But sincere love is slow to believe evil of its object. If Van Dam had

shown preference for another, Zell's jealousy and anger would have

known no bounds, but this he had never done, and she could not bring

herself to believe that the man whom she had known, since childhood,

who had always treated her with uniform kindness and most flattering

attention, who had partaken of their hospitality so often and

intimately that he almost seemed like one of the family, meditated the

basest evil against her.

"Gus Elliot is capable of any meanness, but Edith was mistaken about

my friend. And yet Edith has so insulted him that I fear he will never

come to the house again," she said with deep resentment. "If I had

declined a private marriage, I am sure he would have married me

openly."

Therefore when Edith entered their little room Zell's face was

averted, and there was every evidence of estrangement. Edith meant to

be kind and considerate, and patiently show the reasons for her

action.

She sat down and took her sister's cold, impassive hand, saying:

"Zell, did I not help you dress in this very place last evening? Did I

not wait against my judgment till Mr. Van Dam came? These things prove

to you that I would not put a straw between you and a true lover.

Surely we have trouble enough without adding the bitter one of

division and estrangement. If we don't stand by each other now what

will become of us?"

"What right had you to misjudge Mr. Van Dam by such a mean little

scamp as Gus Elliot? Why did you not give him a chance to explain

himself?"

"O Zell, Zell, how can you be so blinded? Did he not ask you to go

away with him in the night--to elope, and then submit to a secret

marriage in New York?"

"Well, he told me there were good reasons that made such a course

necessary at present."

"Are you George Allen's daughter, that you could even listen to such a

proposal? When you lived on Fifth Avenue would he have dared to even

faintly suggest such a thing? Can he be a true lover who insults you

to begin with, and, in view of your misfortunes, instead of showing

manly delicacy and desire to shield, demands not only hard but

indecent conditions? Even if he purposed to marry you, what right has

he to require of you such indelicate action as would make your name a

byword and hissing among all your old acquaintances, and a lasting

stain to your family? They would not receive you with respect again,

though some might tolerate you and point you out as the girl so

desperate for a husband that she submitted to the grossest indignity

to get one."

Zell hung her head in shame and anger under Edith's inexorable logic,

but the anger was now turning against Van Dam. Edith continued:

"A lady should be sought and won. It is for her to set the place and

time of the wedding, and dictate the conditions. It is for her to say

who shall be present and who absent, and woman, to whom a spotless

name is everything, has the right, which even savage tribes recognize,

to shield herself from the faintest imputation of immodesty by

compelling her suitor to comply with the established custom and

etiquette which are her safeguards. The daughter of a poor laborer

would demand all this as a matter of course, and shall the beautiful

Zell Allen, who has had scores of admirers, have all this reversed in

her case, and be compelled to skulk away from the home in which she

should be openly married, to hunt up a man at night who has made the

pitiful promise that he will marry her somewhere at some time or

other, on condition that no one shall know it till he is ready? Mark

it well, the man who so insults a lady and all her family never means

to marry her, or else he is so coarse and brutal in all his instincts

that no decent woman ought to marry him."

"Say no more," said Zell, in a low tone, "I fear you are right, though

I would rather die than believe it. Oh, Edith, Edith!" she cried in

sudden passionate grief. "My heart is broken. I loved him so! I could

have been so happy!"

Edith took her in her arms and they cried together. At last Zell said

languidly;

"What can we do?"

"We must go to work like other poor people. If we had only done so at

first and saved every dollar we had left, we should not now be in our

present deeply embarrassed condition. And yet, Zell, if you, with your

vigor and strength, will only stand by me, and help your best, we will

see bright days yet There must be some way by which two girls can make

a livelihood here in Pushton as elsewhere. We have at least a shelter,

and I have great hopes of the garden."

"I don't like a garden. I fear I couldn't do much there. And it seems

like man's work too. I fear I shall be too wretched and ignorant to do

anything."

"Not at all. Youth, health, and time, against all the troubles of the

world." (This was the best creed poor Edith then had.) "Now," she

continued, encouragingly, "you like housework. Of course we must

dismiss our servants, and if you did the work of the house with Laura,

so that I had all my time for something else, it would be a great

saving and help."

"Oh, dear! oh, dear! that we should ever come to this!" said Zell

despairingly.

"We have come to it, and must face the truth."

