who would havebeen butchered had these very men been able to do it! Give yoursympathy to the men who fell in their defense. Did you see Stephensonin the fight, John?"

John smiled. "I saw him after it. He had torn up every shirt he hadinto bandages, and was busy all night long among the wounded men. Inthe early dawn of the next day we buried our dead. As we piled thelast green sod above them the sun rose and flooded the graves withlight, and Stephenson turned his face to the east, and cried out, likesome old Hebrew prophet warrior:

 "'Praise ye the Lord for the avenging of Israel, when the people willingly offered themselves. '. .. 

 "'My heart is toward the governors of Israel, that offered themselves willingly among the people. Bless ye the Lord. '. .. 

 "'So let all thine enemies perish, O Lord: but let them that love him be as the sun when he goeth forth in his might. '"

"Verses from a famous old battle hymn, John. How that Hebrew book fitsitself to all generations! If is to humanity what the sunshine is tothe material world, new every day; as cheering to one generation asto another, suitable for all ages and circumstances. "

"I asked him where the verses were, and learned them. I want to forgetnothing pertaining to that day. Look here!" and John took a littlebox out of his pocket and, opening it, displayed one grain of Indiancorn. "Father, Phyllis, I would not part with that grain of corn forany money. "

"It has a story, I see, John. "

"I reckon it has. When Santa Anna, disguised as a peasant, and coveredwith the mud of the swamp in which he had been hiding, was broughtbefore Houston, I was there. Houston, suffering very keenly from hiswound, was stretched upon the ground among his officers. The Mexicanis no coward. He bowed with all his Spanish graces and complimentedHouston on the bravery of his small army, declaring; 'that he had neverbefore understood the American character. ' 'I see now, ' he said, layingboth his hands upon his breast, 'that it is impossible to enslavethem. ' Houston put his hand in his pocket and pulled out part of anear of corn. 'Sir, ' he asked, 'do you ever expect to conquer menfighting for freedom who can march four days with an ear of corn for aration?' Young Zavala looked at the corn, and his eyes filled. 'Senor, 'he said, 'give me, I pray you, one grain of that corn; I will plant andreplant it until my fields wave with it. ' We answered the request witha shout, and Houston gave it away grain by grain. Phyllis shall plantand watch mine. In two years one grain will give us enough to sow adecent lot, and, if we live, we shall see many a broad acre tasseledwith San Jacinto corn. "

"You must take me to see your general, John. "

"Bishop, we will go to-morrow. You are sure to like him--though, itis wonderful, but even now he has enemies. "

"Not at all wonderful, John. No man can be liked by every one. Godhimself does not please all; nay as men are, I think it may stand withdivinity to say He cannot. "

"He will like to see you, sir. He told me himself, that nearly allthe Texan colonies brought not only their religion, but their preacherswith them. He said it was these Protestant preachers who had fannedand kept alive the spirit of resistance to Spanish tyranny and to Romanpriest-craft. "

"I have not a doubt of it, John. You cannot have a free faith in anenslaved country. They knew that the way of the Lord must be prepared. 

 "'Their free-bred souls Went not with priests to school, To trim the tippet and the stole, And pray by printed rule. 

 "'And they would cast the eager word From their hearts fiery core, Smoking and red, as God had stirred The Hebrew men of yore. '"

During the next two weeks many similar conversations made the hoursto all three hearts something far more than time chopped up intominutes. There was scarcely a barren moment, and faith and hope andlove grew in them rapidly toward higher skies and wider horizons. ThenGeneral Houston was so much relieved that he insisted on going back toHis post, and John returned to Texas with him. 

But with the pleasant memories of this short, stirring visit, andfrequent letters from John and Richard, the summer passed rapidly toPhyllis. Her strength was nearly restored, and she went singing aboutthe house full of joy and of loving-kindness to all living things. The youngest servant on the place caught her spirit, and the flowersand sunshine and warmth all seemed a part of that ampler life andhappiness which had come to her. 

Richard returned in the fall. He had remained a little later than heintended in order to be present at Antony's marriage. "A very splendidaffair, indeed, " he said; "but I doubt if Lady Evelyn's heart was init. " It was rather provoking to Phyllis that Richard had taken entirelya masculine view of the ceremony, and had quite neglected to noticeall the small details which are so important in a woman's estimate. He could not describe a single dress. "It seemed as if every one worewhite, and made a vast display of jewelry. Pshaw! Phyllis, one weddingis just like another. "

"Not at all, Richard. Who married them?"

"There was a Bishop, a dean; and a couple of clergymen present. Iimagine the knot was very securely tied. "

"Was the squire present?"

"No. They were married from the earl's town house. The squire wasunable to take the journey. He was very quiet and somber about theaffair. "

"George Eltham, I suppose, was Antony's chief friend?"

"He was not there at all. The Elthams went to the Continent shortlybefore the wedding. It troubled the squire. "

"Why? What particular difference could it make?"

"He said to me that it was the beginning of a change which he feared. 'George will leave t' firm next. Antony ought to have married CicelyEltham. I know Eltham--he'll be angry at Cicely having been passedby--and he'll show it, soon or later, I'm sure. '"

"But Antony had a right to please himself. "

"I fancy that he had been very attentive to Miss Eltham. I remembernoticing something like it myself the summer you and I were first atHallam. "

"Elizabeth says, in her last letter, that they are in Paris. "

"Probably they are back in England by this time. Antony has taken avery fine mansion at Richmond. "

"Is the bride pretty?"

"Very--only cold and indifferent, also. I am almost inclined to saythat she was sad. "

Then they talked of John's visit, and the subject had a greatfascination for Richard. Perhaps Phyllis unconsciously described Texas, and Texan affairs, in the light of her own heart; it is certain thatRichard never wearied of hearing her talk upon the subject; and thefollowing spring he determined to see the country of which he had heardso much. John met him with a fine horse at the Buffalo Bayou, and theytook their course direct west to the Colorado. 

To one coming from the old world it was like a new world that had beenlying asleep for centuries. It had such a fresh odor of earth andclover and wild flowers. The clear pure air caused a peculiar buoyancyof spirits. The sky was perfectly blue, and the earth freshly green. The sunrises had the pomp of Persian mornings, the nights the softbright glory of the Texan moon. They rode for days over a prairiestudded with islands of fine trees, the grass smooth as a park, andbeautiful with blue salvias and columbines, with yellow coronella andsmall starry pinks, and near the numerous creeks the white featherytufts of the fragrant meadow-sweet. It looked like miles and milesof green rumpled velvet, full of dainty crinklings, mottled with palemaroon, and cuir, purple, and cream-color. 

"How beautiful is this place!" cried Richard, reverently; "surely thisis one of the many mansions of our Father! One would be ashamed tobe caught sinning or worrying in it!"

As they reached the pine sands the breeze was keener, and their spiritswere still more joyous and elastic. The golden dust of the pine flowerfloated round in soft clouds, and sunk gently down to the ground. Wasit not from the flower of the pine the old gods of Olympus extractedthe odorous resin with which they perfumed their nectar? And then, shortly afterward, they came to the magnificent rolling prairies ofthe Colorado, with their bottomless black soil, and their timberedcreeks, and their air full of the clean dainty scent of miles of wildhoneysuckle. 

"Now, Richard, drink--drink of the Colorado. It has a charm to lureyou back to Texas, no matter how far away you stray. Soon or later'the mustang feeling' will seize you, and you'll leave every thingand come back. Do you see yonder hilly roll, with the belt of timberat its foot?"

"Yes, I see it. "

"On its summit I am going to build a home--a long, low log-house, spreading out under the live oaks, and draped with honeysuckles. Phyllis helped me to draw the plan of it when I saw her last. The housewill be built, and the vines planted by the end of this year. Thenshe has promised to come. I hope you will be glad, Richard. "

"I shall be glad to see her and you happy. "

But although the pretty nest was built, and the vines growingluxuriantly, it was not until the close of 1838, nearly two years anda half after San Jacinto, that the lovers could venture to begin theirhousekeeping. The Indians hung persistently about the timber of theColorado, and it was necessary to keep armed men constantly on the'range' to protect the lives of the advance corps of Anglo-Americancivilization. During this time John was almost constantly in thesaddle, and Phyllis knew that it would be folly to add to hisresponsibility until his service was performed. 

As it frequently happens, one change brings another. While thepreparations were making for Phyllis's marriage, a letter arrived fromHallam which Richard could not refuse to answer in person. "My fatheris dying, " wrote Elizabeth, "and he wishes much to see you. " So themarriage was hurried forward, and took place in the last days ofSeptember. Some marriages do not much affect the old home, but thatof Phyllis was likely to induce many changes. She would take with herto Texas Harriet and several of the old servants; and there was noone to fill her place as mistress of the house, or as her brother'scompanion. So that when she thought of the cheery rooms, closed andsilent, she was glad that Richard had to leave them, until the firstshock of their separation was over. 

She went away with a pretty and cheerful eclat. A steamer had beenchartered to take the party and all their household belongings fromNew Orleans to Texas, for Phyllis was carrying much of her old lifeinto her new one. The deck was crowded with boxes of every description;the cabin full of a cheerful party who had gone down to send away thebride with blessings and good wishes. It seemed all sad enough toRichard. After our first youth we have lost that recklessness of changeWhich throws off the old and welcomes the new without regret. The pasthad been so happy, what the future might be none could tell. 

He turned his face eastward without much hope. Elizabeth's letter hadbeen short and inexplicit. "She would see him soon; letters never fullyexplained any thing. " He arrived at Hallam toward the end of October, and having come by an earlier packet than had been named, he was notexpected, and there was no one at the coach to meet him. It was oneof those dying days of summer when there is a pale haze over the brownbare fields of the gathered harvests. Elizabeth was walking on theterrace; he saw her turn and come unconsciously toward him. She waspale and worn, and an inexpressible sadness was in her face. But thesurprise revealed the full beauty and tenderness of her soul. "O, Richard! Richard! my love! my love!" and so saying, she came forwardwith hands outstretched and level palms; and the rose came blushinginto her cheeks, and the love-light into her eyes; and when Richardkissed her, she whispered, "Thank God you are come! I am so glad!"

People are apt to suppose that in old countries and among the wealthyclasses years come and go and leave few traces. The fact is that nofamily is precisely in the same circumstances after an interval ofa year or two. Gold cannot bar the door against sorrow, and tapestryand eider-down have no covenant with change. Richard had not been manyhours in Hallam when he felt the influence of unusual currents andthe want of customary ones. The squire's face no longer made a kindof sunshine in the big, low rooms and on the pleasant terraces. Hewas confined to his own apartments, and there Richard went to talkto him. But he was facing death with a calm and grand simplicity. "I'dhev liked to hev lived a bit longer, Richard, if it hed been _Hiswill_; but he knows what's best. I s'all answer willingly when hecalls me. He knows t' right hour to make t' change; I'd happen orderit too soon or too late. Now sit thee down, and tell me about thislast fight for liberty. Phyllis hes fair made my old heart burn andbeat to t' varry name o' Texas. I'm none bound by Yorkshire, thoughI do think it's the best bit o' land on t' face o' t' world. And Ilike to stand up for t' weakest side--that's Yorkshire! If I hed knownnowt o' t' quarrel, I'd hev gone wi' t' seven hundred instead o' t'two thousand; ay, would I!" Decay had not touched his mind or hisheart; his eyes flashed, and he spoke out with all the fervor of hisyouth: "If I'd nobbut been a young man when a' this happened, I'm varrysure I'd hev pitch'd in and helped 'em. It's natural for Englishmen tohate t' Spaniards and Papists. Why, thou knows, we've hed some tussleswi' them ourselves; and Americans are our children, I reckon. "

"Then Texans are your grandchildren; Texas is an American colony. "

"They hed t' sense to choose a varry fine country, it seems. If I wasyoung again, I'd travel and see more o' t' world. But when I was thyage folks thought t' sun rose and set i' England; that they did. "

He was still able, leaning upon Richard's arm, to walk slowly up anddown his room, and sometimes into the long, central gallery, wherethe likenesses of the older Hallams hung. He often visited them, pausing before individuals: "I seem ta be getting nearer to them, Richard, " he said, one day; "I wonder if they know that I'm coming. "

"I remember reading of a good man who, when he was dying, said to somepresence invisible to mortal eyes, 'Go! and tell my dead, I come!'"

"I would like to send a message to my father and mother, and to mydear wife, and my dead son, Edward. It would be a varry pleasant thingto see a face you know and loved after that dark journey. "

"I have read that

 "'Eyes watch us that we cannot see, Lips warn us that we may not kiss, They wait for us, and starrily Lean toward us, from heaven's lattices. '"

"That's a varry comforting thought, Richard. Thou sees, as I draw nearto t' other life, I think more about it; and t' things o' this lifethat used to worry me above a bit, hev kind of slipped away from me. "

It seemed to be very true that the things of this life had slippedaway from him. Richard expected him every day to speak about Hallamand Elizabeth; but week after week passed, and he did not name theestate. As Christmas drew near he was, however, much excited. LadyEvelyn was expected, and she was to bring with her Antony's son, whohad been called after the squire. He longed to see the child, and atonce took him to his heart. And he was a very beautiful boy, brightand bold, and never weary of lisping, "Gran'pa. "

One night, after the nurse had taken him away, the squire, who wasalone with Richard, said, "I commit that little lad to thy care, Richard; see he hes his rights, and do thy duty by him. "

"If his father dies I will do all I am permitted to do. "

"For sure; I forgot. What am I saying? There's Antony yet. He wantsHallam back. What does ta say?"

"I should be glad to see him in his place. "

"I believe thee. Thou wilt stand by Elizabeth?"

"Until death. "

"I believe thee. There's a deal o' Hallam in thee, Richard. Do thyduty by t' old place. "

"I will. You may trust me, uncle. "

"I do. That's a' that is to be said between thee and me. It's a bito' comfort to hev heard thee speak out so straightfor'ard. God blessthee, nephew Richard!"

He brightened up considerably the week before Christmas, and watchedElizabeth and Lady Evelyn deck his room with box and fir and holly. The mother was quiet and very undemonstrative, but she attached herselfto the dying man, and he regarded her with a pitying tenderness, forwhich there appeared to be no cause whatever. As she carried away herboy in her arms on Christmas-eve, he looked sadly after her, and, touching Elizabeth's hand, said, "Be varry good to her, wilt ta?"

They had all spent an hour with him in honor of the festival, and aboutseven o'clock he went to bed. Richard knew that the ladies would beoccupied for a short time with some Christmas arrangements for thepoor of the village, and he remained with the squire. The sick manfell into a deep sleep, and Richard sat quiet, with his eyes fixedupon the glowing embers. Suddenly, the squire spoke out clear andstrong--"Yes, father, I am coming!"

In the dim chamber there was not a movement. Richard glanced at thebed. His uncle's eyes were fixed upon him. He went to his side andgrasped his hand. 

"Did you hear him call me?"

"I heard no one speak but you. "

"My father called me, Richard. "

Richard fully believed the dying man. He stooped to his face and said, cheerfully, "You will not go alone then, dear uncle; I am glad foryour sake!"

"Ay; it's nearly time to go. It's a bit sudden at last; but I'm ready. I wish Antony hed got here; tell them to come, and to bring t' littlelad. "

There was no disputing the change in the face, the authority of thevoice. Gently they gathered around him, and Elizabeth laid the sleepingchild on a pillow by his side. Richard saw him glance at the chubbylittle hand stretched out, and he lifted it to the squire's face. Thedying man kissed it, and smilingly looked at Elizabeth. Then he lethis eyes wander to Richard and his daughter-in-law. 

"Good-bye, all!" he whispered, faintly, and almost with the pleasantwords upon his lips he went away. 

In a few hours the Christmas waits came singing through the park, andthe Christmas bells filled the air with jubilant music; but SquireHenry Hallam had passed far beyond the happy clamor. He had gone hometo spend the Christmas feast with the beloved who were waiting forhim; with the just made perfect; with the great multitude which noman can number. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

 "We are here to fight the battle of life, not to shirk it. "

 "The last days of my life until to-day, What were they, could I see them on the street Lie as they fell. Would they be ears of wheat Sown once for food, but trodden into clay? Or golden coins squandered and still to pay?"

 "The only way to look bravely and prosperously forward is never tolook back. "

Antony arrived at Hallam about an hour after the squire's death. Hewas not a man of quick affections, but he loved his father. He wasgrieved at his loss, and he was very anxious as to the dispositionof the estate. It is true that he had sold his birthright, but yethe half expected that both his father and sister would at the lastbe opposed to his dispossession. The most practical of men on everyother subject, he yet associated with his claim upon Hallam all kindsof romantic generosities. He felt almost sure that, when the will cameto be read, he would find Hallam left to him, under conditions whichhe could either fulfill or set aside. It seemed, after all, apreposterous thing to leave a woman in control of such a property whenthere were already two male heirs. And Hallam had lately grown steadilyupon his desires. He had not found money-making either the pleasant oreasy process he had imagined it would be; in fact, he had had more thanone great disappointment to contend against. 

As the squire had foreseen, his marriage with Lady Evelyn had notturned out well for him in a financial way. Lord Eltham, within a yearafter it, found a lucrative position in the colonies for his sonGeorge, and advised his withdrawal from the firm of "Hallam & Eltham. "The loss of so much capital was a great blow to the young house, andhe did not find in the Darragh connection any equivalent. No one coulddeny that Antony's plans were prudent, and dictated by a far-seeingpolicy; but perhaps he looked too far ahead to rightly estimate thecontingencies in the interval. At any rate, after the withdrawal ofGeorge Eltham, it had been, in the main with him, a desperate struggle, and undoubtedly, Lord Eltham, by the very negation of his manner, bythe raising of an eye-lash, or the movement of a shoulder, had madethe struggle frequently harder than it ought to have been. 