"Well, of course I'll try," said Zell with something of Laura's

apathy. Then with a sudden burst of passion she clenched her little

hands and cried:

"I hate him, the cold-hearted wretch, to treat his poor little Zell so

shamefully!" and she paced up and down the room with inflamed eyes and

cheeks. Then in equally sudden revulsion she threw herself down on the

floor with her head in her sister's lap, and murmured, "God forgive

me, I love him still--I love him with my whole heart," and sobbed till

all her strength was gone.

Edith sighed deeply. "Can she ever be depended on?" she thought. At

last she lifted the languid form on the bed, threw over her an afghan,

and bathed her head with cologne till the poor child fell asleep.

Then she went down to Laura and her mother, to whom she explained more

fully the events of last evening. Laura only muttered, "shameful," but

Mrs. Allen whined, "She could not understand it. Girls didn't know how

to manage any longer. There must be some misunderstanding, for no

young men in the city could have meant to offer such an insult to an

old and respectable family like theirs. She never heard of such a

thing. If she could only have been present--"

"Hush, mother," said Edith almost sternly. "It's all past now. I

should gladly believe that when you were a young lady such poor

villains were not in good society. Moreover, such offers are not made

to young ladies living on the avenue. This is more properly a case for

shooting than management. I have no patience to talk any more about

it. We must now try to conform to our altered circumstances, and at

least maintain our self-respect, and secure the comforts of life if

possible. But we must now practice the closest economy. Laura, you

will have to be mother's maid, for of course we can keep no servants.

I have a little money left, and will pay your maid to-day and let her

go."

"I don't see how I can get along without her," said Mrs. Allen

helplessly.

"You must," said Edith firmly. "We have no money to pay her any

longer, and your daughters will try to supply her place."

Mrs. Allen did not formally abdicate her natural position as head of

the family, but in the hour of almost shipwreck Edith took the helm

out of the feeble hands. Yet the young girl had little to guide her,

no knowledge and experience worth mentioning, and the sea was rough

and beset with dangers.

The maid had no regrets at departure, and went away with something of

the satisfaction of a rat leaving a sinking ship. But with old

Hannibal it was a different affair.

"You ain't gwine to send me away too, is you, Miss Edie?" said he,

with the accent of dismay.

"My good old friend," said Edith feelingly, "the only friend I'm sure

of in this great world full of people, I fear I must. We can't afford

to pay you even half what you are worth any longer."

"I'se sure I doesn't eat sech a mighty lot," Hannibal sniffled out.

"Oh, I hope we shan't reach starvation point," said Edith, smiling in

spite of her sore heart. "But, Hannibal, you are a valuable servant;

besides, there are plenty of rich upstarts who would give you anything

you would ask, just to have you come and give an old and aristocratic

air to their freshly-gilded mansions."

"Miss Edie, you doesn't know nothin' 'tall about my feelin's. What's

money to ole Hannibal! I'se lived 'mong de millionaires and knows all

'bout money. It only buys half of 'em a heap of trouble and doesn't

keep dar hearts from gettin' sore. When Massa Allen was a livin', he

paid me big, and guv me all de money I wanted, and if he, at last,

lost my money which he keep, it's no mo'n he did wid his own. And now,

Miss Edie, I toted you and you'se sisters roun' on my shouler when you

was babies, and I hain't got nothin' left but you, no friends, no

nothin'; and if you send me away, it's like gwine out into de

wilderness. What 'ud I do in some strange man's big house, when my

heart's here in de little house? My heart is all ole Hannibal has

left, if 'tis black, and if you send me away you break it. I'd a heap

rader stay here in Bushtown and starve to death wid you alls, dan live

in de grandest house on de avenue."

"Oh, Hannibal," said Edith, putting her hand on the old man's

shoulder, and looking at him with her large eyes dimmed with grateful

tears, "you don't know how much good you have done me. I have felt

that there were none to trust--not one, but you are as true as steel.

Your heart isn't black, as I told you before. It's whiter than mine.

Oh, that other men were like you!"

"Bress you, Miss Edie, I isn't a man, I'se only a nigger."

"You are my true and trusted friend," said Edith, "and you shall be

one of the family as long as you wish to stay with us."

"Now bress you, Miss Edie, you'se an angel for sayin' dat. Don't be

afeard, I'se good for sumpen yet, if I be old. I once work for fear in

de South; den I work for money, and now I'se gwine to work for lub,

and it 'pears I can feel my ole jints limber up at de tought. It

'pears like dat lub is de only ting dat can make one young agin. Neber

you fear, Miss Edie, we'll pull trough, and I'se see you a grand lady

yet. A true lady you'se allers be, even if you went out to scrub."

"Perhaps I'll have to, Hannibal. I know how to do that about as well

as anything else that people are willing to pay for."

CHAPTER XVII

THE CHANGES OF TWO SHORT MONTHS

At the dinner-table it was reluctantly admitted to be necessary that

Edith should go to the city in the morning and dispose of some of

their jewelry. She went by the early train, and the familiar aspects

of Fourth Avenue as she rode down town were as painful as the features

of an old friend turned away from us in estrangement. She kept her

face closely veiled, hoping to meet no acquaintances, but some whom

she knew unwittingly brushed against her. Her mother's last words

were:

"Go to some store where we are not known to sell the jewelry."

Edith's usually good judgment seemed to fail her in this case, as

generally happens when we listen to the suggestions of false pride.

She went to a jeweller downtown who was an utter stranger. The man's

face to whom she handed her valuables for inspection did not suggest

pure gold that had passed through the refiner's fire, though he

professed to deal in that article. An unknown lady, closely veiled,

offering such rich articles for sale, looked suspicious; but, whether

it was right or wrong, there was a chance for him to make an

extraordinary profit. Giving a curious glance at Edith, who began to

have misgivings from the manner and appearance of the man, he swept

the little cases up and took them to the back part of the store, on

pretence of wishing to consult his partner. He soon returned and said

rather harshly:

"I don't quite understand this matter, and we are not in the habit of

doing this kind of business. It may be all right that you should offer

this jewelry, and it may not. If we take it, we must run the risk. We

will give you"--offering scarcely half its value.

"I assure you it is all right," said Edith indignantly, at the same

time with a sickening sensation of fear. "It all belongs to us, but we

are compelled to part with it from sudden need."

"That is about the way they all talk," said the man coolly. "We will

give you no more than I said."

"Then give me back my jewelry," said Edith, scarcely able to stand,

through fear and shame.

"I don't know about that. Perhaps I ought to call in an officer any

way and have the thing investigated. But I give you your choice,

either to take this money, or go with a policeman before a justice and

have the thing explained," and he laid the money before her.

She shuddered at the thought. Edith Allen in a police court,

explaining why she was selling her jewelry, the gifts of her dead

father, followed by a rabble in the street, her name in the papers,

and she the town-talk and scandal of her old set on the avenue! How

Gus Elliot and Van Dam would exult! All passed through her mind in one

dreadful whirl. She snatched up the money and rushed out with one

thought of escape, and for some time after had a shuddering

apprehension of being pursued and arrested.

"Oh, if I had only gone to Tiffany's, where I am known!" she groaned.

"It's all mother's work. Her advice is always fatal, and I will never

follow it again. It seems as if everything and everybody were against

me," and she plunged into the sheltering throng of Broadway, glad to

be a mere unrecognized drop in its mighty tide.

But even as Edith passed out of the jeweller's store her eye rested

for a moment on the face of a man whom she thought she had seen

before, though she could not tell where, and the face haunted her,

causing much uneasiness.

"Could he have seen and known me?" she queried most anxiously.

He had done both. He was no other than Tom Crowl, a clerk in the

village at one of the lesser dry-goods stores, where the Allens had a

small account. He was one of the mean loafers who were present at the

bar-room scene, and had cheered, and then kicked Gus Elliot, and "laid

for him" in the evening with the "boys." He was one of the upper

graduates of Pushton street-corners, and having spent an idle, vicious

boyhood, truant half the time from school, had now arrived at the

dignity of clerk in a store, that thrived feebly on the scattering

trade that filtered through and past Mr. Hard's larger establishment.

He was one of the worst phases of the male gossip, and had the scent

of a buzzard for the carrion of scandal. The Allens were now the

uppermost theme of the village, for there seemed some mystery about

them. Moreover, the rural dabblers in vice had a natural jealousy of

the more accomplished rakes from the city, which took on something of

the air of virtuous indignation against them. Of course the talk about

Gus and Van Dam included the Allens; and if poor Edith could have

heard the surmises about them in the select coterie of clerks that

gathered after closing hours around Crowl, as the central fountain of

gossip, she would have felt more bitterly than ever that the spirit of

chivalry had utterly forsaken mankind.