Yet Antony was making a brave fight for his position; if he could holdon, he might compel success. People in this age have not the time tobe persistently hostile. Lord Eltham might get into power; a scoreof favorable contingencies might arise; the chances for him were atleast equal to those against him. Just at this time his successionto the Hallam estate might save him. He was fully determined if itdid come into his power never to put an acre of it in danger; but itwould represent so much capital in the eyes of the men with whom hehad to count sovereigns. 

And in his suspense he was half angry with Elizabeth. He thought shemust divine his feelings, and might say a word which would relievethem, if she chose. He watched Richard jealously. He was sure thatRichard would be averse to his future wife relinquishing any of herrights, and he could scarcely restrain the bitterness of his thoughtswhen he imagined Richard master of Hallam. And Richard, quite innocentof any such dream, preserved a calmness of manner, which Antony tookto be positive proof of his satisfaction with affairs. 

At length the funeral was over, and the will of the late squire madeknown. It was an absolute and bitter disappointment to Antony. "Agood-will remembrance" of L1, 000 was all that was left him; exceptingthe clause which enjoined Elizabeth to resell Hallam to him forL50, 000, "if it seem reasonable and right so to do. " Elizabeth was infull possession and her father had taken every precaution to secure herrights, leaving her also practically unfettered as to the finaldisposition of the property. 

But her situation was extremely painful, and many openly sympathizedwith Antony. "To leave such a bit o' property as Hallam to a lass!"was against every popular tradition and feeling. Antony was regardedas a wronged man; and Richard as a plotting interloper, who added toall his other faults the unpardonable one of being a foreigner, "witha name that no Yorkshireman iver did hev?" This public sympathy, whichhe could see in every face and feel in every hand-shake, somewhatconsoled Antony for the indifference his wife manifested on thesubject. 

"If you sold your right, you sold it, " she said, coldly; "it was astrange thing to do, but then you turn every thing into money. "

But to Elizabeth and Richard he manifested no ill-will. "Both of themmight yet be of service to him;" for Antony was inclined to regardevery one as a tool, which, for some purpose or other, he might wantin the future. 

He went back to London an anxious and disappointed man. There was alsoin the disappointment an element of humiliation. A large proportionof his London friends were unaware of his true position; and when, naturally enough, he was congratulated on his supposed accession tothe Hallam property, he was obliged to decline the honor. There wasfor a few days a deal of talk in the clubs and exchanges on thesubject, and many suppositions which were not all kindly ones. Suchgossip in a city lasts but a week; but, unfortunately, the influence isfar more abiding. People ceased to talk of the Hallam succession, butthey remembered it, if brought into business contact with Antony, andit doubtless affected many a transaction. 

In country places a social scandal is more permanent and morepersonally bitter. Richard could not remain many days ignorant of thedislike with which he was regarded. Even Lord Eltham, in this matter, had taken Antony's part. "Squire Hallam were always varry queer inhis ways, " he said; "but it beats a', to leave a property like Hallamto a lass. Whativer's to come o' England if t' land is put under women?I'd like to know that!"

"Ay; and a lass that's going to wed hersel' wi' a foreign man. I reckonnowt o' her. Such like goings on don't suit my notions, Eltham. "

Just at this point in the conversation Richard passed the gossipingsquires. He raised his hat, but none returned the courtesy. AYorkshireman has, at least, the merit of perfect honesty in his likesand dislikes; and if Richard had cared to ask what offense he hadgiven, he would have been told his fault with the frankestdistinctness. 

But Richard understood the feeling, and could afford to regard ittolerantly. "With their education and their inherited prejudices Ishould act the same, " he thought, "and how are they to know that Ihave positively refused the very position they suspect me of plottingto gain?"

But he told Elizabeth of the circumstance, and upon it based theconversation as to their future, which he had been anxiously desirousto have. "You must not send me away again, love, upon a generalpromise. I think it is my right to understand clearly what you intendabout Hallam, and how soon you will become my wife. "

She answered with a frank affection that delighted him: "We must giveone year to my father's memory; then, Richard, come for me as soonas you desire. "

"Say twelve months hence. "

"I will be waiting for you. "

"You will go with me to New Orleans?"

"I will go with you wherever you go. Your God shall be my God; yourhome, my home, Richard. "

"My dear Elizabeth! I am the proudest and happiest man in the world!"

"And I, Richard; am I not happy, also? I have chosen you freely, Ilove you with all my heart. "

"Have you considered well what you give up?"

"I have put you against it. My gain is incalculably greater than myloss. "

"What will you do about Hallam?"

"I shall hold Hallam for Antony; and if he redeem it honorably, noone will rejoice more truly than I shall. If he fail to do this, Iwill hold it for Antony's son. I most solemnly promised my father tosave Hallam for Hallam, if it was possible to do so wisely. He toldme always to consult with Whaley and with you; and he has left allto our honor and our love. "

"I will work with you, Elizabeth. I promised your father I would. "

"I told Antony that I only held the estate for him, or his; but hedid not believe me. "

"When I come for you, what is to be done with it?"

"Whaley will take charge of it. The income will be in the meantimelawfully ours. Father foresaw so many 'ifs' and contingencies, thathe preferred to trust the future welfare of Hallam to us. As eventschange or arise, we must meet them with all the wisdom that love cancall forth. "

Perhaps, considering all things, Richard had, after this explanation, as sure a hope for his future as he could expect. He left Hallam fullof happy dreams and plans, and as soon as he reached his home beganthe improvements which were to make it beautiful for his wife. It hadits own charm and fitness; its lofty rooms, furnished in cane andIndian matting; its scented dusk, its sweet breezes, its wealth offlowers and foliage. Whatever love could do to make it fair Richarddid; and it pleased him to think that his wife would come to it inthe spring of the year, that the orange-trees would be in bloom tomeet her, and the mocking-birds be pouring out their fiery littlehearts in melodious welcomes. 

Elizabeth was just as happy in her preparations; there was a kind ofmystery and sacredness about them, for a thoughtful woman is stillin her joy, and not inclined to laughter or frivolity. But happy isthe man whose bride thus dreams of him, for she will bring into hishome and life the repose of a sure affection, the cheerfulness of awell-considered purpose. Their correspondence was also peculiarlypleasant. 

Elizabeth threw aside a little of her reserve. She spoke freely toRichard of all her plans and fears and hopes. She no longer was shyin admitting her affection for him, her happiness in his presence, her loneliness without him. It was easy for Richard to see that shewas gladly casting away every feeling that stood between them. 

One morning, at the end of October, Elizabeth put on her mantle andbonnet and went to see Martha Craven. She walked slowly, as a personwalks who has an uncertain purpose. Her face had a shadow on it; shesighed frequently, and was altogether a different Elizabeth from theone who had gone, two days before, the same road with quick, firm treadand bright, uplifted face. Martha saw her coming, and hasted to openthe gate; but when Elizabeth perceived that Ben's wife was within, she said, "Nay, Martha, I don't want to stay. Will you walk back partof the way with me?"

"Ay, for sure! I'll nobbut get my shawl, Miss Hallam. I was turningthee over i' my mind when, I saw thee coming. Is there aught wrong?"

"Why do you ask, Martha?"

"Nay, I'm sure I can't tell; only I can see fine that thou ar'n't sameas thou was yesterday. "

They were just entering the park, and Elizabeth stood musing whileMartha closed the gates. Then, after walking a few yards, she said, "Martha, do you believe the dead can speak to the living?"

"Ay, I do. If t' living will hear, t' dead will speak. There's goodmen--and John Wesley among 'em--who lived w' one foot i' this world, and one in t' other. I would think man or woman hed varry little o't' next world about 'em, who hed nivver seen or heard any thing fromit. Them that hev sat weeping on their bedside at midnight--them thathev prayed death away from t' cradle side--them that hev wrestled a'night long, as Jacob did, they know whether t' next world visits thisworld or not. Hev you seen aught, Miss Hallam?"

"I have seen my father, Martha. Indeed I have. "

"I don't doubt it, not a minute. He'd hev a reason for coming. "

"He came to remind me of a duty and to strengthen me for it. Ah, Martha, Martha! If this cup could pass from me! if this cup could passfrom me!"

"Honey, dear, what can Martha do for thee? Ivery Christian some timeor other comes to Gethsemane. I hev found that out. Let this cup pass, Lord. Didn't I pray that prayer mysen, night and day?"

"Surely, Martha, about Ben--and God let it pass. But he does not alwayslet it pass when we ask him. "

"Then he does what is happen better--if we hev t' heart to trust him--he sends an angel to strengthen us to drink it. I hev seen them asdrank it wi' thanksgiving. "

"O Martha! I am very, very sorrowful about it. "

"And varry often, dearie, it is God's will for us to go forward--thouknows what I mean--to make a Calvary of our breaking hearts, and offerthere t' sacrifice that is dearest and hardest. Can ta tell me whatta fears, dearie?"

"Just what you say, Martha, that I must pass from Gethsemane toCalvary, and sacrifice there what is my dearest, sweetest hope; andI shall have to bear it alone. "

"Nay, thou wont. It isn't fair o' thee to say that; for thou knowsbetter. My word, Miss Hallam, there's love above and below, andstrength all round about. If thee and me didn't believe that, O whata thing it would be!"

"Martha, I may need help, the help of man and the help of woman. CanI trust to Ben and you?"

"I can speak for both of us. We'll wear our last breath i' yourservice. Neither Ben nor I are made o' stuff that'll shrink in t'wetting. You can count on that, Miss Hallam. "

The next evening, just after dusk, Elizabeth was standing at thedining-room window. The butler had just arranged the silver upon thesideboard, and was taking some last orders from his mistress. He wasan old man with many infirmities, both of body and temper, but he hadserved Hallam for fifty years, and was permitted many privileges. Oneof these was plain speech; and after a moment's consideration uponthe directions given him, he said:

"There's summat troubling _them_ as are dead and gone, MissHallam. If I was thee, I'd hev Mr. Antony come and do his duty by t'land. _They_ don't like a woman i' their shoes. "

"What are you talking about, Jasper?"

"I know right well what I'm talking about, Miss Hallam. What does t'Bible say? T' old men shall see visions--" He had advanced toward thewindow to draw the blinds, but Elizabeth, with a face pale as ashes, turned quickly to him and said:

"Leave the blinds alone, Jasper. "

She stood between him and the window, and he was amazed at the changein her face. "She's like 'em a', " he muttered, angrily, as he wentto his own sitting-room. "You may put a bridle in t' wind's mouth aseasy as you'll guide a woman. If I hed been t' young squire, I'd hevbrokken t' will a' to bits, that I would. 'Leave t' blinds alone, Jasper!' Highty-tighty, she is. But I've saved a bit o' brass, and I'llnone stand it, not I!"

So little do we know of the motives of the soul at our side! Elizabethwas very far, indeed, from either pride or anger. But she had seenin the dim garden, peering out from the shrubbery, a white face thatfilled her with a sick fear. Then she had but one thought, to getJasper out of the room, and was quite unconscious of having spokenwith unusual anger or authority. 

When he had gone she softly turned the key in the door, put out thecandles, and went to the window. In a few minutes Antony stood facingher, and by a motion, asked to be admitted. 

"I don't want any one to know I have been here, " he said, as he stoodtrembling before the fire. "It is raining, I am wet through, shivering, hungry. Elizabeth, why don't you speak?"

"Why are you here--in this way?"

She could hardly get the words out. Her tongue was heavy, her speechas difficult as if she had been in some terror-haunted dream. 

"Because I am going away--far away--forever. I wanted to see youfirst. "

"Antony! My brother! Antony, what have you done!"

"Hush, hush. Get me some food and dry clothes. "

"Go to my room. You are safer there. "

He slipped up the familiar stair, and Elizabeth soon followed him. "Here is wine and sweet-bread. I cannot get into the pantry or callfor food without arousing remark. Antony, what is the matter?"

"I am ruined. Eltham and those Darraghs together have done it. "

"Thank God! I feared something worse. "

"There is worse. I have forged two notes. Together they make nearlyL19, 000. The first falls due in three days. I have no hope ofredeeming it. I am going to the other end of the world. I am glad togo, for I am sick of every thing here. I'll do well yet. You will helpme, Elizabeth?"

She could not answer him. 

"For our father's sake, for our mother's sake, you must help me away. It will be transportation for life. O, sister, give me another chance. I will put the wrong all right yet. "

By this time she had gathered her faculties together. 

"Yes, I'll help you, dear. Lie down and rest. I will go to Martha. I can trust the Cravens. Is it Liverpool you want to reach?"

"No, no; any port but Liverpool. "

"Will Whitehaven do?"

"The best of all places. "

"I will return as quickly as possible. "

"But it is raining heavily, and the park is so gloomy. Let me go withyou. "

"I must go alone. "

He looked at her with sorrow and tenderness and bitter shame. Her faceshowed white as marble against the dead black of her dress, but therewas also in it a strength and purpose to which he fully trusted. 

"I must ring for my maid and dismiss her, and you had better go toyour own old room, Antony;" and as he softly trod the corridor, linedwith the faces of his forefathers, Elizabeth followed him in thought, and shuddered at the mental picture she evoked. 

Then she rang her bell, gave some trivial order, and excused her maidfor the night. A quarter of an hour afterward she was hastening throughthe park, scarcely heeding the soaking rain, or the chill, or darkness, in the pre-occupation of her thoughts. She had flung a thick shawlover her head and shoulders, a fashion so universal as to greatlylessen her chance of being observed, and when she came to the parkgates she looked up and down for some circumstance to guide her furthersteps. She found it in the lighted windows of the Methodist chapel. There was evidently a service there, and Martha would be present. Ifshe waited patiently she would pass the gates, and she could call her. 

But it was a wretched hour before Martha came, and Elizabeth was wetand shivering and sick with many a terror. Fortunately Martha wasalone, and the moment Elizabeth spoke she understood, without surpriseor explanations, that there was trouble in which she could help. 

"Martha, where is Ben?"

"He stopp'd to t' leaders' meeting. He'll be along in a little bit. "

"Can he bring a wool-comber's suit and apron, and be at the gates, here, with-his tax-cart in a couple of hours?"

"Yes; I know he can. "

"Martha, can you get me some bread and meat, without any one knowing?"

"Ay; I can. Mary'll be up stairs wi' t' baby, I'se warrant. I'll beback wi' it, i' five minutes;" and she left Elizabeth walkingrestlessly just inside the gates. The five minutes looked an hour toher, but in reality Martha returned very speedily with a small basketof cold meat and bread. 

"My brother, Martha, my brother, will be here in two hours. See thatBen is ready. He must be in Whitehaven as soon as possible to-morrow. Don't forget the clothes. "

"I'll forget nothing that's needful. Ben'll be waiting. God help, you, Miss Hallam!"

Elizabeth answered with a low cry, and Martha watched her a momenthastening through the rain and darkness, ere she turned back towardthe chapel to wait for Ben. 

A new terror seized Elizabeth as she returned. What if Jasper hadlocked the doors? How would it be possible for her to account for herstrange absence from the house at that hour? But Antony had alsothought of this, and after the main doors had been closed he had softlyundone a side entrance, and watched near it for his sister's return. His punishment begun when he saw her wretched condition; but therewas no time then for either apologies or reproaches. 

"Eat, " she said, putting the basket before him; "and Ben will be atthe gates with his tax-cart. He will take you to Whitehaven. "

"Can I trust Ben?"

She looked at him sadly. "You must have been much wronged, Antony, to doubt the Cravens. "

"I have. "

"God pity and pardon you. "

He ate in silence, glancing furtively at his sister, who sat whiteand motionless opposite him. There was no light but the fire-light;and the atmosphere of the room had that singular sensitiveness thatis apparent enough when the spiritual body is on the alert. It feltfull of "presence;" was tremulous, as if stirred by wings; and seemedto press heavily, and to make sighing a relief. 

After Antony had eaten he lay down upon a couch and fell into an uneasysleep, and so continued, until Elizabeth touched him, and said, softly, "It is time, my dear. Ben will be waiting. " Then he stood up and lookedat her. She took his hands, she threw her arms around his neck, shesobbed great, heavy, quiet sobs against his breast. She felt that itwas a last farewell--that she would never see his face again. 

And Antony could not restrain himself. He kissed her with despairinggrief. He made passionate promises of atonement. He came back threetimes to kiss once more the white cold face so dear to him, and eachtime he kissed a prayer for his safety and pardon off her lips. Atthe last moment he said, "Your love is great, Elizabeth. My littleboy! I have wronged him shamefully. "

"He shall be my child. He shall never know shame. I will take the mostloving care of his future. You may trust him to me, Antony. "

Then he went away. Elizabeth tried to see him from the window, butthe night was dark, and he kept among the shrubbery. At such hoursthe soul apprehends and has presentiments and feelings which it obeyswithout analyzing them. She paced the long corridor, feeling no chilland no fear, and seeming to see clearly the pictured faces around her. She was praying; and among them she did not feel as if she was prayingaloud. She remembered in that hour many things that her father hadsaid to her about Antony. She knew then the meaning of that strangecry on her mother's dying lips--"A far country! Bring my son home!"

For an hour or two it was only Antony's danger and shame, only Antony'scrime, she could think of. But when the reaction came she perceivedthat she must work as well as pray. Two questions first suggestedthemselves for her solution. 

Should she go to Whaley for advice, or act entirely on her ownresponsibility?

Would she be able to influence Page and Thorley, the bankers who heldher brother's forged notes, by a personal visit?

She dismissed all efforts at reasoning, she determined to let herselfbe guided by those impressions which we call "instinct. " She couldnot reason, but she tried to feel. And she felt most decidedly thatshe would have no counselor but her own heart. She, would doubtlessdo what any lawyer would call "foolish things;" but that was a casewhere "foolishness" might be the highest wisdom. She said to herself, "My intellect is often at fault, but where Antony and Hallam areconcerned I am sure that I can trust my heart. "

As to Page and Thorley, she knew that they had had frequently businesstransactions with her father. Mr. Thorley had once been at the hall;he would know thoroughly the value of the proposal she intended makingthem; and, upon the whole, it appeared to be the wisest plan to seethem personally. In fact, she did not feel as if she could endure thedelay and the uncertainty of a correspondence on the subject. 

The morning of the second day after Antony's flight she was in London. In business an Englishman throws over politeness. He says, "How doyou do?" very much as if he was saying, "Leave me alone;" and he isnot inclined to answer questions, save, by "yes" or "no. " Elizabethperceived at once that tears or weakness would damage her cause, andthat the only way to meet Antony's wrong was to repair it, and to dothis in the plainest and simplest manner possible. 

"I am Miss Hallam. "

"Take a seat, Miss Hallam. "

"You hold two notes of my brothers, one purporting to be drawn by LordEltham for L9, 000; the other by Squire Francis Horton for L9, 600. "

"Yes; why 'purporting?'"

"They are forgeries. "

"My--! Miss Hallam, do you know what you are saying?"

"I do. My brother has left England. He is ruined. "

"I told you, Page!" said Thorley, with much irritation; "but you wouldbelieve the rascal. "

Elizabeth colored painfully, and Mr. Thorley said, "You must excuseme, Miss Hallam--"

"This is not a question for politeness, but business. I will pay thebills. You know I am sole proprietor of Hallam. "

"Yes. "

"The case is this. If you suffer the notes to be protested, and thelaw to take its course, you will get nothing. You may punish Mr. Hallam, if you succeed in finding him; but will not the money be betterfor you?"

"We have duties as citizens, Miss Hallam. "

"There has been no wrong done which I cannot put right. No one knowsof this wrong but ourselves. I might plead mercy for so young a man, might tell you that even justice sometimes wisely passes by a fault, might remind you of my father and the unsullied honor of an old name;yes, I might say all this, and more, but I only say, will you let meassume the debt, and pay it?"

"How do you propose to do this, Miss Hallam?"

"The income from the estate is about L5, 000 a year. I will make itover to you. "

"How will you live?"

"That is my affair. "

"There may be very unpleasant constructions put upon your conduct--forit will not be understood. "

"I am prepared for that. "

"Will you call for our answer in three hours?"

"Will you promise me to take no steps against my brother in theinterim?"

"Yes; we can do that. But if we refuse your offer, Miss Hallam?"

"I must then ask your forbearance until I see Lord Eltham and SquireHorton. The humiliation will be very great, but they will not refuseme. "

She asked permission to wait in an outer office, and Mr. Page, passingthrough it an hour afterward, was so touched by the pathetic motionlessfigure in deep mourning, that he went back to his partner, and said, "Thorley, we are going to agree to Miss Hallam's proposal; why keepher in suspense?"

"There is no need. It is not her fault in any way. "

But Elizabeth was obliged to remain two days in London before thenecessary papers were drawn out and signed, and they were days ofconstant terror and anguish. She went neither to Antony's house, norto his place of business; but remained in her hotel, so anxious onthis subject, that she could not force her mind to entertain any other. At length all was arranged, and it did comfort her slightly that bothPage and Thorley were touched by her grief and unselfishness into aspontaneous expression of their sympathy with her:

"You have done a good thing, Miss Hallam, " said Mr. Page, "and Pageand Thorley fully understand and appreciate your motives;" and thekind faces and firm hand-clasps of the two men brought such a lookinto Elizabeth's sorrowful eyes, that they both turned hurriedly awayfrom her. During her journey home she slept heavily most of the way;but when she awoke among the familiar hills and dales, it was as ifshe had been roused to consciousness by a surgeon's knife. A quickpang of shame and terror and a keen disappointment turned her heartsick; but with it came also a sense of renewed courage and strength, and a determination to face and conquer every trouble before her. 

Jasper met her, and he looked suspiciously at her. For his part, hedistrusted all women, and he could not understand why his mistresshad found it necessary to go to London. But he was touched in his wayby her white, weary face, and he busied himself in making the fireburn bright, and in setting out her dinner table with all the womanlydelicacies he knew she liked. If Elizabeth could only have fullytrusted him, Jasper would have been true as steel to her, a very sureand certain friend; but he resented trouble from which he was shutout, and he was shrewd enough to feel that it was present, thoughhidden from him. 

"Has any one been here while I was, absent, Jasper?"

"Ay, Squire Fairleigh and Miss Fairleigh called; and Martha Cravenwas here this morning. I think Martha is talking wi' Nancy Bates now--she looked a bit i' trouble. It's like Ben's wife hes hed a fuss wi'her!"

"I think not, Jasper. Tell her I wish to see her. "

The two women stood looking at each other a moment, Elizabeth tremblingwith anxiety, Martha listening to the retreating steps of Jasper. 

"It is a' as you wished, Miss Hallam. "

"Is Ben back?"

"Ay, early this morning. "

"Did he meet any one he knew?"

"He met Tim Hardcastle just outside Hallam, _that night_. Timsaid, 'Thou's late starting wheriver to, Ben;' and Ben said, 'Nay, I'm early. If a man wants a bit o' good wool he's got to be after it. 'This morning he came back wi' tax-cart full o' wool. "

"And my brother?"

"He sailed from Whitehaven yesterday. "

"To what place?"

"Ben asked no questions. If he doesn't know where Mr. Hallam went to, he can't say as he does. It's best to know nowt, if you are asked. "

"O Martha!"

"Hush, dearie! Thou must go and sleep now. Thou's fair worn out. To-morrow'll do for crying. "

But sleep comes not to those who call it. Elizabeth in the darknesssaw clearly, in the silence felt, the stir and trouble of a stormysea surging up to her feet. It was not sleep she needed, so much asthat soul-repose which comes from a decided mind. Her attitude towardher own little world and toward Richard was still uncertain. She hadnot felt able to face either subject as yet. 

Two days after her return the papers were full of her brother's failureand flight. Many hard things were said of Antony Hallam; and menforgave more easily the reckless speculation which had robbed them, than the want of manly courage which had made him fly from theconsequences of his wrongdoing. It was a bitter ordeal for a womanas proud as Elizabeth to face alone. But she resented most of all thatdebt of shame which had prevented her devoting the income of Hallamto the satisfaction of her brother's creditors. For them she coulddo nothing, and some of them were wealthy farmers and traders livingin the neighborhood of Hallam, and who had had a blind faith in theintegrity and solvency of a house with a Hallam at the head of it. These men began to grumble at their loss, and to be quite sure that"t' old squire would nivver hev let 'em lose a farthing;" and to lookso pointedly at Miss Hallam, even on Sundays, that she felt the roadto and from church a way of sorrow and humiliation. 

Nor could she wholly blame them. She knew that her father's good namehad induced these men to trust their money with Antony; and she knew, also, that her father would have been very likely to have done as theywere constantly asserting he would--"mortgage his last acre to paythem. " And she could not explain that terrible first claim to them, since she had decided to bear every personal disgrace anddisappointment, rather than suffer the name of Hallam to be draggedthrough the criminal courts, and associated with a felon. 

Not even to Whaley, not even to Richard, would she tell the shamefulsecret; therefore she must manage her own affairs, and this wouldnecessarily compel her to postpone, perhaps relinquish altogether, her marriage. Her first sorrowful duty was to write to Richard. Hegot the letter one lovely morning in November. He was breakfastingon the piazza and looking over some estimates for an addition to theconservatory. He was angry and astonished. What could Elizabeth meanby another and an indefinite delay? He was far from regarding Antony'sfailure as a never-to-be-wiped-out stain, and he was not muchastonished at his flight. He had never regarded Antony as a man ofmoral courage, or even of inflexible moral principles, and he failedto see how Antony's affairs should have the power to overthrow hisplans. But Elizabeth positively forbid him to come; positively assertedthat her marriage, at a time of such public shame and disapproval, would be a thing impossible to contemplate. She said that she herselfhad no desire for it, and that every instinct of her nature forbidher to run away from her painful position, and thus incur the chargeof cowardice which had been so freely attached to Antony. It was truethat the positive sternness of these truths were softened by adespairing tenderness, a depth of sorrow and disappointment, and anavowal of undying love and truth which it was impossible to doubt. Butthis was small comfort to the young man. His first impulse was one ofextreme weariness of the whole affair. He had been put off from year toyear, until he felt it a humiliation to accept any further excuses. Andthis time his humiliation would in a measure be a public one. Hispreparations for marriage were widely known, for he had spoken freelyto his friends of the event. He had spent a large sum of money inadding to and in decorating his home. It was altogether a climax ofthe most painful nature to him. 

Elizabeth had fully released him from every obligation, but at thesame time she had declared that her whole life would be consecratedto his memory. Richard felt that the release was just as nominal inhis own case. He knew that he never could love any woman but ElizabethHallam, and that just as long as she loved him, she held him by tiesno words could annul. But he accepted her dictum; and the very fullnessof his heart, and the very extremity of his disappointment, deprivedhim of the power to express his true feelings. His letter to Elizabethwas colder and prouder than he meant it to be; and had that sorrowfullyresentful air about it which a child wears who is unjustly punishedand yet knows not how to defend himself. 

It came to Elizabeth after a day of extreme humiliation--the day onwhich she called her household servants together and dismissed them. She had been able to give them no reason for her action, but anecessity for economy, and to soften the dismissal by no gift. Adversity flatters no one, and not a soul expressed any grief at thesundering of the tie. She was even conscious, as she had frequentlybeen since Antony's failure, of an air, that deeply offended her--afamiliarity that was not a friendly one--the covert presumption ofthe mean-hearted toward their unfortunate superiors. She did not hearthe subsequent conversation in the servants' hall, and it was wellshe did not, for, though the insolence that vaunts itself covertlyis hard to bear, it is not so hard as that which visibly hurts theeye and offends the ear. 

"Thank goodness!" said Jasper, "I've saved a bit o' brass, and missmay be as highty-tighty as she likes. This is what comes o' lettin'women out o' t' place God put 'em in. "

"She's gettin' that near and close, " said cook, "I wouldn't stop wi'her for nowt. It's been, 'Ann, be careful here, ' and, 'Ann, don'twaste there, ' till I'se fair sick o' it. She'll not get me to mak'mysen as mean as that. Such like goings on, I nivver!"

"And she's worst to please as iver was!" said Sarah Lister, MissHallam's maid. "I'm sure I don't know what's come over her lately. She used to give me many a dress and bit o' lace or ribbon. She givesnowt now. It isn't fair, you know!"

"She's savin' for that foreign chap, that's what it is, " said Jasper. "I'll nivver believe but what t' land goes back to t' male heirs someway or t' other. It stands to reason that it should; and she's gettin'a' she can, while she holds t' keys. She'll mak' a mess o' it, seeif she doesn't!"

And with this feeling flavoring the household, Elizabeth found thelast month of the year a dismal and resentful one. In pursuance ofthe plans she had laid down for herself, the strictest economy wasimperative; for what little she could, now save from the plenty ofthe old housekeeping, might have to see her through many days. AtChristmas she bid "good-bye" to every one of her old servants, and eventhis simple duty had its trial. She stood a hard ten minutes with thefew sovereigns in her hand which would be requisite if she gave themtheir usual Christmas gratuity. Pride urged her to give it; prudencetold her, "You will need it. " She was not forgetful of the unkindthings that would be said of her, but she replaced the money in herdesk with this reflection, "I have paid them fully for their service;I must be just before I am generous. "

They left early in the day, and for a few hours Elizabeth was the onlysoul in the old hall. But at night-fall Ben Craven's tax-cart broughthis mother, and a few of her personal belongings, and then the villagegossips understood "what Miss Hallam was going to do with hersen. "Martha took entire charge of the hall, and of all its treasures; andthe lonely mistress went to her room that night with the happyconsciousness that all she had was in loving and prudent keeping. 

It was also a great comfort to feel that she was not under the constantprying of unsympathetic eyes. Elizabeth had suffered keenly from thatbitterest of all oppressions, heart-constraint. She often wished toweep, but did not dare. The first servant that entered the room washer master. She owed him a calm expression of face and pleasant words, and if she failed to give them he rent her secret from her. O becertain that every sorrowful soul sighs for the night, as the watchmanof Judaea did for the morning. It longs for the shadows that conceal itstears; it invokes the darkness which gave it back to itself!

With a sense of infinite relief Elizabeth sat in the still house. Itwas pleasant to hear only Martha's feet going to and fro; to feel that, at last, she was at liberty to speak or to be silent, to smile or toweep, to eat or to let food alone. When Martha brought in her bedroomcandle, and said, "Good-night, Miss Hallam; you needn't hev a careabout t' house, I'll see to ivery thing, " Elizabeth knew all was right, and went with an easy mind to her own room. 

Christmas-eve! She had looked forward all the year to it. Richard wasto have been at Hallam for Christmas. She had thought of asking Antonyand his wife and child, of filling the old rooms with young, brightfaces, and of heralding in her new life in the midst of Christmas joys. She had pleased herself with the hope of telling Antony all her plansabout "the succession. " She had dreamed many a bright dream of herbridal in the old church, and of the lovely home to which she was goingsoon after the New Year. It was hard to give all up! Still harder tosuffer, in addition, misconstruction and visible dislike and contempt. 

"Why had it been permitted?" She fell asleep with the question in herheart, and was awakened by the singing of the waits. It was a chill, windy night, with a young moon plunging wildly in and out a sea ofblack driving clouds. She sat by the fire listening to the dyingmelody, and thinking of the Christmas-eve when Phyllis stood by herside, and the world seemed so full of happiness and hope. She had hada letter from Phyllis a few days before, a very loving, comforting, trustful letter, and she thought she would read it again. It had beenlaid within a book which Phyllis had given her, and she brought itto the fireside. It was a volume of poetry, and Elizabeth was notpoetical. She could not remember having read a page in this volume, but as she lifted the letter her eyes fell upon these words:

 "The priests must serve Each in his course, and we must stand in turn Awake with sorrow, in the temple dim To bless the Lord by night. "

The words affected her strangely; she turned the page backward, andread, "It is the night, And in the temple of the Lord, not made By mortal hands, the lights are burning low Before the altar. Clouds of darkness fill The vastness of the sacred aisles. .. . . .. A few short years ago And all the temple courts were thronged with those Who worshiped and gave thanks before they went To take their rest. Who shall bless His name at midnight?

 "Lo! a band of pale Yet joyful priests do minister around The altar, where the lights are burning low In the breathless night. Each grave brow wears the crown Of sorrow, and each heart is kept awake By its own restless pain: for these are they To whom the night-watch is appointed. See! They lift their hands and bless God in the night Whilst we are sleeping: Those to whom the King Has measured out a cup of sorrow, sweet With his dear love; yet very hard to drink, Are waking in his temple; and the eyes That cannot sleep for sorrow or for pain Are lifted up to heaven, and sweet low songs Broken by patient tears, arise to God. 

 "The priests must serve Each in his course, and we must stand in turn Awake with sorrow in the temple dim, To bless the Lord by night. We will not fear When we are called at midnight by some stroke Of sudden pain, to rise and minister Before the Lord. We too will bless his name In the solemn night, and stretch out our hands to him. "

And she paused, and lifted a face full of joy and confidence. A newlight came into her soul; and, standing up before the Lord, sheanswered the message in the words of Bunyan, "I am willing with allmy heart, Lord!"

CHAPTER IX. 

 "Walk boldly and wisely in that light thou hast, There is a hand above will help thee on. 

 "I deemed thy garments, O my hope, were gray, So far I viewed thee. Now the space between Is passed at length; and garmented in green Even as in days of yore thou stand'st to-day. "

 "Bless love and hope. Full many a withered year Whirled past us, eddying to its chill doomsday; And clasped together where the brown leaves lay, We long have knelt and wept full many a tear, Yet lo! one hour at last, the spring's compeer, Flutes softly to us from some green by-way, Those years, those tears are dead; but only they Bless love and hope, true souls, for we are here. "

The strength that had come to Elizabeth with a complete resignationto the will of God was sorely needed and tested during the followingweek. It had been arranged between herself and Page and Thorley thatthey should have the whole income of the Hallam estate, deducting onlyfrom it the regular cost of collection. Whaley Brothers had hithertohad the collection, and had been accustomed to deposit all proceedsin the banking-house of their brother-in-law, Josiah Broadbent. Elizabeth had determined to be her own collector. The fees for the dutywould be of the greatest service to her in her impoverished condition;and she did not wish the Broadbents and Whaleys to know whatdisposition was made of the revenue of Hallam. 

But the Whaleys were much offended at the change. They had so longmanaged the business of Hallam, that they said the supposition wasunavoidable, that Elizabeth suspected them of wronging her, as soonas there was no man to overlook matters. They declared that they haddone their duty as faithfully as if she had been able to check themat every turn, and even said they would prefer to do that duty gratis, rather than relinquish a charge with which the Whaleys had beenidentified for three generations. 