When therefore young Crowl saw Edith get on the same train as himself,

he determined to watch her, and startle, if possible, his small squad

of admirers with a new proof of his right to lead as chief scandal-monger. The scene in the jewelry store thus became a brilliant stroke

of fortune to him, though so severe a blow to Edith. (The number of

people who are like wolves, that turn upon and devour one of their

kind when wounded, is not small.) Crowl exultingly saw himself doubly

the hero of the evening in the little room of the loft over the store,

where poor Edith would be discussed that evening over a black bottle

and sundry clay pipes.

As Edith returned up town toward the depot, the impulse to go and see

her old home was very strong. She thought her veil sufficient

protection to allow her to venture. Slowly and with heavy step she

passed up the well-known street on the opposite side, and then crossed

and passed down toward that door from which she had so often tripped

in light-hearted gayety, or rolled away in a liveried carriage, the

envied and courted daughter of a millionaire. And to-day she was

selling her jewelry for bread--to-day she had narrowly, as she

thought, escaped the police court--to-day she had no other prospect of

support save her unskilled hands, and little more than two short

months ago, that house was ablaze with light, resounding with mirth

and music, and she and her sisters were known as among the wealthiest

belles of the city. It was like a horrid dream. It seemed as if she

might see old Hannibal opening the door, and Zell come tripping out,

or Laura at the window of her room with a book, or the portly form of

her father returning from business, indeed even herself, radiant with

pride and pleasure, starting for an afternoon walk as of old. All

seemed to look the same. Why was it not? Why could she not enter and

be at home! Again she passed. A name on the door caught her eye. With

a shudder of disgust and pain, she read--

"Uriah Fox."

"So the villain lives in the home of which he robbed us," she said

bitterly. "The world seems made for such. Old Hannibal was right. God

lumps the world, but the devil seems to look after his friends and

prosper them."

She now hastened to the depot. The city had lost its attractions to

her, in view of what she had seen and suffered that day, and though

inclined to feel hard and resentful at her fate, she was sincerely

thankful that she had a quiet home in the country from which at least

the false-hearted and cruel could be kept away.

She saw during the day several faces that she knew, but none

recognized her, and she realized how soon we are forgotten by our wide

circle of friends, and how the world goes on just the same after we

have vacated the large space we suppose we occupy.

She reached home in the twilight, weary and despondent. Her mother

asked eagerly:

"Did you meet any one you knew?" as if this were the all-important

question.

"Don't speak to me," said Edith impatiently. "I'm half dead with

fatigue and trouble. Hannibal, please give me a cup of tea, and then I

will go to bed."

"But, Edith," persisted Mrs. Allen querulously, "did you see any of

our old set? I hope you didn't take the jewelry where you were known."

Edith's overtaxed nerves gave way, and she said sharply--

"No, I did not go where I was known, as I ought, and therefore have

been robbed, and might have been in jail myself to-night. I will never

follow your advice again. It has brought nothing but trouble and

disaster. I have had enough of your silly pride and its results. What

practical harm would it have done me, if I had met all the persons I

know in the city? By going where I was not known I lost half my

jewelry, and was insulted and threatened with great danger in the

bargain. If I had gone to Tiffany's, or Ball and Black's, where I am

known, I should have been treated politely and obtained the full value

of what I offered. I can't even forgive myself for being such a fool.

But I have done with your ridiculous false pride forever."

These were harsh words for a daughter to speak to her mother, under

any provocation, and even Zell said:

"Edith, you ought to be ashamed of yourself to speak to mother so."

"I think so, too," said Laura. "I'm sure she meant everything for the

best, and she took the course which is taken by the majority in like

circumstances."

"All the worse for the majority then, if they fare anything as we have

done. The division of labor in this family seems to be that I am to do

all the work, and bear the brunt of everything, and the rest sit by

and criticise, or make more trouble. You have all got to do something

now or go hungry," and Edith swallowed her tea, and went frowningly

away to her room. She was no saint, to begin with, and her overtaxed

mind and body revenged themselves in nervous irritation. But her young

and healthful nature soon found in sound sleep the needed restorative.

Mrs. Allen shed a few helpless tears, and Laura wearily watched the

faint flicker on the hearth, for the night was chilly. Zell went into

the dining-room and read for the twentieth time a letter received that

day.

Unknown to Edith, the worst disaster yet had occurred in her absence.