But Elizabeth had reasons for her conduct which she could not explain;and the transfer was finally made in a spirit of anger at a supposedwrong. It grieved her very much, for she was unused to disputes, andshe could not look at the affair in a merely business light. With someof the older tenants her interviews were scarcely more pleasant. Theyhad been accustomed to meeting one of the Whaleys at "The Rose andCrown Inn, " and having a good dinner and a few pints of strong aleover their own accounts. There was no prospect of "makkin' a day o'it" with Miss Hallam; and they had, besides, a dim idea that theyrather lowered their dignity in doing business with a woman. 

However, Elizabeth succeeded in thoroughly winning Peter Crag, thetenant of the home farm, and a man of considerable influence with menof his own class. He would not listen to any complaints on the subject. "She's a varry sensible lass, " he said, striking his fist heavily onthe table; "she's done right, to get out o' t' Whaleys' hands. I'vebeen under their thumbs mysen; and I know what it is. I'm bound todo right by Squire Henry's daughter, and I'd like to see them as isthinking o' doing wrong, or o' giving her any trouble--" and as hiseyes traveled slowly round the company, every man gravely shook hishead in emphatic denial of any such intention. Still, even with PeterCrag to stand behind her, Elizabeth did not find her self-electedoffice an easy one. She was quite sure that many a complaint wasentered, and many a demand made, that would never have been thoughtof if Whaley had been the judge of their justice. 

She had to look at her position in many lights, and chiefly in thatof at least five years' poverty. At the New-Year she withdrew herbalance from Josiah Broadbent's. It was but little over L600, and thissum was to be her capital upon which, in cases of extra expenditure, she must rely. For she had no idea of letting either the house orgrounds fall into decay or disorder. She calculated on many days ofextra hire to look after the condition of the timber in the park, thecarriages and the saddlery, and the roofs and gutterings of the halland the outhouses. She had carefully considered all necessaryexpenditures, and she had tried in imagination to face every annoyancein connection with her peculiar position. 

But facing annoyances in reality is a different thing, and Elizabeth'ssprang up from causes quite unforeseen, and from people whom she hadnever remembered. She had a calm, proud, self-reliant nature, but suchnatures are specially wounded by small stings; and Elizabeth broughthome with her from her necessary daily investigations many a soreheart, and many a throbbing, nervous headache. All the spirit of herfathers was in her. She met insult and wrong with all their keen senseof its intolerable nature, and the hand that grasped her riding whipcould have used it to as good purpose as her father would have done, only, that it was restrained by considerations which would not havebound him. 

In her home she had, however, a shelter of great peace. Her neighborsand acquaintances dropped her without ceremony. The Whaleys had thoughtit necessary in their own defense to say some unkind things, and tosuppose others still more unkind; and it was more convenient for peopleto assume the Whaleys' position to be the right one, than to continuecivilities to a woman who had violated the traditionary customs ofher sex, and who was not in a position to return them. But in her homeMartha's influence was in every room, and it always brought rest andcalm. She knew instinctively when she was needed, and when solitudewas needed; when Elizabeth would chose to bear her troubles in silence, and when she wanted the comfort of a sympathizing listener. 

Thus the first nine months of her ordeal passed. She heard during themseveral times from Phyllis, but never one line had come from Richard, or from Antony. Poor Antony! He had dropped as absolutely out of herken as a stone dropped in mid-ocean. The silence of both Richard andher brother hurt her deeply. She thought she could have trusted Richardif their positions had been reversed. She was sure she would havehelped and strengthened him by constant hopeful letters. For a monthor two she watched anxiously for a word; then, with a keen pang, gaveup the hope entirely. Through Phyllis she learned that he was stillin New Orleans, and that he had gone into partnership with a firm whodid a large Mexican trade. "He is making money fast, " said Phyllis, "but he cares little for it. "

It is one good thing in a regular life that habit reconciles us towhat was at first very distasteful. As the months went on Elizabeth'sbusiness difficulties lessened. The tenants got accustomed to her, and realized that she was neither going to impose upon them, nor yetsuffer herself to be imposed upon. The women found her sympathizingand helpful in their peculiar troubles, and there began to be dayswhen she felt some of the pleasures of authority, and of the powerto confer favors. So the summer and autumn passed, and she began tolook toward the end of her first year's management. So far its recordhad been favorable; Page and Thorley had had no reason to complainof the three installments sent them. 

She was sitting making up her accounts one evening at the end ofOctober. It was quite dark, and very cold, and Martha had just builtup a fire, and was setting a little table on the hearth-rug for MissHallam's tea. Suddenly the bell of the great gates rang a peal whichreverberated through the silent house. There was no time for comment. The peal had been an urgent one, and it was repeated as Martha, followed by Elizabeth, hastened to the gates. A carriage was standingthere, and a man beside it, who was evidently in anxiety or fright. 

"Come away wi' you! Don't let folks die waiting for you. Here's a ladybe varry near it, I do be thinking. "

The next moment Martha was helping him to carry into the house aslight, unconscious form. As they did so, Elizabeth heard a shrillcry, and saw a little face peering out of the open door of thecarriage. She hastened to it, and a child put out his arms and said, "Is you my Aunt 'Izzy?"

Then Elizabeth knew who it was. "O my darling!" she cried, and claspedthe little fellow to her breast, and carried him into the house withhis arms around her neck and his cheeks against hers. 

Evelyn lay, a shadow of her former self, upon a sofa; but in a shorttime she recovered her consciousness and, opening her large, sad eyes, let them rest upon Elizabeth--who still held the boy to her breast. 

"I am come to you, Elizabeth. I am come here to die. Do not send meaway. It will not be long. "

"Long or short, Evelyn, this is your home. You are very, very welcometo it. I am glad to have you near me. "

There was no more said at that time, but little by little the poorlady's sorrowful tale was told. After Antony's failure she had returnedto her father's house. "But I soon found myself in every one's way, "she said, mournfully. "I had not done well for the family--they weredisappointed. I was interfering with my younger sisters--I had nomoney--I was an eye-sore, a disgrace. And little Harry was a trouble. The younger children mocked and teazed him. The day before I left aservant struck him, and my mother defended the servant. Then I thoughtof you. I thought you loved the child, and would not like him to beill-used when I can no longer love him. "

"I do love him, Evelyn; and no one shall ill-use him while I live. "

"Thank God! Now the bitterness of death is passed. There is nothingelse to leave. "

The boy was a lovely boy, inheriting his father's _physique_ withmuch of his mother's sensitive refined nature. He was a great joy inthe silent, old house. He came, too, just at the time when Elizabeth, having conquered the first great pangs of her sorrow, was needing somefresh interest in life. She adopted him with all her heart. He washer lost brother's only child, he was the prospective heir of Hallam. In him were centered all the interests of the struggle she was making. She loved him fondly, with a wise and provident affection. 

It scarcely seemed to pain Evelyn that he clung to Elizabeth more thanto herself. "He cannot reason yet, " she said, "and instinct leads himto you. He feels that you are strong to love and protect him. I amtoo weak to do any thing but die. " She was, indeed, unable to bearhis presence long at a time; and his short visits to the silent, darkened chamber were full of awe and mystery to the sensitive child. In a month it became evident that the end was very near. She sufferedmuch, and Elizabeth left her as little as possible. She was quitedependent upon her love, for Elizabeth had notified the dying lady'sfamily of her dangerous condition, and no action of any kind was takenupon the information. 

One night Evelyn seemed a little easier, and Harry stayed longer withher. Martha came three times for the child ere she would consent tolet him go. Then she took the pretty face in her hands, gave it onelong gaze and kiss, and shut her eyes with a painful, pitiful gasp. Elizabeth hastened to her side; but she knew what was passing in themother's heart, and presumed not to intermeddle in her sorrow. Buthalf an hour afterward, when she saw heavy tears steal slowly fromunder the closed eyelids, she said, as she wiped them, gently away, "Dear Evelyn, why do you weep?"

"For my poor little wasted life, love; what a mistake it has been. I do not remember a single happiness in it. "

"Your childhood, Evelyn?"

"I think it was saddest of all. Children miss happiness most. Mychildhood was all books and lessons and a gloomy nursery, and servantswho scolded us when we were well, and neglected us when we were sick. I remember when I had scarlet fever, they used to put a little waterand jelly on a chair beside me at night, but I was too weak to reachthem. What long hours of suffering! What terrors I endured from manycauses!" "Forget that now, dear. "

"I cannot. It had its influence on all the rest. Then when I grew tochildhood I heard but one thing: 'You must marry well. ' I was orderedto make myself agreeable, to consider the good of the family, toremember my little sisters, my brothers who had no money and very fewbrains. It was to be my duty to sacrifice myself for them. Antony sawme; he thought I should be of service to him. My father thoughtAntony's business would provide for the younger boys. I was told toaccept him, and I did. That is all about my life, Elizabeth, I hadmy dream of love, and of being loved like all other girls, but--"

"But Antony was kind to you?"

"Yes; he was never unkind. He troubled me very little. But I was verylonely. Poor Antony! I can remember and understand now; he also hadmany sorrows. It was in those days I first began to pray, Elizabeth. I found that God never got tired of hearing me complain; motherscarcely listened--she had so much to interest her--but God alwayslistened. "

"Poor Evelyn!"

 "So I am watching quietly Every day; Whenever the sun shines brightly, I rise, and say, 'Surely it is the shining of His face!'

I think he will come to-night, Elizabeth. "

"You have no fear now?"

"It has gone. Last night I dreamed of passing through a dreary river, and as I stumbled, blind and weak in the water, Christ Jesus stretchedout his hand--a gentle, pierced hand, and immediately I was on theshore, and there was a great light whose glory awoke me. When the riveris to cross, 'the hand' will be there. "

She spoke little afterward. About midnight there was a short struggle, and then a sudden solemn peace. She had touched the hand pierced forher salvation, and the weary was at rest. Elizabeth had promised herthat she should be laid in the church-yard at Hallam. There was noopposition made to this disposition of the remains, and the funeralwas very quietly performed. 

Unfortunately, during all these changes the rector had been away. Abouta week before Antony's flight he was compelled to go to the south ofFrance. His health had failed in an alarming manner, and his recoveryhad been slow and uncertain. Many a time, in her various trials, Elizabeth had longed for his support. She had even thought that itmight be possible to tell him the full measure of her sorrow. AtEvelyn's funeral she missed him very much. She remembered how tenderand full of grace all his ministrations had been at her father's death. But the poor little lady's obsequies were as lonely and sad as herlife. She was only the wife of an absconding debtor. She had died underthe roof of a woman who had seriously offended society by not takingit into her confidence. 

It was a cold, rainy day; there was nothing to be gained in any respectby a wretched stand in the wet sodden grave-yard. Even the curate incharge hurried over the service. The ceremony was so pitiably desolatethat Elizabeth wept at its remembrance for many a year; and betweenher and Martha it was always a subject of sorrowful congratulation, that little Harry had been too ill with a sore throat to go to thefuneral; and had, therefore, not witnessed it. 

The wronged have always a hope that as time passes it will put thewrong right. But it was getting toward the close of the third year, and Elizabeth's trial was no lighter. There had been variations init. Sometime during the first year an opinion had gained ground, thatshe was saving in order to pay her brother's debts. As there were manyin the neighborhood interested in such a project, this report metwith great favor; and while the hope survived Elizabeth was graciouslyhelped in her task of self-denial by a lifted hat, or a civilgood-morning. But when two years had passed, and no meeting of thecreditors had been called, hope in this direction turned tounreasonable anger. 

"She must hev saved nigh unto L10, 000. Why, then, doesn't she do t'right thing wi' it?"

"She sticks to t' brass like glue; and it's none hers. I'm fair cap'twi' t' old squire. I did think he were an honest man; but I've givenup that notion long sin'. He knew well enough what were coming, andso he left Hallam to t' lass. It's a black shame a' through, thet itis!"--and thus does the shadow of sin stretch backward and forward;and not only wrong the living, but the dead also. 

In the summer after Lady Evelyn's death the rector returned. Elizabethdid not hear of his arrival for a few days, and in those days therector heard many things about Elizabeth. He was pained and astonished;and, doubtless, his manner was influenced by his feelings, althoughhe had no intention of allowing simple gossip to prejudice him againstso old a friend as Elizabeth Hallam. But she felt an alien atmosphere, and it checked and chilled her. If she had had any disposition to makea confidant of the rector, after that visit it was gone. "His sicknessand the influx of new lives and new elements into his life has changedhim, " she thought; "I will not tell him any thing. "

On the contrary, he expected her confidence. He called upon her severaltimes in this expectation; but each time there was more perceptiblean indefinable something which prevented it. In fact, he felt mortifiedby Elizabeth's reticence. People had confidently expected that MissHallam would explain her conduct to him; some had even said, they wereready to resume friendly relations with her if the rector's attitudein the matter appeared to warrant it. It will easily be seen, then, that the return of her old friend, instead of dissipating the prejudiceagainst her, deepened it. 

The third year was a very hard and gloomy one. It is true, she hadpaid more than half of Page and Thorley's claim, and that the estatewas fully as prosperous as it had ever been in her father's time. Butsocially she felt herself to be almost a pariah. The rich andprosperous ignored her existence; and the poor? Well, there was achange there that pained her equally. If she visited their cottages, and was pleasant and generous, they thought little of the grace. 

"There must be summat wrong wi' her, or all t' gentlefolks wouldn'ttreat her like t' dirt under their feet, " said one old crone, afterpocketing a shilling with a courtsey. 

"Ay, and she wouldn't come smilin' and talkin' here, if she'd any bodyelse to speak to. I'm a poor woman, Betty Tibbs, but I'm decent, andI'm none set up wi' Miss' fair words--not I, indeed!" said another;and though people may not actually hear the syllables which mouth suchsentiments, it seems really as if a bird of the air, or something stillmore subtle, did carry the matter, for the slandered personinstinctively knows the slanderer. 

And no word of regret or of love came from Antony to lighten the burdenshe was carrying. If she had only known that he was doing well, wasendeavoring to redeem the past, it would have been some consolation. Phyllis, also, wrote more seldom. She had now two children and a largenumber of servants to care for, and her time was filled with manysweet and engrossing interests. Besides, though she fully believedin Elizabeth, she did also feel for her brother. She thought Richard, at any rate, ought to have been treated with full confidence, andhalf-feared that pride of her family and position was at the bottomof Elizabeth's severance of the engagement. Human nature is full ofcomplexities, and no one probably ever acts from one pure and simplemotive, however much they may believe they do. 

Martha Craven, however, was always true and gentle, and if any thingmore respectful than in Elizabeth's brightest days; and for thisblessing she was very grateful. And the boy grew rapidly, and was veryhandsome and interesting; and no malignity could darken the sweet, handsome rooms or the shady flower-garden. However unpleasant her dayamong the tenants might have been, she could close her doors, and shutout the world, and feel sure of love and comfort within her own gates. 

Things were in this condition in the spring of 1843. But more thanL16, 000 had been paid, and Elizabeth looked with clear eyes towardthis end of her task. Socially, she was as far aloof as ever; perhapsmore so, for during the winter she had found her courage often failher regarding the church services. The walk was long on wet or colddays; the boy was subject to croupy sore throat; and her heart sankat the prospect of the social ordeal through which she must pass. Itmay be doubted whether people are really ever made better by pettyslights and undeserved scorn. Elizabeth had tried the discipline forthree years, and every Sabbath evening her face burned with the sameanger, and her heart was full of the same resentment. So, it had oftencome to pass during the winter that she had staid at home uponinclement days, and read the service to her nephew and herself, andtalked with the child about the boys of the Old and New Testaments. 

And it was noticeable, as indicating the thoughtful loving characterof little Harry, that of all the band he envied most the lad who hadgiven his barley loaves to the Saviour. He would listen to Elizabeth'sdescription of the green, desert place, and the weary multitudes, andthe calm evening, and then begin to wonder, in his childish words, "How the Saviour looked" at the boy--what he said to him--to fancythe smile of Jesus and the touch of the Divine hand, and followingout his thought would say, softly, "How that little boy's heart musthave ached when they crucified him! What would he do, aunt? Does theBible say any more about him?"

But sweet as such Sabbaths were to both woman and child, Elizabethknew that they deepened the unfavorable opinion about her, and shewas sure that they always grieved her old friend. So, one Mondaymorning after an absence from church, she took the path through thepark, determined to call upon him, and explain, as far as she was able, her reasons. It was a lovely day, and the child walked by her side, orran hither and thither after a blue-bell, or a primrose; stoppingsometimes behind, to watch a pair of building robins, or running on inadvance after a rabbit. There was in Elizabeth's heart a certain calmhappiness, which she did not analyze, but was content to feel andenjoy. At a turn in the avenue she saw the rector approaching her, and there was something in his appearance, even in the distance, whichannoyed and irritated her. "He is coming to reprove me, of course, "she thought; and she mentally resolved for once, to defend herselfagainst all assertions. 

"Good-morning, Miss Hallam; I was coming to see you. "

"And I was going to the rectory. As the park is so pleasant, will youreturn with me?"

"Yes, I will. Have you any idea why I was coming to see you?"

"I have. It was to say something unjust or cruel, I suppose. No oneever comes to see me for any other purpose. "

"Whose fault is that?"

"Not mine. I have done no wrong to any one. "

"What has your life been during the last three years?"

"Free from all evil. My worst enemy cannot accuse me. "

"Why have you closed the hall? Given up all the kind and hospitableways of your ancestors? Shut yourself up with one old woman?"

"Because my conscience and my heart approves what I have done, anddo. Can I not live as I choose? Am I obliged to give an account ofmyself, and of my motives, to every man and woman in the parish? O!I have been cruelly, shamefully used!" she said, standing suddenlystill and lifting her face, "God alone knows how cruelly and howunjustly!"

"My dear child, people know nothing of your motives. "

"Then they are wicked to judge without knowledge. "

"Do you not owe society something?"

"It has no right to insist that I wear my heart upon my sleeve. "

"I was your father's friend; I have known you from your birth, Elizabeth Hallam--"

"Yet you listened to what every one said against me, and allowed itso far to influence you that I was conscious of it, and though I calledon you purposely to seek your help and advice, your manner closed mylips. You have known me from my birth. You knew and loved my father. O, sir, could you not have trusted me? If I had been your friend'sson, instead of his daughter, you would have done so! You would havesaid to all evil speakers, 'Mr. Hallam has doubtless just reasons forthe economy he is practicing. ' But because I was a woman, I wassuspected; and every thing I could not explain was necessarily wicked. O, how your doubt has wounded me! What wrong it has done me! How sorryyou would be if you knew the injustice you have done the child of yourold friend--the woman you baptized and confirmed, and never knew illof!" Standing still with her hand upon his arm she poured out hercomplaints with passionate earnestness; her face flushed and lifted, her eyes misty with unshed tears, her tall erect form quivering withemotion. And as the rector looked and listened a swift change cameover his face. He laid his hand upon hers. When she ceased, heanswered, promptly:

"Miss Hallam, from this moment I believe in you with all my heart. I believe in the wisdom and purity of all you have done. Whatever youmay do in the future I shall trust in you. Late as it is, take mysincere, my warm sympathy. If you choose to make me the sharer of yourcares and sorrows, you will find me a true friend; if you think itright and best still to preserve silence, I am equally satisfied ofyour integrity. "

Then he put her arm within his, and talked to her so wisely and gentlythat Elizabeth found herself weeping soft, gracious, healing tears. She brought him once more into the squire's familiar sitting-room. She spread for him every delicacy she knew he liked. She took him allover the house and grounds, and made him see that every thing was keptin its old order. He asked no questions, and she volunteered noinformation. But he did not expect it at that time. It would not havebeen like Elizabeth Hallam to spill over either her joys or her sorrowsat the first offer of sympathy. Her nature was too self-contained forsuch effusiveness. But none the less the rector felt that the cloudhad vanished. And he wondered that he had ever thought her capableof folly or wrong--that he had ever doubted her. 

After this he was every-where her champion. He was seen going to thehall with his old regularity. He took a great liking for the child, and had him frequently at the rectory. Very soon people began to saythat "Miss Hallam must hev done about t' right thing, or t' rectorwouldn't iver uphold her;" and no one doubted but that all had beenfully explained to him. 

Yet it was not until the close of the year that the subject was againnamed between them. The day before Christmas, a cold, snowy day, hewas amazed to see Elizabeth coming through the rectory garden, fightingher way, with bent head, against the wind and snow. At first he fearedHarry was ill, and he went to open the door himself in his anxiety;but one glance into her bright face dispelled his fear. 

"Why, Elizabeth, whatever has brought you through such a storm asthis?"

"Something pleasant. I meant to have come yesterday, but did not getwhat I wanted to bring to you until this morning. My dear, dear, oldfriend! Rejoice with me! I am a free woman again. I have paid a greatdebt and a just debt; one that, unpaid, would have stained foreverthe name we both love and honor. O thank God with me! the Lord Godof my fathers, who has strengthened my heart and my hands for thebattle!"

And though she said not another word, he understood, and he touchedher brow reverently, and knelt down with her, and the thin, tremulous, aged voice, and the young, joyful one recited together the glad_benedictus_:

 "Blessed be the Lord God of Israel; for he hath visited and redeemed his people, "And hath raised up a horn of salvation for us in the house of his servant David; "As he spake by the mouth of his holy prophets, which have been since the world began: "That we should be saved from our enemies, and from the hand of all that hate us; "To perform the mercy promised to our fathers, and to remember his holy covenant; "The oath which he sware to our father Abraham, "That be would grant unto us, that we, being delivered out of the hand of our enemies, might serve him without fear, "In holiness and righteousness before him, all the days of our life. "And thou, child, shall be called the prophet of the Highest: for thou shalt go before the face of the Lord to prepare his ways; "To give knowledge of salvation unto his people by the remission of their sins, "Through the tender mercy of our God; whereby the Dayspring from on high hath visited us, "To give light to them that sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace. "

And Elizabeth rose up with a face radiant and peaceful; she laid uponthe table L100, and said, "It is for the poor. It is my thank-offering. I sold the bracelet my brother gave me at his marriage for it. I giveit gladly with my whole heart. I have much to do yet, but in the restof my work I can ask you for advice and sympathy. It will be a greathelp and comfort. Will you come to the hall after Christmas and speakwith me, or shall I come here and see you?"

"I will come to the hall; for I have a book for Harry, and I wish togive it to him myself. "

The result of this interview was that the rector called upon the firmof Whaley Brothers, and that the elder Whaley called upon Elizabeth. He attempted some apology at first, but she graciously put it aside:"There has been a mistake, Mr. Whaley. Let it pass. I wish you tocommunicate with all the creditors of the late firm of Antony Hallam. Every shilling is to be paid and the income of the estate will bedevoted to it, with the exception of the home farm, the rental of whichI will reserve for my own necessities, and for keeping Hallam inorder. "

And to Martha Elizabeth said: "We are going to live a little more likethe hall now, Martha. You shall have two girls to help you, and PeterCrag shall bring a pony for Harry, and we'll be as happy as never wasagain! We have had a bit of dark, hard road to go over, but the endof it has come. Thank God!"

"It's varry few as find any road through life an easy one; t' roadto heaven is by Weeping Cross, Miss Hallam. "

"I don't know why that should be, Martha. If any have reason to sing, as they go through life, they should be the children of the King. "

"It's t' sons o' t' King that hev t' battles to fight and t' prayersto offer, and t' sacrifices to mak' for a' t' rest o' t' world, Ithink. What made John Wesley, and the men like him, be up early andlate, be stoned by mobs, and perish'd wi' cold and hunger? Not as theyneeded to do it for their own profit, but just because they were thesons o' t' King, they couldn't help it. Christians mustn't complain ofany kind o' a road that tak's 'em home. "

"But sometimes, Martha, it seems as if the other road was so smoothand pleasant. "

"Two roads are a bit different--t' road to Babylon and t' road toJerusalem aren't t' same. You may go dancin' along t' first; the lastis often varry narrow and steep. "

"But one can't help wondering why. "

"If it wasn't narrow, and varry narrow, too, Miss Hallam, fenced in, and watchmen set all along it, we'd be strayin' far and near, and iveryone o' us going our own way. There isn't a church I knows of--not event' people called Methodists--as mak's it narrow enough to prevent lostsheep. But it isn't all t' Hill o' Difficulty, Miss Hallam. It isn'tfair to say that. There's many an arbor on t' hill-side, and many aHouse Beautiful, and whiles we may bide a bit wi' t' shepherds on t'Delectable Mountains. And no soul need walk alone on it. That's t'glory and t' comfort! And many a time we're strengthened, and manya time we're carried a bit by unseen hands. "

"Well, Martha, those are pleasant thoughts to sleep on, and to-morrow--to-morrow will be another day. "

"And a good one, Miss Hallam; anyhow, them as bodes good are t'likeliest to get it. I do think that. "

So Elizabeth went to sleep full of pleasant hopes and aims. It hadalways been her intention to pay every penny that Antony Hallam owed;and she felt a strange sense of delight and freedom in the knowledgethat the duty had begun. Fortunately, she had in this sense ofperformed duty all the reward she asked or expected, for if it hadnot satisfied her, she would have surely been grieved and disappointedwith the way the information was generally received. No one is eversurprised at a bad action, but a good one makes human nature at oncelook for a bad motive for it. 

"She's found out that it wont pay her to hold on to other folks' money. Why-a! nobody notices her, and nivver a sweetheart comes her way. "

"I thought we'd bring her to terms, if we nobbut made it hot enoughfor her. Bless you, Josiah! women folks can't live without theircronying and companying. "

"It's nobbut right she should pay ivery penny, and I tell'd her solast time I met her on Hallam Common. "

"Did ta? Why, thou hed gumption! Whativer did she say to thee?"

"She reddened up like t' old squire used to, and her eyes snapped liketwo pistols; and says she, 'Marmaduke Halcroft, you'll get everyfarthing o' your money when I get ready to pay it. '"

"Thank you, miss, " says I, "all the same, I'll be bold to mention thatI've waited going on five years for it. "

"'And you may wait five years longer, for there are others besidesyou, ' says she, as peacocky as any thing, 'but you'll get it;' andwi' that, she laid her whip across her mare in a way as made me feelit were across my face, and went away so quick I couldn't get anotherword in. But women will hev t' last word, if they die for 't. "

"If she'll pay t' brass, she can hev as many words as she wants; I'mnone flayed for any woman's tongue--not I, indeed. "

And these sentiments, expressed in forms more or less polite, werethe prevailing ones regarding Miss Hallam's tardy acknowledgment ofthe debt of Hallam to the neighborhood. Many were the discussions infashionable drawing-rooms as to the propriety of rewarding the justiceof Elizabeth's action, by bows, or smiles, or calls. But privatelyfew people were really inclined, as yet, to renew civilities with her. They argued, in their own hearts, that during the many years ofretrenchment she could not afford to return hospitalities on a scaleof equivalent splendor; and, in fact, poverty is offensive to wealth, and they had already treated Miss Hallam badly, and, therefore, disliked her. It was an irritation to have the disagreeable subjectforced upon their attention at all. If she had assumed her brother'sdebts at the time of his failure, they were quite sure they would havehonored her, however poor she had left herself. But humanity has itsstatutes of limitation even for good deeds; every one decided thatElizabeth had become honorable and honest too late. 

And for once the men were as hard as their wives. They had resentedthe fact of a woman being set among the ranks of great English squires;but having been put there, they expected from her virtues of far moreillustrious character than they would have demanded from a man. "Forwhativer can a woman need wi' so much brass?" asked Squire Horton, indignantly. "She doesn't hunt, and she can't run for t' county, andwhat better could she hev done than clear an old Yorkshire name o'its dirty trade stain. I'll lay a five-pound note as Squire Henry lefther all for t' varry purpose. He nivver thought much o' his sonAntony's fine schemes. "

"There's them as thinks he left her Hallam to prevent Antony wearingit on his creditors. "

"There's them thet thinks evil o' God Almighty himsen, Thomas Baxter. Henry Hallam was a gentleman to t' bone. He'd hev paid ivery shillingafore this if he'd been alive. Yorkshire squires like their own, butthey don't want what belongs to other folk; not they. Squire Hallamwas one o' t' best of us. He was that. "

And though Elizabeth had expected nothing better from her neighbors, their continued coldness hurt her. Who of us is there that has notexperienced that painful surprise that the repulsion of others awakensin our hearts? We feel kindly to them, but they draw back their handfrom us; an antipathy estranges them, they pass us by. What avail isit to tell them that appearances deceive, that calumny has done uswrong? What good is it to defend ourself, when no one cares to listen?when we are condemned before we have spoken? Nothing is so cruel asprejudice; she is blind and deaf; she shuts her eyes purposely, thatshe may stab boldly; for she knows, if she were to look honestly ather victim, she could not do it. 

But O, it is from these desolate places that heart-cry comes whichbrings God out of his sanctuary, which calls Jesus to our side to walkthere with us. It is in the deserts we have met angels. A great trialis almost a necessity for a true Christian life; for faith needs asoil that has been deeply plowed. The seed cast upon the surface rarelyfinds the circumstances that are sufficient for its development. Andblessed also are those souls to whom the "long watches" of sorrow aregiven! It is a great, soul that is capable of long-continued suffering, and that can bring to it day after day a heart at once submissive andenergetic and all vibrating with hope. 

Yet it may be fairly said that Elizabeth Hallam was now upon thisplane. Her road was still rough, but she was traveling in the daylight, strong and cheerful, and very happy in the added pleasure of her life. Her five years of enforced poverty had taught her simple habits. Shefelt rich with the L800 yearly rental of the home farm. And it wassuch a delight to have Harry ride by her side; she was so proud ofthe fair, bright boy. She loved him so dearly. He had just begun tostudy two hours every day with the curate, and to the two women atthe hall it was a great event every morning to watch him away to thevillage on his pony, with his books in a leather strap hung at hissaddle-bow. They followed him with their eyes until a turn in the roadhid the white nag and the little figure in a blue velvet suit uponit from them. For it was Elizabeth's pride to dress the child daintilyand richly as the "young squire of Hallam" ought to dress. She cutup gladly her own velvets for that purpose, and Martha considered theclear-starching of his lace collars and ruffles one of her mostimportant duties. 

One morning, at the close of January, Elizabeth had to go tothe village, and she told Harry when his lessons were finished to waitat the Curate's until she called for him. It was an exquisite day;cold, but clear and sunny, and there was a particular joy in rapidriding on such a morning. They took a circuitous route home, a roadwhich led them through lonely country lanes and across some fields. The robins were singing a little, and the wrens twittering about thehawthorn berries on the bare hedges. Elizabeth and Harry rode rapidly, their horses' feet and their merry laughter making a cheery racketin the lanes. They reached the hall gates in a glow of spirits. Marthawas standing there, her round rosy face all smiles. She said littleto Elizabeth, but she whispered something to Harry, and took him awaywith her. 

"Martha! Martha!" cried Elizabeth, "you will spoil the boy, and makehim sick. What dainty have you ready for him? Cannot I share it? Iam hungry enough, I can tell you!"

Martha laughed and shook her head, and Elizabeth, after a word to thegroom, went into the parlor. The angels that loved her must havefollowed her there. They would desire to see her joy. For there, withglowing, tender face, stood Richard. She asked no questions. Shespoke no word at all. She went straight to the arms outstretched toclasp her. She felt his tears, mingling with her own. She heard hername break softly in two the kisses that said what last the hour forwhich she had hoped and prayed so many years. 

And Richard could hardly believe in his joy. This splendid Elizabethof twenty-eight, in all the glory and radiance of her calmed andchastened soul, and her perfected womanhood, was infinitely morecharming and lovable than he had ever seen her before. He toldher so in glad and happy words, and Elizabeth listened, proud andwell-contented with his praise. For an hour he would not suffer her toleave him; yes, it took him an hour, to tell her how well she looked inher riding-dress. 

Neither of them spoke of the events which had separated or re-unitedthem. It was enough that they were together. They perfectly trustedeach other without explanations. Those could come afterward, but thisday was too fair for any memory of sorrow. When Elizabeth came downto dinner she found Harry standing at Richard's knee, explaining tohim the lessons he was studying. Her eyes took in with light thepicture--the thoughtful gentleness of the dark head, the rosy face ofthe fair-haired boy. 

"I have been showing the gentleman my new book, aunt;" then he bowedto Richard, and, gently removing himself from his arm, went to hisaunt's side. 

"He says he is called Henry Hallam. "

"Yes, he is my brother's only child. "

And Richard dropped his eyes; and, turning the subject, said, "I calledat the rector's as I came here. He insists upon my staying with him, Elizabeth. He says the hall is not prepared for visitors. "

"I think he is right, Richard. "

"I brought him a likeness of Phyllis and her husband. I have a similargift for you. "

"No one will prize them more. When did you see Phyllis?"

"A month ago. She is well and happy. John is a member of theLegislature this year. He seems to vibrate between the Senate and thefrontier. He is a fine fellow, and they are doing well. "

Then they fell into talking of Texas and of the disastrous Santa Feexpedition; and Harry listened with blazing eyes to the tale of crueltyand wrong. Then the rector came and Elizabeth made tea for her guests, and after a happy evening, she watched them walk away together overthe familiar road, down the terraces, and across the park. And shewent to her room and sat down, silent with joy, yet thinking thoughtsthat were thanksgivings, and lifting up her heart in speechlessgratitude and adoration. 

By and by Martha came to her. "I couldn't frame mysen to sleepto-night, Miss Hallam, till I said a word to you. God gave you a gladsurprise this morning; that's his way mostly. Hev you noticed thatgreat blessings come when we are nivver expecting 'em?"

"No, I don't think I have; and why should they?"

"I hev my own thoughts about it. Mebbe it isnt allays as easy for God'sangels to do _his will_ as we think for. T' devil hes angels too, princes and powers o' evil; and I shouldn't wonder if they took a dealo' pleasure in makkin good varry hard to do. "

"What, makes you think such a strange thing as that?"

"Why-a! I could tell you what looks uncommon like it out o' my ownlife; but you may tak' your Bible and find it plain as t' alphabetcan put it, Miss Hallam. Turn up t' tenth chapter o' t' book o' t'prophet Daniel, and read t' twelfth and thirteenth verses out to me. "Then, as Martha stood watching and waiting, with a bright expectantface, Elizabeth lifted the book, and read, "'Fear not, Daniel: for from the first day that thou didst set thineheart to understand, and to chasten thyself before thy God, thy wordswere heard, and I am come for thy words. But the prince of the kingdomof Persia withstood me one and twenty days: but, lo, Michael, one ofthe chief princes, came to help me. '"

"Yet he was an angel, Miss Hallam, whose face was like lightning, andhis eyes like lamps o' fire, and his arms and feet like polished brass, and his voice like the voice of a multitude. "

"Then you think, Martha, that the Bible teaches us that evil as wellas good angels interfere in human life?"