Zell had been to the village for the mail. She would not admit, even

to herself, that she hoped for a letter from one who had acted so poor

a part as her false lover, and yet, controlled so much more by her

feelings and impulses than by either reason or principle, it was with

a thrill of joy that she recognized the familiar handwriting. The next

moment she dropped her veil to conceal her burning blush of shame. She

hastened home with a wild tumult at heart.

"I will read it, and see what he says for himself," she said, "and

then will write a withering answer."

But as Van Dam's ardent words and plausible excuses burned themselves

into her memory, her weak foolish heart relented, and she half

believed he was wronged by Edith after all. The withering answer

became a queer jumble of tender reproaches and pathetic appeals, and

ended by saying that if he would marry her in her own home it all

might be as secret as he desired, and she would wait his convenience

for acknowledgment.

She also did another wrong and imprudent thing; for she told him to

direct his reply to another office about a mile from Pushton, for she

dreaded Edith's anger should her correspondence be discovered.

The wily, unscrupulous man gave one of his satantic leers as he read

the letter.

"The game will soon be mine," he chuckled, and he wrote promptly in

return:

"In your request and reproaches, I see the influence of another mind.

Left to yourself you would not doubt me. And yet such is my love for

you, I would comply with your request were it not for what passed that

fatal evening. My feelings and honor as a man forbid my ever meeting

your sister again till she has apologized. She never liked me, and

always wronged me with doubts. Elliot acted like a fool and a villain,

and I have nothing more to do with him. But your sister, in her anger

and excitement, classed me with him. When you have been my loved and

trusted wife for some length of time, I hope your family will do me

justice. When you are here with me you will soon see why our marriage

must be private for the present. You have known me since you were a

child. I will be true to my word and will do exactly as I agreed. I

will meet you any evening you wish on the down boat. Awaiting your

reply with an anxiety which only the deepest love can inspire, I

remain,

"Your slave, GUILLIAM VAN DAM."

Such was the false but plausible missive that was aimed as an arrow at

poor little Zell. There was nothing in her training or education, and

little in her character, to shield her. Moreover the increasing

miseries of their situation were Van Dam's allies.

Edith rose the next morning greatly refreshed, and her naturally

courageous nature rallied to meet the difficulties of their position.

But in her strength, as was too often the case, she made too little

allowance for the weakness of the others. She took the reins in her

hand in a masterful and not merciful way, and dictated to the rest in

a manner that they secretly resented.

The store wagon was a little earlier than usual that morning, and a

note from Mr. Hard was handed in, stating that he had payments to make

that day and would therefore request that his little account might be

met. Two or three other persons brought up bills from the village,

saying that for some reason or another the money was greatly needed.

Tom Crowl's gossip was doing its legitimate work.

In the post-office Edith found all the other accounts against the

family, with requests for payment, polite enough, but pressing.

She resolved to pay all she could, and went first to Mr. Hard's, That

worthy citizen's eyes grew less stony as he saw half the amount of his

bill on the counter. The rumor of Edith's visit to the city had

reached even him, and he had his fears that collecting might involve

some unpleasant business; but, however unpleasant it might be, Mr.

Hard always collected.

"I hope our method of dealing has satisfied you. Miss Allen," he

ventured politely.

"Oh, yes," said Edith dryly, "you have been very liberal and prompt

with everything, especially your bill."

At this Mr. Hard's eyes grew quite pebbly, and he muttered something

about its being the rule to settle monthly.

"Oh, certainly," said Edith, "and like most rules, no doubt, has many

exceptions. Good-morning."

She also paid something on the other bills, and found that she had but

a few dollars left. Though there was a certain sense of relief in the

feeling that she now owed much less, still she looked with dismay on

the small sum remaining. Where was more to come from? She had

determined that she would not go to New York again to sell anything

except in the direst extremity.

That evening Hannibal gave them a meagre supper, for Edith had told

him of the absolute necessity of economy. There was a little grumbling

over the fare. So Edith pushed her chair back, laid seven dollars on

the table, saying:

"That's all the money I have in the world. Who's got any more?"

They raised ten dollars among them.

"Now," said Edith, "this is all we have. Where is more coming from?"

Helpless sighs and silence were her only answers.

"There is nothing clearer in the world," continued Edith, "than that

we must earn money. What can we do?"

"I never thought I should have to work," said Laura piteously.