"Ay, I'm sure it does, Miss Hallam. If God is said to open t' eyeso' our understanding, t' devil is said to blind 'em. Are Christiansfilled wi' t' Spirit o' God? 'Why, ' said Peter to Ananias, 'Why hathSatan filled thy heart?' Does God work in us to will and to do? T'devil also works in t' children o' disobedience. What do you mak' o'that now?"

"I think it is a very solemn consideration. I have often thought ofgood angels around me; but we may well 'work out our salvation withfear and trembling, ' if evil ones are waiting to hinder us at everyturn. "

"And you see, then, how even good angels may hev to be varry prudentabout t' blessings they hev on t' road to us. So they come assurprises. I don't think it's iver well, even wi' oursel's, to blowa trumpet before any thing we're going to do. After we hev got t' goodthing, after we hev done t' great thing, it'll be a varry good timeto talk about it. Many a night I've thought o' t' words on my littleWesley tea-pot, and just said 'em softly, down in my heart, 'In Godwe trust. ' But tonight I hev put a bit o' holly all around it, andI hev filled it full o' t' freshest greens and flowers I could get, and I s'all stand boldly up before it, and say out loud--'In God wetrust!'"

CHAPTER X. 

 "When we have hoped and sought and striven and lost our aim, then the truth fronts us, beaming out of the darkness. "

 "Speaking of things remembered, and so sit Speechless while things forgotten call to us. "

 "We, who say as we go, 'Strange to think by the way, Whatever there is to know, That we shall know one day. '"

"I would tell her every thing. "

It was the rector who spoke. He and Richard were sitting before thestudy fire; they had been talking long and seriously, and the rector'seyes were dim and troubled. "Yes, I would tell her every thing. " Thenhe put his pipe down, and began to walk about the floor, murmuringat intervals, "Poor fellow! poor fellow! God is merciful. "

In accord with this advice Richard went to see Elizabeth. It was apainful story he had to tell, and he was half inclined to hide allbut the unavoidable in his own heart; but he could not doubt the wisdomwhich counseled him "to tell all, and tell it as soon as possible. "The opportunity occurred immediately. He found Elizabeth mending, withskillful fingers, some fine old lace, which she was going to make intoruffles for Harry's neck and wrists. It was a stormy morning, and theboy had not been permitted to go to the village, but he sat besideher, reading aloud that delight of boyhood, "Robinson Crusoe. "

Elizabeth had never removed her mourning, but her fair hair and whitelinen collar and cuffs made an exquisite contrast to the soft somberfolds of her dress; while Harry was just a bit of brilliant color, fromthe tawny gold of his long curls to the rich lights of his crimsonvelvet suit, with its white lace and snowy hose, and low shoes tiedwith crimson ribbons. 

He was a trifle jealous of Richard's interference between himself andhis aunt, but far too gentlemanly a little fellow to show it; and quiteshrewd enough to understand, that if he went to Martha for an houror two, he would not be much missed. They both followed him withadmiring eyes as he left the room; and when he stood a moment in theopen door and touched his brow with his hand, as a parting courtesy, neither could help an expression of satisfaction. 

"What a handsome lad!" said Richard. 

"He is. If he live to take his father's or my place here, he will bea noble squire of Hallam. "

"Then he is to be your successor?"

"Failing Anthony. "

"Then, Elizabeth dear, he is squire of Hallam already, for Anthonyis dead. "

"Dead! Without a word! Without sign of any kind--O, Richard, is itreally--death?"

Richard bowed his head, and Elizabeth sat gazing out of the windowwith vacant introspective vision, trying to call up from the past thedear form that would come no more. She put down her sewing, and Richarddrew closer to her side, and comforted her with assurances that hebelieved, "all was well with the dead. " "I was with him during thelast weeks of his sad life, " he said; "I did all that love couldsuggest to soothe his sufferings. He sleeps well; believe me. "

"I never heard from him after our sorrowful farewell. I looked andhoped for a little until my heart failed me; and I thought he perishedat sea. "

"No; God's mercy spared him until he had proved the vanity of allearthly ambition, and then he gave him rest. When he awoke, I haveno doubt that 'he was satisfied. '"

"Where did he die? Tell me all, Richard, for there may be words andevents that seem trivial to you that will be full of meaning to me. "

"Last March I went to Mexico on business of importance, and passingone morning through the Grand Plaza, I thought a figure slowlysauntering before me was a familiar one. It went into a small officefor the exchange of foreign money, and, as I wanted some exchange, Ifollowed. To my surprise the man seemed to be the proprietor; he wentbehind the counter into a room, but on my touching a bell reappeared. It was Antony. The moment our eyes met, we recognized each other, andafter a slight hesitation, I am sure that he was thankful and delightedto see me. I was shocked at his appearance. He looked fifty years ofage, and had lost all his color, and was extremely emaciated. We weresoon interrupted, and he promised to come to my hotel and dine with meat six o'clock. 

"I noticed at dinner that he ate very little, and that he had adistressing and nearly constant cough, and afterward, as we sat onthe piazza, I said, 'Let us go inside, Antony; there is a cold wind, and you have a very bad cough. '

"'O, it is nothing, ' he answered fretfully. 'The only wonder is thatI am alive, after all I have been made to suffer. Stronger men thanI ever was fell and died at my side. You are too polite, Richard, toask me where I have been; but if you wish to hear, I should like totell you. '

"I answered, 'You are my friend and my brother, Antony; and whatevertouches you for good or for evil touches me also. I should like tohear all you wish to tell me. '

"'It is all evil, Richard. You would hear from Elizabeth that I wasobliged to leave England?'

"'Yes, she told me. '

"'How long have you been married?' he asked me, sharply; and when Isaid, 'We are not married; Elizabeth wrote and said she had a dutyto perform which might bind her for many years to it, and it alone, 'your brother seemed to be greatly troubled; and asked, angrily, 'Andyou took her at her word, and left her in her sorrow alone? Richard, I did not think you would have been so cruel!' And, my darling, itwas the first time I had thought of our separation in that light. Iattempted no excuses to Antony, and, after a moment's reflection, hewent on:

"'I left Whitehaven in a ship bound for Havana, and I remainedin that city until the spring of 1841. But I never liked the place, and I removed to New Orleans at that time. I had some idea of seeingyou, and opening my whole heart to you; but I lingered day after dayunable to make up my mind. At the hotel were I stayed there were anumber of Texans coming and going, and I was delighted with their bold, frank ways, and with the air of conquest and freedom and adventurethat clung to them. One day I passed you upon Canal Street. You lookedso miserable, and were speaking to the man with whom you were inconversation so sternly, that I could not make up my mind to addressyou. I walked a block and returned. You were just saying, "If I didright, I would send you to the Penitentiary, sir;" and I had a suddenfear of you, and, returning to the hotel, I packed my valise and tookthe next steamer for Galveston. '

"I answered, 'I remember the morning, Antony; the man had stolen fromme a large sum of money. I was angry with him, and I had a right tobe angry. '

"Antony frowned, and for some minutes did not resume his story. Helooked so faint, also, that I pushed a little wine and water towardhim, and he wet his lips, and went on:

"'Yes, you had a perfect right; but your manner checked me. I did notknow either how matters stood between you and my sister; so, insteadof speaking to you, I went to Texas. I found Houston--I mean the littletown of that name--in a state of the greatest excitement. The tradesmenwere working night and day, shoeing horses, or mending rifles andpistols; and the saddlers' shops were besieged for leathern pouchesand saddlery of all kinds. The streets were like a fair. Of course, I caught the enthusiasm. It was the Santa Fe expedition, and I threwmyself into it heart and soul. I was going as a trader, and I hastenedforward, with others similarly disposed, to Austin, loaded two wagonswith merchandise of every description, and left with the expeditionin June. 

"'You know what a disastrous failure it was. We fell into the handsof the Mexicans by the blackest villainy; through the treachery ofa companion in whom we all put perfect trust, and who had pledged ushis Masonic faith that if we gave up our arms we should be allowedeight days to trade, and then have them returned, with permission togo back to Austin in peace. But once disarmed, our wagons and goodswere seized, we were stripped of every thing, tied six or eight ina lariat, and sent, with a strong military escort to Mexico. 

"'Try to imagine, Richard, what we felt in prospect of this walk oftwo thousand miles, through deserts, and over mountains, driven, likecattle, with a pint of meal each night for food, and a single blanketto cover us in the bitterest cold. Strong men fell down dead at myside, or, being too exhausted to move, were shot and left to the wolvesand carrion; our guard merely cutting off the poor fellows' ears, asevidence that they had not escaped. The horrors of that march wereunspeakable. '

"You said I was to tell you all--shall I go on, Elizabeth?"

She lifted her eyes, and whispered, "Go on; I must hear all, or howcan I feel all? O Antony! Antony!"

"I shall never forget his face, Elizabeth. Anger, pity, suffering, chased each other over it, till his eyes filled and his lips quivered. I did not speak. Every word I could think of seemed so poor andcommonplace; but I bent forward and took his hands, and he saw in myface what I could not say, and for a minute or two he lost controlof himself, and wept like a child. 

"'Not for myself, Richard;' he said, 'no, I was thinking of that awfulmarch across the "Dead Man's Journey, " a savage, thorny desert ofninety miles, destitute of water. We were driven through it withoutfood and without sleep. My companion was a young man of twenty, theson of a wealthy Alabamian planter. I met him in Austin, so brightand bold, so full of eager, loving life, so daring, and so hopeful;but his strength had been failing for two days ere he came to thedesert. His feet were in a pitiable condition. He was sleeping as hewalked. Then he became delirious, and talked constantly of his fatherand mother and sisters. He had been too ill to fill his canteen beforestarting; his thirst soon became intolerable; I gave him all my water, I begged from others a few spoonfuls of their store, I held him up aslong as I was able; but at last, at last, he dropped. Richard! Richard!They shot him before my eyes, shot him with the cry of 'Christ' uponhis lips. I think my anger supported me, I don't know else how I boreit, but I was mad with horror and rage at the brutal cowards. 

"'When I reached the end of my journey I was imprisoned with some ofmy comrades, first in a lazaretto, among lepers, in every stage oftheir loathsome disease; and afterward removed to Santiago, where, hampered with heavy chains, we were set to work upon the public roads. '

"I asked him why he did not apply to the British consul, and he said, 'I had a reason for not doing so, Richard. I may tell you the reasonsometime, but not to-night. I knew that there was diplomaticcorrespondence going on about our relief, and that, soon or later, those who survived their brutal treatment would be set free. I wasone that lived to have my chains knocked off; but I was many weekssick afterward, and, indeed, I have not recovered yet. '

"So you began the exchange business here?"

"'Yes; I had saved through all my troubles a little store of gold ina belt around my waist. It was not much, but I have more than doubledit; and as soon as I can, I intend leaving Mexico, and beginning lifeagain among civilized human beings. '"

Elizabeth was weeping bitterly, but she said, "I am glad you have toldme this, Richard. Ah, my brave brother! You showed in your extremitythe race from which you sprung! Sydney's deed was no greater thanyours! That 'Dead Man's Journey, ' Richard, redeems all to me. I amproud of Antony at last. I freely forgive him every hour of sorrowhe has caused me. His picture shall be hung next his father's, andI will have all else forgotten but this one deed. He gave his lastdrink of water to the boy perishing at his side; he begged for himwhen his own store failed, he supported him when he could scarcelywalk himself, and had tears and righteous anger for the wrongs ofothers; but for his own sufferings no word of complaint! After this, Richard, I do not fear what else you have to tell me. Did he die inMexico?"

"No; he was very unhappy in the country, and he longed to leave it. As the weather grew warmer his weakness and suffering increased; butit was a hard thing for him to admit that he was seriously ill. Atlast he was unable to attend to his business, and I persuaded him toclose his office. I shall never forget his face as he turned the keyin it; I think he felt then that life for him was over. I had remainedin Mexico for some weeks entirely on his account, and I now suggested, as he had no business cares, a journey home by way of Texas. I reallybelieved that the rare, fine air of the prairies would do him good;and I was sure if we could reach Phyllis, he would at least die amongfriends. When I made the proposal he was eager as a child for it. He did not want to delay an hour. He remembered the ethereal, vivifyingairs of Western Texas, and was quite sure if he could only breathethem again he would be well in a short time. He was carried in a litterto Vera Cruz, and then taken by sea to Brownsville. And really thejourney seemed to greatly revive him, and I could not help joiningin his belief that Phyllis and Western Texas would save him. 

"But when we reached the Basque there was a sudden change, a changethere was no mistaking. He was unable to proceed, and I laid hismattress under a great live oak whose branches overshadowed spaceenough for our camp. I cannot tell you, Elizabeth, what a singularstillness and awe settled over all of us. I have often thought andwondered about it since. There was no quarreling, no singing, norlaughing among the men, who were usually ready enough for any of them;and this 'still' feeling, I suppose, was intensified by the weather, and the peculiar atmosphere. For we had come by such slow stages, thatit was Indian summer, and if you can imagine an English October day, spiritualized, and wearing a veil of exquisite purply-grey and amberhaze, you may have some idea of the lovely melancholy of these dyingdays of the year on the prairie. 

"We waited several days in this place, and he grew very weak, sufferingmuch, but always suffering patiently and with a brave cheerfulnessthat was inexpressibly sorrowful. It was on a Sunday morning that hetouched me just between the dawn and the daylight, and said 'Richard, I have been dreaming of Hallam and of my mother. She is waiting forme. I will sleep no more in this world. It is a beautiful world!'During the day I never left him, and we talked a great deal about thefuture, whose mystery he was so soon to enter. Soon after sunset hewhispered to me the wrong he had done, and which he was quite sure youwere retrieving. He acknowledged that he ought to have told me before, but pleaded his weakness and his dread of losing the only friend hehad. It is needless to say I forgave him, forgave him for you and formyself; and did it so heartily, that before I was conscious of the actI had stooped and kissed him. 

"About midnight he said to me, 'Pray, Richard;' and surely I was helpedto do so, for crowding into my memory came every blessed promise, everycomforting hope, that could make the hour of death the hour of victory. And while I was saying, 'Behold the Lamb of God, who taketh away thesin of the world, ' he passed away. We were quite alone. The men weresleeping around, unconscious of 'Him that waited. ' The moon floodedthe prairie with a soft, hazy light, and all was so still that I couldhear the cattle in the distance cropping the grass. I awoke no one. The last offices I could do for him I quietly performed, and then satdown to watch until daylight. All was very happy and solemn. It wasas if the Angel of Peace had passed by. And as if to check any doubtor fear I might be tempted to indulge, suddenly, and swift andpenetrating as light, these lines came to my recollection:

 "'Down in the valley of Death, A Cross is standing plain; Where strange and awful the shadows sleep, And the ground has a deep, red stain. 

 "'This Cross uplifted there Forbids, with voice divine, Our anguished hearts to break for the dead Who have died and made no sign. 

 "'As they turned away from us, Dear eyes that were heavy and dim. May have met His look who was lifted there, May be sleeping safe in Him. '"

"Where did you bury him, Richard?"

"Under the tree. Not in all the world could we have found for him solovely and so still a grave. Just at sunrise we laid him there, 'insure and certain hope' of the resurrection. One of the Mexicans cuta cross and placed it at his head, and, rude and ignorant as they allwere, I believe every one said a prayer for his repose. Then I tookthe little gold he had, divided it among them, paid them their wages, and let them return home. I waited till all the tumult of theirdeparture was over, then I, too, silently lifted my hat in a last'farewell. ' It was quite noon then, and the grave lay in a band ofsunshine--a very pleasant grave to remember, Elizabeth. "

She was weeping unrestrainedly, and Richard let her weep. Such rainsoftens and fertilizes the soul, and leaves a harvest of blessednessbehind. And when the first shock was over, Elizabeth could almostrejoice for the dead; for Antony's life had been set to extremes--greatambitions and great failures--and few, indeed, are the spirits sofinely touched as to walk with even balance between them. Thereforefor the mercy that had released him from the trials and temptationsof life, there was gratitude to be given, for it was due. 

That night, when Martha brought in Elizabeth's candle, she said:"Martha, my brother is dead. Master Harry is now the young squire. You will see that this is understood by every one. "

"God love him! And may t' light o' _his_ countenance be foreveron him!"

"And if any ask about Mr. Antony, you may say that he died in Texas. "

"That is where Mrs. Millard lives?"

"Yes, Mrs. Millard lives in Texas. Mr. Antony died of consumption. O, Martha! sit down, I must tell you all about him;" and Elizabethwent over the pitiful story, and talked about it, until both womenwere weary with weeping. The next morning they hung Antony's picturebetween that of his father and mother. It had been taken just afterhis return from college, in the very first glory of his youthfulmanhood, and Elizabeth looked fondly at it, and linked it only withmemories of their happy innocent childhood, and with the grandself-abnegation of "the dead man's journey. "

The news of Antony's death caused a perceptible reaction in popularfeeling. The young man, after a hard struggle with adverse fate, hadpaid the last debt, and the great debt. Good men refrain from judgingthose who have gone to God's tribunal. Even his largest creditorsevinced a disposition to take, with consideration, their claim, asthe estate could pay it; and some willingness to allow at last, "thetMiss Hallam hed done t' right thing. " The fact of the Whaley Brothersturning her defenders rather confounded them. They had a profoundrespect for "t' Whaleys;" and if "t' Whaleys were for backin' up MissHallam's ways, " the majority were sure that Miss Hallam's ways weresuch as commended themselves to "men as stood firm for t' law and t'land o' England. " With any higher test they did not trouble themselves. 