"But, my dear sister," said Edith earnestly, "isn't it clear to you

now that you must? You certainly don't expect me to earn enough to

support you all. One pair of hands can't do it, and it wouldn't be

fair in the bargain."

"Oh, certainly not," said Laura. "I will do anything you say as well

as I can, though, for the life of me, I don't see what I can do."

"Nor I either," said Zell passionately. "I don't know how to work. I

never did anything useful in my life that I know of. What right have

parents to bring up girls in this way, unless they make it a perfect

certainty that they will always be rich? Here we are as helpless as

four children. We have not got enough to keep us from starving more

than a week at best. Just to think of it! Men are speculating and

risking all they have every day. Ever since I was a child I have heard

about the risks of business. I knew some people whose fathers failed,

and they went away, I don't know where, to suffer as we have perhaps,

and yet girls are not taught to do a single thing by which they can

earn a penny if they need to. If anybody will pay me for jabbering a

little bad French and Italian, and strumming a few operatic airs on

the piano, I am at their service. I think I also understand dressing,

flirting, and receiving compliments very well. I had a taste for these

things, and never had any special motive given me for doing anything

else. What becomes of all the girls thus taught to be helpless, and

then tossed out into the world to sink or swim?"

"They find some self-sustaining work in it," said Edith.

"Not all of them, I guess," muttered Zell sullenly.

"Then they do worse, and had better starve," said Edith sternly.

"You don't know anything about starving," retorted Zell, bitterly. "I

repeat, it's a burning shame to bring girls up so that they don't know

how to do anything, if there's ever any possibility that they must.

And it's a worse shame that respect and encouragement are not given to

girls who earn a living. Mother says that if we become working girls,

not one of our old wealthy, fashionable set will have anything to do

with us. What makes people act so silly? Any one of them on the avenue

may be where we are in a year. I've no patience with the ways of the

world. People don't help each other to be good, and don't help others

up. Grown-up folks act like children. How parents can look forward to

the barest chance of their children being poor, and bring them up as

we were, I don't see. I'm no more fit to be poor than to be

President."

Zell never before had said a word that reflected on her father, but in

the light of events her criticism seemed so Just that no one reproved

her.

Mrs. Allen only sighed over her part of the implied blame. She had

reached the hopeless stage of one lost in a foreign land, where the

language is unknown and every sight and sound unfamiliar and

bewildering. This weak fashionable woman, the costly product of an

artificial luxurious life, seemed capable of being little better than

a millstone around the necks of her children in this hour of their

need. If there had been some innate strength and nobility in Mrs.

Allen's character it might have developed now into something worthy of

respect under this sharp attrition of trouble, however perverted

before. But where a precious stone will take lustre a pumice stone

will crumble. There is a multitude of natures so weak to begin with

that they need tonic treatment all through life. What must such become

under the influence of enervating luxury, flattery, and uncurbed

selfishness from childhood? Poor, faded, sighing, helpless Mrs. Allen,

shivering before the trouble she had largely occasioned, is the

answer.

Edith soon broke the forlorn silence that followed Zell's outburst by

saying:

"All the blame doesn't rest on the parents. I might have improved my

advantages far better. I might have so mastered the mere rudiments of

an English education as to be able to teach little children, but I can

scarcely remember a single thing now."

"I can remember one thing," interrupted Zell, who was fresh from her

books, "that there was mighty little attention given to the rudiments,

as you call them, in the fashionable schools to which I went. To give

the outward airs and graces of a fine lady seemed their whole aim.

Accomplishments, deportment were everything. The way I was hustled

over the rudiments almost takes away my breath to remember, and I have

as remote an idea of vulgar fractions as of how to do the vulgar work

before us. I tell you the whole thing is a cruel farce. If girls are

educated like butterflies, it ought to be made certain that they can

live like butterflies."

"Well, then," continued Edith, "we ought to have perfected ourselves

in some accomplishment. They are always in demand. See what some

French and music teachers obtain."

"Nonsense," said Zell pettishly, "you know well enough that by the

time we were sixteen our heads were so full of beaux, parties, and

dress, that French and music were a bore. We went through the

fashionable mills like the rest, and if father had continued worth a

million or so, no one would have found fault with our education."

"We can't help the past now," said Edith after a moment, "but I am not

so old yet but that I can choose some kind of work and so thoroughly

master it that I can get the highest price paid for that form of

labor. I wish it could be gardening, for I have no taste for the shut-up work of woman; sitting in a close room all day with a needle would

be slow suicide to me."