The public recognition of young Harry Hallam as the future squire alsogave great satisfaction. After all, no stranger and foreigner was tohave rule over them; for Richard they certainly regarded in that light. "He might be a Hallam to start wi', " said Peter Crag, "but he's beenthat way mixed up wi' French and such, thet t' Hallam in him is varryhard to find. " All the tenants, upon the advent of Richard, had stoodsquarely upon their dignity; they had told each other that they'd payrent only to a Hallam, and they had quite determined to resent anysuggestion made by Richard, and to disregard any order he gave. 

But it was quickly evident that Richard did not intend to take anymore interest in Hallam than he did in the Church glebe and tithes, and that the only thing he desired was the bride he had waited so longfor. The spring was far advanced, however, before the wedding-day wasfixed; for there was much to provide for, and many things to arrange, in view of the long-continued absences which would be almost certain. The Whaleys, urged by a lover, certainly hurried their work to a degreewhich astonished all their subordinates; but yet February had passedbefore all the claims against Antony Hallam had been collected. Thedebt, as debt always is, was larger than had been expected; and twelveyears' income would be exhausted in its liquidation. Elizabeth glancedat Harry and looked gravely at the papers; but Richard said, "Besatisfied, dear. He will have the income at the age he really needsit--when he begins his university career--until then we can surelycare for him. "

So Hallam was left, financially, in the Whaleys' care. They were tocollect all its revenues, and keep the house and grounds in repair, and, after paying all expenses incidental to this duty, they were todivide, in fair proportions, the balance every three years amongAntony's creditors. This arrangement gave perfect satisfaction, for, as Marmaduke Halcroft said, "If t' Whaleys ar'n't to be trusted, t'world might as well stand still, and let honest men get out o' it. "

As to the house, it was to be left absolutely in Martha's care. Insideits walls her authority was to be undisputed, and Elizabeth insistedthat her salary should be on the most liberal basis. In fact, Martha'sposition made her a person of importance--a woman who could affordto do handsomely toward her chapel, and who might still have put bya large sum every year. 

The wedding was a very pretty one, and Elizabeth, in her robe of whitesatin and lace, with pearls around her throat and arms, was a mostlovely bride. Twelve young girls, daughters of her tenants, dressedin white, and carrying handfuls of lilies-of-the-valley, went withher to the altar; and Richard had for his attendant the handsome littlesquire. The rector took the place of Elizabeth's father, and aneighboring clergyman performed the ceremony. Most of the surroundingfamilies were present in the church, and with this courtesy Elizabethwas quite satisfied. Immediately after the marriage they left forLiverpool, and when they arrived at Richard's home it was in the timeof orange blooms and building birds, as he had desired it should be, six years before. 

But one welcome which they would gladly have heard was wanting. BishopElliott had removed, and no other preacher had taken his place inRichard's home. This was caused, however, by the want of some womanlyinfluence as a conductor. It was Phyllis who had brought the kindredsouls together, and made pleasant places for them to walk and talkin. Phyllis had desired very much to meet Elizabeth, on her adventinto her American life, but the time had been most uncertain, and somany other duties held the wife and mother and mistress, that it hadbeen thought better to defer the pleasure till it could be moredefinitely arranged. And then, after all, it was Elizabeth that went tosee Phyllis. 

One day Richard came home in a hurry. 

"Elizabeth! I am going to Texas--to Austin. Suppose you and Harry gowith me. We will give Phyllis a surprise. "

"But housekeepers don't like surprises, Richard. "

"Then we will write before leaving, but I doubt if the letter willbe in advance of us. "

It was not. John Millard's home was a couple of miles distant fromAustin, and the mail was not gone for with any regularity. Besides, at this time, John was attending to his duties in the Legislature, and Phyllis relied upon his visits to the post-office. 

It was a pleasant afternoon in June when the stage deposited them inthe beautiful city, and after some refreshment Richard got a buggyand determined to drive out to the Millard place. Half a mile distantfrom it they met a boy about seven years old on a mustang, and Richardasked him if he could direct him to Captain Millard's house. 

"I reckon so, " said the little chap, with a laugh. "I generally stopthere, if I'm not on horseback. "

"O, indeed! What is your name?"

"My name is Richard Millard. What's your name, sir?"

"My name is Richard Fontaine; and I shouldn't wonder if you are mynephew. "

"I'm about certain you are my uncle. And is that my English aunt? Wontma be glad? Say, wont you hurry up? I was going into the city. My pa'sgoing to speak to-night. Did you ever hear my pa speak?"

"No; but I should like to do so. "

"I should think you would. See! There's ma. That is Lulu hanging onto her, and that is Sam Houston in her arms. My pony is called 'SanJacinto. ' Say! Who is that with you and aunt, Uncle Richard? I mean_you_;" and he nodded and smiled at Harry. 

"That is Harry Hallam--a relation of yours. "

"I'm glad of that. Would he like to ride my pony?"

"Yes, " answered Harry, promptly. 

But Richard declined to make exchanges just there, especially as theycould see Phyllis curiously watching their approach. In another momentshe had given Sam Houston to a negro nurse, flung a sunbonnet on herhead, and was tripping to the gate to meet them. 

"O how glad I am, Elizabeth! I knew you the minute I saw the tip ofyour hat, Richard! And this is Harry Hallam! Come in, come in; comewith ten thousand welcomes!"

What a merry household it was! What a joyous, plentiful, almostout-of-doors meal was ready in half an hour! And then, as soon as thesun set, Phyllis said, "Now, if you are not tired, we will go andsurprise John. He is to speak to-night, and I make a point of listeningto him, in the capitol. "

Richard and Elizabeth were pleased with the proposal; but Harry desiredto stay with young Millard. The boys had fraternized at once, --whatgood boys do not? especially when there are ponies and rabbits andpuppies and pigeons to exhibit, and talk about. 

Phyllis had matured into a very beautiful woman, and Richard was proudof both his sister and his wife, when he entered the Texas capitolwith them. It was a stirring scene he saw, and certainly a gatheringof manhood of a very exceptional character. The lobbies were fullof lovely, brilliant women; and scattered among them;--chatting, listening, love-making--was many a well-known hero, on whosesun-browned face the history of Texas was written. The matter indispute did not much interest Elizabeth, but she listened withamusement to a conversation between Phyllis and pretty Betty Lubbockabout the latter's approaching wedding, and her trip to the "States. "

In the middle of a description of the bridal dress, there fell uponher ears these words: "A bill for the relief of the Millard Rangers. "She looked eagerly to see who would rise. It was only a prosy old manwho opposed the measure, on the ground that the State could not affordto protect such a far-outlying frontier. 

"Perish the State that cannot protect her citizens!" cried a vehementvoice from another seat, and, forthwith leaped to his feet CaptainJohn Millard. Elizabeth had never seen him, but she knew, fromPhyllis's sudden silence, and the proud light in her face, who it was. He talked as he fought, with all his soul, a very Rupert in debate, ashe was in battle. In three minutes all whispering had ceased; womenlistened with full eyes, men with glowing cheeks; and when he sat downthe bill was virtually passed by acclamation. Phyllis was silentlyweeping, and not, perhaps, altogether for the slaughtered women andchildren on the frontier; there were a few proud, happy tears forinterests nearer home. 

Then came John's surprise, and the happy ride home, and many and manya joyful day after it--a month of complete happiness, of days devoidof care, and filled with perfect love and health and friendship, andmade beautiful with the sunshine and airs of an earthly paradise. 

Phyllis's home was a roomy wooden house, spreading wide, as every thingdoes in Texas, with doors and windows standing open, and deep piazzason every side. Behind it was a grove of the kingly magnolia, in frontthe vast shadows of the grand pecans. Greenest turf was under them;and there was, besides, a multitude of flowers, and vines which trailedup the lattices of the piazzas, and over the walls and roofs, and evendropped in at the chamber windows. 

There was there, also, the constant stir of happy servants, laughingand singing at their work, of playing children, of trampling horses, of the coming and going of guests; for Captain Millard's house wasnear a great highway, and was known far and wide for its hospitality. The stranger fastened his horse at the fence, and asked undoubtinglyfor a cup of coffee, or a glass of milk, and Phyllis had a pleasantword and a cheerful meal for every caller; so that John rarely wantedcompany when he sat in the cool and silence of the evening. It mightbe a ranger from the Pecos, or a trader from the Rio Grande, or a landspeculator from the States, or an English gentleman on his travels, or a Methodist missionary doing his circuit; yea, sometimes half adozen travelers and sojourners met together there, and then they talkedand argued and described until the "night turned, " and the cocks werecrowing for the dawning. 

Richard thoroughly enjoyed the life, and Elizabeth's nature expandedin it, as a flower in sunshine. What gallops she had on the prairies!What rambles with Phyllis by the creek sides in search of strangeflowers! What sweet confidences! What new experiences! What arevelation altogether of a real, fresh, natural life it was! And shesaw with her own eyes, and with a kind of wonder, the men who had daredto be free, and to found a republic of free men in the face of ninemillion Mexicans--men of iron wills, who under rude felt hats had thefinest heads, and under buckskin vests the warmest hearts. Phyllis wasalways delighted to point them out, to tell over again their exploits, and to watch the kindling of the heroic fire in Elizabeth's eyes. 

It was, indeed, a wonderful month, and the last day of it was markedby a meeting that made a deep impression upon Elizabeth. She wasdressing in the afternoon when she heard a more than usually noisyarrival. Looking out of the window she saw a man unsaddling his horse, and a crowd of negroes running to meet him. It seemed, also, as ifevery one of John's forty-two dogs was equally delighted at the visit. Such a barking! Such a chorus of welcome! Such exclamations ofsatisfaction it is impossible to describe. The new-comer was a man ofimmense stature, evidently more used to riding than to walking. For hisgait was slouching, his limbs seemed to dangle about him, and he had alazy, listless stoop, as he came up the garden with his saddle over hisarm listening to a score of voices, patting the dogs that leaped aroundand upon him, stopping to lift up a little negro baby that had toddledbetween his big legs and fallen, and, finally, standing to shake handswith Uncle Isaac, the patriarch of The Quarters. And as Uncle Isaacnever--except after long absences--paid even "Master John" the honorof coming to meet him, Elizabeth wondered who the guest could be. 

Coming down stairs she met Harriet in her very gayest head-kerchiefand her white-embroidered apron, and her best-company manner: "Deminister am come, Miss Lizzie--de Rev. Mr. Rollins am 'rived; and decamp-meetin' will be 'ranged 'bout now. I'se powerful sorry you kaintstay, ma'am. "

"Where does Mr. Rollins come from?"

"De Lord knows whar. He's at de Rio Grande, and den 'fore you cancalc'late he's at de Colorado. "

"He appears to be a great favorite. "

"He's done got de hearts ob ebery one in his right hand; and de dogs!dey whimper after him for a week; and de little children! he draw demto him from dar mammy's breast. Nobody's never seed sich a man!"

He was talking to John when Elizabeth went on the gallery, and Harrywas standing between his knees, and Dick Millard leaning on hisshoulder. Half a dozen of the more favored dogs were lying around him, and at least a dozen negro children were crawling up the piazza steps, or peeping through the railings. He was dressed in buckskin and blueflannel, and at first sight had a most unclerical look. But the momenthe lifted, his face Elizabeth saw what a clear, noble soul looked outfrom the small twinkling orbs beneath his large brows. And as he grewexcited in the evening's conversation, his muscles nerved, his bodystraightened, and he became the wiry, knotted embodiment of calm powerand determination. 

"We expected you two weeks ago, " said John to him. 

"There was work laid out for me I hadn't calculated on, John. Bowie'smen were hard up for fresh meat, and I lent them my rifle a few days. Then the Indians bothered me. They were hanging around Saledosettlement in a way I didn't like, so I watched them until I was aboutsure of their next dirty trick. It happened to be a thieving one onthe Zavala ranche, so I let Zavala know, and then rode on to tellGranger he'd better send a few boys to keep them red-handed Comanchefrom picking and stealing and murdering. "

"It was just like you. You probably saved many lives. "

"Saving life is often saving souls, John. Next time I go that wayevery man at Zavala's ranche and every man in Granger's camp willlisten to me. I shall then have a greater danger than red men to tellthem of. But they know both my rifle and my words are true, and whenI say to them, 'Boys, there's hell and heaven right in your path, andyour next step may plunge you into the fiery gulf, or open to you thegolden gates, ' they'll listen to me, and they'll believe me. John, it takes a soldier to preach to soldiers, and a saved sinner to knowhow to save other sinners. "

"And if report is not unjust, " said Richard, "you will find plentyof great sinners in such circuits as you take. "

"Sir, you'll find sinners, great sinners, everywhere. I acknowledgethat Texas has been made a kind of receptacle for men too wicked tolive among their fellows. I often come upon these wild, carrionjail-birds. I know them a hundred yards off. It is a great thing, every way, that they come here. God be thanked! Texas has nothing tofear from them. In the first place, though the atmosphere of crimeis polluting in a large city, it infects nobody here. I tell you, sir, the murderer on a Texas prairie is miserable. There is nothing soterrible to him as this freedom and loneliness, in which he is alwaysin the company of his outraged conscience, which drives him hither andthither, and gives him no rest. For I tell you, that murderers don'twillingly meet together, not even over the whisky bottle. They knoweach other, and shun each other. Well, sir, this subject touches mewarmly at present, for I am just come from the death-bed of such aman. I have been with him three days. You remember Bob Black, John?"

"Yes. A man who seldom spoke, and whom no one liked. A good soldier, though. I don't believe he knew the meaning of fear. "

"Didn't he? I have seen him sweat with terror. He has come to me moredead than alive, clung to my arms like a child, begged me to standbetween him and the shapes that followed him. "

"Drunk?"

"No, sir. I don't think he ever tasted liquor; but he was a hauntedman! He had been a sixfold murderer, and his victims made life a terrorto him. "

"How do you account for that?"

"We have a spiritual body, and we have a natural body. When it pleasesthe Almighty, he opens the eyes and ears of our spiritual body, eitherfor comfort, or advice, or punishment. This criminal saw things andheard words no mortal eyes have perceived, nor mortal ears understood. The man was haunted: I cannot doubt it. "

"I believe what you say, " said Elizabeth, solemnly, "for I have heard, and I have seen. "

"And so have I, " said the preacher, in a kind of rapture. "When I laysleeping on the St. Mark's one night, I felt the thrill of a mightytouch, and I heard, with my spiritual ears, words which no mortal lipsuttered; and I rose swiftly, and saved my life from the Comanche bythe skin of my teeth. And another night, as I rode over the Maverickprairie, when it was knee-deep in grass and flowers, and the starswere gathering one by one with a holy air into the house of God, Icould not restrain myself, and I sang aloud for joy! Then, suddenly, there seemed to be all around me a happy company, and my spiritualears were opened, and I heard a melody beyond the voices of earth, and I was not ashamed in it of my little human note of praise. I tellyou, death only sets us face to face with Him who is not very far fromus at any time. "

"And Bob is dead?"

"Yes; and I believe he is saved. "

No one spoke; and the preacher, after a minute's silence, asked, "Who doubts?"

"A sixfold murderer, you said?"

"Nay, nay, John; are you going to limit the grace of God? Do youknow the height and depth of his mercy? Have you measured thelength and breadth of the cross? I brought the cross of Christ tothat fiend-haunted bed, and the wretched soul clasped it, clung toit, yes, climbed up by it into heaven!"

"It was peace at last, then?" said Phyllis. 

"It was triumph! The devil lost all power to torture him; for, withthe sweet assurance of his forgiveness came the peace that passethunderstanding. What is there for great criminals? Only the cross ofChrist? O the miracle of love, that found out for us such an escape!"

"And you think that the man really believed himself to be forgivenby God?"

"I am sure that he knew he was forgiven. "

"It is wonderful. Why, then, do not all Christians have thisknowledge?"

"It is their privilege to have it; but how few of us have that royalnature which claims all our rights! The cross of Christ! There arestill Jewish minds to whom it is a stumbling-block; and still moreminds of the Greek type to whom it is foolishness. "

"But is not this doctrine specially a Methodist one?"

"If St. Paul was a Methodist, and St. Augustine, and Martin Luther, and the millions of saved men, to whom God has counted 'faith' in hisword and mercy 'for righteousness, ' then it is specially Methodist. What says the Lord? 'Therefore being justified by faith, we have peacewith God, through our Lord Jesus Christ. ' I do not say but what thereare many good men without this assurance; but I do say, that it isthe privilege of all who love and believe God. John Wesley himselfdid not experience this joy until he heard the Moravian, Peter Bohler, preach. 'Before that, ' he says, 'I was a servant of God, accepted andsafe, but now I _knew it_. '"

Elizabeth did not again reply. She sat very still, her hand claspedin that of Phyllis, whose head was leaning upon her breast. And veryfrequently she glanced down at the pale, spiritual face with itsluminous dark eyes and sweet mouth. For Phyllis had to perfection thatlovely, womanly charm, which puts itself _en rapport_ with everymood, and yet only offers the sympathy of a sensitive silence and ananswering face. 

As the women sat musing the moon rose, and then up sprang the nightbreeze, laden with the perfume of bleaching grass, and all the hot, sweet scents of the south. 