"Gardening!" said Zell contemptuously. "You couldn't plow as well as

that snuffy old fellow who scratched your garden about as deeply as a

hen would have done it. A woman can't dig and hoe in the hot sun, that

is, an American girl can't, and I don't think she ought."

"Nor I either," said Mrs. Allen, with some returning vitality. "The

very idea is horrid."

"But plowing, digging, and hoeing are not all of gardening," said

Edith with some irritation.

"I guess you would make a slim support by just snipping around among

the rose-bushes," retorted Zell provokingly.

"That's always the way with you, Zell," said Edith sharply, "from one

extreme to another. Well, what would you like to do?"

"If I had to work I would like housekeeping. That admits of great

variety and activity. I wish I could open a summer boarding-house up

here. Wouldn't I make it attractive!"

"Such black eyes and red cheeks certainly would--to the gentlemen,"

answered Edith satirically.

"They would be mere accessories. I think I could give to a boarding-house, that place of hash and harrowing discomfort, a dainty, homelike

air. If father, when he risked a failure, had only put aside enough to

set me up in a boarding-house, I should have been made."

"A boarding-house! What horror next?" sighed Mrs. Allen.

"Don't be alarmed, mother," said Zell bitterly. "We can scarcely start

one of the forlornest hash species on ten dollars. I admit I would

rather keep house for a good husband, and it seems to me I could soon

learn to give him the perfection of a good home," and her eyes filled

with wistful tears. Dashing them scornfully away, she added, "The idea

of a woman loving a man, and letting his home be dependent on the

cruel mercies of foreign servants! If it's a shame that girls are not

taught to make a living if they need to, it's a worse shame that they

are not taught to keep house. Half the brides I know of ought to have

been arrested and imprisoned for obtaining property on false

pretences. They had inveigled men into the vain expectation that they

would make a home for them, when they no more knew how to make a home

than a heaven. The best they can do is to go to one of those places so

satirically called an 'intelligence office,' and import them into

their elegant houses a small mob of quarrelsome, drunken, dishonest

foreigners, and then they and their husbands live on such conditions

as are permitted. I would be mistress of my house, just as a man is

master of his store or office, and I would know thoroughly how work of

all kinds was done, and see that it was done thoroughly. If they

wouldn't do it, I'd discharge them. I am satisfied that our bad

servants are the result of bad housekeepers more than anything else."

"Poor little Zell!" said Edith, smiling sadly. "I hope you will have a

chance to put your theories into most happy and successful practice."

"Little chance of it here in 'Bushtown,' as Hannibal calls it," said

Zell suddenly.

"Well," said Edith, in a kind of desperate tone, "we've got to decide

on something at once. I will suggest this. Laura must take care of

mother, and teach a few little children if she can get them. We will

give up the parlor to her at certain hours. I will put up a notice in

the post-office asking for such patronage, and perhaps we can put an

advertisement in the Pushton Recorder, if it doesn't cost too much.

Zell, you must take the housekeeping mainly, for which you have a

taste, and help me with any sewing that I can get. Hannibal will go

into the garden and I will help him there all I can. I shall go to the

village to-morrow and see if I can find anything to do that will bring

in money."

There was a silent acquiescence in Edith's plan, for no one had

anything else to offer.

CHAPTER XVIII

IGNORANCE LOOKING FOR WORK

The next day Edith went to the village, and frankly told Mr. Hard how

they were situated, mentioning that the failure of their lawyer to

sell the stock had suddenly placed them in this crippled condition.

Mr. Hard's eyes grew more pebbly as he listened. He ventured in a

constrained voice as consolation:

"That he never had much faith in stocks--No, he had no employment for

ladies in connection with his store. He simply bought and sold at a

_small_ advance. Miss Klip, the dressmaker, might have something."

To Miss Klip Edith went. Miss Klip, although an unprotected female,

appeared to be a maiden that could take care of herself. One would

scarcely venture to hinder her. Her cutting scissors seemed instinct

with life, and one would get out of their way as naturally as from a

railroad train. She gave Edith a sharp look through her spectacles and

said abruptly in answer to her application:

"I thought you was rich."

"We were," said Edith sadly, "but we must work now and are willing

to."

"What do you know about dressmaking and sewing?"

"Well, not a great deal, but I think you would find us very ready to

learn."