"How beautiful is this land!" said Richard, in an enthusiasm. "Whata pity the rabble of other lands cannot be kept out of it!"

The preacher lifted his head with a quick belligerent motion: "Thereis no such thing, as rabble, sir. For the meanest soul Christ paiddown his precious blood. What you call 'rabble' are the builders ofkingdoms and nationalities. "

"Yes, " said John, "I dare say if we could see the fine fellows whofought at Hastings, and those who afterward forced Magna Charta fromKing John without the poetic veil of seven hundred years, we shouldbe very apt to call them 'rabble' also. Give the founders of Texasthe same time, and they may also have a halo round their heads. Wasnot Rome founded by robbers, and Great Britain by pirates?"

"There is work for every man, and men for every work. These 'rabble, 'under proper leaders, were used by the Almighty for a grand purpose--the redemption of this fair land, and his handful of people in it, from the thrall of the priests of Rome. Would such men as theLivingstons, the Carrolls, the Renselaers, or the wealthy citizens ofPhiladelphia or Washington have come here and fought Indians andMexicans; and been driven about from pillar to post, living on potatoesand dry corn? Good respectable people suffer a great deal of tyrannyere they put their property in danger. But when Texas, in herdesperation, rose, she was glad of the men with a brand on their bodyand a rope round their neck, and who did not value their lives morethan an empty nut-shell. They did good service. Many of them won backfair names and men's respect and God's love. I call no man 'rabble. ' Iknow that many of these outcasts thanked God for an opportunity tooffer their lives for the general good, " and, he added dropping hisvoice almost to a whisper, "I know of instances where the sacrifice wasaccepted, and assurance of that acceptance granted. "

"The fight for freedom seems to be a never-ending one. "

"Because, " said the preacher, "Man was created free. Freedom is hisbirthright, even though he be born in a prison, and in chains. Hence, the noblest men are not satisfied with physical and political freedom;they must also be free men in Christ Jesus; for let me tell you, ifmen are slaves to sin and the devil, not all the Magna Chartas, norall the swords in the world, can make them truly free. "

And thus they talked until the moon set and the last light was outin the cabins, and the 'after midnight' feeling became plainly evident. Then Phyllis brought out a dish that looked very like walnut shells, but which all welcomed. They were preserved bears' paws. "Eat, " shesaid, "for though it is the last hour we may meet in this life, wemust sleep now. "

And the Texan luxury was eaten with many a pleasant word, and then, with kind and solemn 'farewells, ' the little party separated, neverin all the years of earth to sit together again; for just at daylight, John and Phyllis stood at their gates, watching the carriage whichcarried Richard and Elizabeth pass over the hill, and into the timber, and out of sight. 

CHAPTER XI. 

 "The evening of life brings with it its lamp. "--TOUBERT. 

 "And there arrives a lull in the hot race: And an unwonted calm pervades the breast. And then he thinks he knows The hills where his life rose, And the sea, where it goes. "--ARNOLD

 "She has passed To where, beyond these voices, there is peace. "

It is the greatest folly to think that the only time worth writingabout is youth. It is an equal folly to imagine that love is the onlypassion universally interesting. Elizabeth's years were no less vivid, no less full of feeling and of changes, after her marriage than beforeit. Indeed, she never quite lost the interests of her maiden life. Hallam demanded an oversight she did not fail to give it. Three timesduring the twelve years of its confiscation to Antony's creditors shevisited it. In these visits she was accompanied by Richard, and Harry, and her own children. Then the Whaleys' accounts were carefully goneover, and found always to be perfectly honorable and satisfactory. And it is needless to say how happy Martha was at such times. 

Gradually all ill-feeling passed away. The young squire, thougheducated abroad, had just such a training as made him popular. Forhe passed part of every year in Texas with Dick Millard, and all thatcould be known about horses and hunting and woodcraft, Harry Hallamknew. He had also taken on very easily the Texan manner, frank, yetrather proud and phlegmatic: "Evidently a young man who knows whathe wants, and will be apt to get it, " said Whaley. 

"Nine Yorkshire jockeys knocked into one couldn't blind him on ahorse, " said young Horton. 

"And I'll lay a guinea he'll lead in every hunting field. "

"And they do say, he's a first-rate scholar besides. "

Such conversations regarding him were indefinitely repeated, andvaried. 

When he was in his eighteenth year the estate was absolutely free ofevery claim, and in a condition which reflected the greatest creditupon those in whose care it had been placed. It was at this time thatRichard and Elizabeth took the young man into his grandfather's room, and laid before him the title deeds of his patrimony and the scheduleof its various incomes. Then, also, they told him, with infinitekindness and forbearance, the story of his father's efforts andfailures, and the manner in which the estate had been handled, so thatit might be made over to him free of all debt and stain. 

Harry said very little. His adopted parents liked him the better forthat. But he was profoundly amazed and grateful. Then he went toCambridge, and for three years Elizabeth did not see him. It hadbeen arranged, however, that the whole family should meet at Hallamon the anniversary of his majority, and the occurrence was celebratedwith every public festivity that had always attended that event inthe Hallam family. There was nothing to dim the occasion. Every one, Far and near, took the opportunity to show that ill-thoughts andill-feelings were forever buried, and Elizabeth and Richard were fetedwith especial honor. 

"Few women would hev done so well by t' land and t' family, " admittedeven Lord Eltham, "and if I wasn't so old and feeble, I'd go and tellher so; and to be foreign-born, that Mr. Fontaine has been varrysquare, that he hes. He shows t' English blood in him. "

"Ay, it's hard to wear Yorkshire out. It bears a deal o' waterin', and is still strong and straight-for'ard, " answered Whaley. 

"Now he'll hev to wed and settle down. "

"He'll do that. I've seen a deal o' him, and I've noticed that he hasneither eyes nor ears but for our little lass, a varry bonny lass sheis!"

"It'll be Alice Horton, happen?"

"Nay, it isn't. It's his cousin, Bessie Fontaine. She's but a girlyet, but she's t' varry image o' her mother, just what Elizabeth Hallamwas at sixteen--happen only a bit slighter and more delicate-looking. "

"And no wonder, Whaley. To be brought up i' a place like that NewOrleans. Why-a! they do say that t' winter weather there is like ourhaymakin' time! Poor thing! She'll get a bit o' color here, I'sewarrant. "

The Yorkshire lawyer had seen even into a love affair, with clear eyes. Bessie and Harry had already confided their affection to Elizabeth, but she was quite determined that there should be no engagement untilafter Harry returned from a three-years' travel in Europe and Asia. 

"Then, Harry, " she said, "you will have seen the women of many lands. And Bessie will also have seen something of the world, and of thesociety around her. She must choose you from among all others, andnot simply because habit and contiguity and family relations havethrown you together. "

Still it pleased her, that from every part of the world came regularlyand constantly letters and tokens of Harry's love for her daughter. She would not force, she would not even desire, such a consummation;but yet, if a true and tried affection should unite the cousins, itwould be a wonderful settlement of that succession which had sotroubled and perplexed her father, and which at last he had humbly leftto the wisdom and direction of a higher Power. 

Therefore, when Harry, in his twenty-fourth year, browned and beardedwith much travel, came back to New Orleans, to ask the hand of theonly woman he had ever loved, Elizabeth was very happy. Her daughterwas going back to her old home, going to be the mistress of its fairsunny rooms, and renew in her young life the hopes and memories ofa by-gone generation. 

And to the happy bridal came John and Phyllis, and all their handsomesons and daughters, and never was there a more sweetly, solemnmarriage-feast. For many wise thoughts had come to Elizabeth as herchildren grew up at her side, and one of them was a conviction thatmarriage is too sacred a thing to be entered into amid laughter anddancing and thoughtless feasting. "If Jesus was asked to the marriage, as he was in Cana of Galilee, there would be fewer unhappy marriages, "she said. So the young bride was sent away with smiles and kisses andloving joyful wishes, but not in a whirl of dancing and champagnegayety and noisy selfish merriment. 

And the years came and went, and none of them were alike. In one, itwas the marriage of her eldest son, Richard, to Lulu Millard; inanother, the death of a baby girl very dear to her. She had her dailycrosses and her daily blessings, and her daily portion of duties. Butin the main, it may be said, for Richard and Elizabeth Fontaine, thatthey had "borne the yoke in their youth, " and learned the great lessonsof life, before the days came in which their strength began to failthem. 

The last year of any life may generally be taken as the verdict uponthat life. Elizabeth's was a very happy one. She was one of those womenon whom time lays a consecrating hand. Her beauty, in one sense, hadgone; in another sense, she was fairer than ever. Her noble face hadlost its bloom and its fine contour, but her mouth was sweeter andstronger, and her eyes full of the light of a soul standing in thepromise of heaven. She had much of her old energy and activity. Inthe spring of the year she went to Texas to see a son and daughterwho had settled there; and, with one of her grandchildren, rodethoughtfully, but not unhappily, over all the pleasant places she hadbeen with Richard that first happy year of their marriage. Richardhad been six years dead, but she had never mourned him as those mournwho part hands in mid-life, when the way is still long before thelonely heart. In a short time they would meet again, for

 "As the pale waste widens around us, And the banks fade dimmer away, As the stars come out, the night wind Brings up the stream Murmurs and scents of the infinite sea. "

Yet there had been a very solemn parting between her and Phyllis; andwhen Phyllis stooped twice to the face in the departing carriage, andthe two women kissed each other so silently, John was somehow touchedinto an unusual thoughtfulness; and for the first time realized thathis sweet Phyllis was fading away. He could not talk in his usualcheery manner, and when he said, "Farewell, Elizabeth, " and held herhand, he involuntarily glanced at his wife, and walked away with hiseyes full of tears. 

But as the brain grows by knowledge, so the heart is made larger byloving; and Elizabeth was rich and happy in the treasures she hadgarnered. The past no prayer could bring back; the future she countednot; but she enjoyed in every hour the blessing they brought her. Thevoyage across the ocean was delightful; she found young hearts tocounsel, and aged ones to change experiences with. Every one desiredto talk to her, and counted it a favor to sit or to walk by her side. So beautiful is true piety; so lovely is the soul that comes into dailylife fresh from the presence of the Deity. 

She had left Texas in May; she arrived at Hallam in June. And howbeautiful the dear old place was! But Martha had gone to her rewardtwo years previously, and Elizabeth missed her. She had lived to beeighty-eight years old, and had not so much died as fallen asleep. She had never left the hall, but, as long as she was able, had takencharge of all its treasures and of every thing concerning the children. Even when confined to her room, they had come to her with theirtroubles and their joys, and her fingers were busy for them unto thelast day. 

Yet no one missed Martha as Elizabeth missed her. With Martha shetalked on subjects she mentioned to no one else. They had confidencesno others could share. It seemed as if the last link which bound herto her youth was broken. But one morning, as her daughter was slowlydriving her through Hallam village, she saw an old man who had beenvery pleasantly linked with the by-gone years, and she said, "Thatis a very dear friend, I must speak to him, Bessie. "

He was a slight old man, with thin hair white as wool falling on hisshoulders, and a face full of calm contemplation. "Mr. North, " saidElizabeth, tremulously, "do you remember me?"

He removed his hat, and looked attentively in the face bending towardhim. Then, with a smile, "Ah, yes, I remember Miss Hallam. God is goodto let me see you again. I am very glad, indeed. "

"You must come to the hall with me, if you can; I have a great dealto say to you. "

And thus it happened that after this meeting Bessie frequently stoppedfor him in the village, and that gradually he spent more and more timeat the hall. There he always occupied the large room called the"Chamber of Peace, " hallowed by the memory of the apostle of his faith. 

One hot August day he had gone to its cool, calm shelter, afterspending an hour with Elizabeth. Their conversation had been in heaven, and specially of the early dead and blessed, who went in the serenityof the morning; whose love for God had known no treachery, and whotook the hand of Jesus and followed him with all their heart. 

"I think theirs will be the radiant habitations, and the swiftobedience of the seraphim. They will know and love and work, as dothe angels. "

"In middle life, " said Elizabeth, "heaven seems farther away from us. "

"True, my sister. At midday the workman may think of the evening, butit is his work that chiefly I engrosses him. Not that the Christianever forgets God in his labor, but he needs to be on the alert, andto keep every faculty busy. But when the shades of evening gather, he begins to think of going home, and of the result of his labor. "

"In middle life, too, death amazes us. In the moment of hearing ofsuch a death I always found my heart protest against it. But as I growolder I can feel that all the cords binding to life grow slack. Howwill it be at the end?"

"I think as soon as heaven is seen, we shall tend toward it. We willnot go away in sadness, dear sister; we shall depart in the joy ofhis salvation. If I was by your side, I should not say, "Farewell;"I should speak of our meeting again. "

Then he went away, and Elizabeth, with a happy face, drew her chairto the open window of her room and lifted her work. It was a pieceof silken patch-work, made of dresses and scarfs and sashes, that eachhad a history in her memory. There were circles from Phyllis's andher own wedding dresses, one from a baby sash of her son Charles. Charles hung his sword from a captain's belt then, but she kept theblue ribbon of his babyhood. There was a bit from Jack's first cravat, and Dick's flag, and her dear husband's wedding vest, and from thesmall silken shoes of the little Maya--dear little Maya, who

 "From the nursery door, Climbed up with clay cold feet Unto the golden floor. "

Any wife and mother can imagine the thousand silken strips that wouldgather in a life of love. 

She had often said that in her old age she would sew together thesememorials of her sorrow and her joy; and Bessie frequently stood besideher, listening to events which this or that piece called forth, andwatching, the gay beautiful squares, as they grew in the summersunshine and by the glinting winter firelight. 

After Mr. North left her she lifted her work and sat sewing andsinging. It was an unusually hot day; the perfume from the Augustlilies and the lavender and the rich carnations almost made the heartfaint. All the birds were still; but the bees were busy, and far offthere was the soft tinkling of the water falling into the two fountainson the terrace. Harry came in, and said, "I am going into Hallam, mother, so I kiss you before I go;" and she rose up and kissed thehandsome fellow, and watched him away, and when he turned and liftedhis hat to her, she blessed him, and thanked God that he had let herlive to see Antony's son so good and worthy an inheritor of the oldname and place. 

By and by her thoughts drifted westward to her son Charles, with hisregiment on the Colorado plains, to her son Richard in his Texan home, to Phyllis and John, to her daughter Netta, to the graves of Richardand the little Maya. It seemed to her as if all her work was finished. How wonderfully the wrong had been put right! How worthy Harry was!How happy her own dear Bessie! If her father could see the home hehad left with anxious fears, she thought he would be satisfied. "Ishall be glad to see him, " she said, softly; "he will say to me, 'Thoudid right, Elizabeth!' I think that his praise will be sweet, evenafter the Master's. "

At this point in her reflections Bessie came into her room. She hadher arms full of myrtles and glowing dahlias, of every color; and shestooped and kissed her mother, and praised the beauty of her work, and then began to arrange the flowers in the large vases which stoodupon the hearth and upon the table. 

"It is a most beautiful day, mother! a most beautiful world! I wonderwhy God says he will make a new world! How can a new one be fairer?"

"His tabernacle will be in it, Bessie. Think of that, my child. Anintimate happiness with him. No more sin. All tears wiped away. Bessie, there may be grander worlds among the countless stars, but O earth!fair happy earth, that has such hope of heaven!" and she began to singto the sweet old tune of "Immanuel. "

 "There is a land of pure delight, Where saints--"

There was a sudden pause, and Bessie lifted the strain, but ere theverse was finished, turned suddenly and looked at her mother. The nextmoment she was at her side. With the needle in her fingers, with thesong upon her lips, Elizabeth had gone to "Immanuel's Land, " withouteven a parting sigh. 

It seemed almost wrong to weep for such a death. Bessie knelt prayingby her mother's side, holding her hands, and gazing into the dear face, fast settling into those solemn curves which death makes firm andsharp-cut, as if they were to endure for ages, until the transitionwas quite complete. Then she called in the old servants who most lovedher mother, and they dressed her for her burial, and laid her uponthe small, snowy bed which had been hers from her girlhood. And thechildren gathered the white odorous everlastings and the white flowersin all the garden, and with soft steps and tender hands spread themover the still breast, and the pure drapery. And when Mr. North camein with Harry, though Harry wept, the preacher could not. With a facefull of triumph, he looked at her, and said only, "Go in peace; soulbeautiful and blessed!"

It had been well known for more than a year that Elizabeth's life washeld at a moment's tenure. It was a little singular that Phyllis wassuffering, also, from a complaint almost analogous; and when they hadbid each other a farewell in the spring, they had understood it tobe the last of earth. Indeed, Phyllis had whispered to Elizabeth inthat parting moment, "I give you a rendezvous in heaven, my darling!"

Often also during the summer Bessie had heard her mother softly singingto herself:

 "I look unto the gates of His high place, Beyond the sea; For I know he is coming shortly, To summon me. And when a shadow falls across the window, Of my room, Where I am working my appointed task, I lift my head to watch the door, and ask If he is come? And the Angel answers sweetly, In my home, Only a few more shadows, And he will come. "

She was laid with her fathers in the old churchyard at Hallam. AndO, how sweet is the sleep of those whom the King causeth to rest!Neither lands nor houses nor gold, nor yet the joy of a fond andFaithful lover, tempted Elizabeth Hallam to leave the path of honor andrectitude; but when her trial was finished, bear witness how Godblessed her! giving her abundantly of all good things in this life, and an inheritance, incorruptible, undefiled, and which shall neverpass away from her. 

THE END.