"Oh, bless you, I can get all my work done by thorough hands, and at

my own prices, too. Good-morning."

"But can you not tell me of some one who would be apt to have work?"

"There's Mrs. Glibe across the street. She has work sometimes. Most of

the dressmakers around here are well trained, have machines, and go

out by the day."

Edith's heart sank. What chance was there for her untaught hands among

all these "trained workers."

She soon found that Mrs. Glibe was more inclined to talk (being as

garrulous as Miss Klip was laconic) and to find out all about them

than to help her to work. Making but little headway in Edith's

confidence she at last said, "I give Rose Lacey all the work I have to

spare and it isn't very much. The business is so cut up that none of

us have much more than we can do except a short time in the busy

season. Still, those of us who can give a nice fit and cut to

advantage can make a good living after getting known. It takes time

and training you know of course."

"But isn't there work of any kind that we can get in this place?" said

Edith impatiently.

"Well, not that you' d be willing to do. Of course there's

housecleaning and washing and some plain sewing, though that is mostly

done on a machine. A good strong woman can always get day's work,

except in winter, but you ain't one of that sort," she added, looking

at Edith's delicate pink and white complexion and little white hands

in which a scrubbing-brush would look incongruous.

"Isn't there any demand for fancy work?" asked Edith.

"Mighty little. People buy such things in the city. Money ain't so

plenty in the country that people will spend much on that kind of

thing. The ladies themselves make it at home and when they go out to

tea."

"Oh, dear!" sighed Edith, as she plodded wearily homeward, "what can

we do? Ignorance is as bad as crime."

Her main hope now for immediate necessities was that they might get

some scholars. She had put up a notice in the post-office and an

advertisement in the paper. She had also purchased some rudimentary

school books, and the poor child, on her return home, soon distracted

herself by a sudden plunge into vulgar fractions. She found herself so

sadly rusty that she would have to study almost as hard as any of her

pupils, were they obtained. Laura's bookish turn and better memory had

kept her better informed. Edith soon threw aside grammars and

arithmetics, saying to Laura:

"You must take care of the school, if we get one. It would take me too

long to prepare on these things in our emergency."

Almost desperate from the feeling that there was nothing she could do,

she took a hoe that was by no means light, and loosened the ground and

cut off all the sprouting weeds around her strawberry-vines. The day

was rather cool and cloudy, and she was surprised at the space she

went over. She wore her broad-brimmed straw hat tied down over her

face, and determined she would not look at the road, and would act as

if it were not there, letting people think what they pleased. But a

familiar rumble and rattle caused her to look shyly up after the wagon

had passed, and she saw Arden Lacey gazing wonderingly back at her.

She dropped her eyes instantly as if she had not seen him, and went on

with her work. At last, thoroughly wearied, she went in and said half

triumphantly, half defiantly:

"A woman can hoe. I've done it myself."

"A woman _can_ ride a horse like a man," said Mrs. Allen, and this was

all the home encouragement poor Edith received.

They had had but a light lunch at one o'clock, meaning to have a more

substantial dinner at six. Hannibal was showing Zell and getting her

started in her department. It was but a poor little dinner they had,

and Zell said in place of dessert:

"Edith, we are most out of everything."

"And I can't get any work," said Edith despondingly. "People have got

to know how to do things before anybody wants them, and we haven't

time to learn."

"Ten dollars won't last long," said Zell recklessly.

"I will go down to the village and make further inquiries to-morrow,"

Edith continued in a weary tone. "It seems strange how people stand

aloof from us. No one calls and everybody wants what we owe them right

away. Are there not any good kind people in Pushton? I wish we had not

offended the Laceys. They might have advised and helped us, but

nothing would tempt me to go to them after treating them as we did."

There were plenty of good kind people in Pushton, but Mrs. Allen's

"policy" had driven them away as far as possible. By their course the

Allens had placed themselves, in relation to all classes, in the most

unapproachable position, and their "friends" from the city and Tom

Crowl's gossip had made matters far worse. Poor Edith thought they

were utterly ignored. She would have felt worse if she had known that

every one was talking about them.

The next day Edith started on another unsuccessful expedition to the

village, and while she was gone, Zell went to the post-office to which

she had told Van Dam to direct his reply. She found the plausible lie

we have already placed before the reader.

At first she experienced a sensation of anger that he had not complied

with her wish. It was a new experience to have gentlemen, especially

Van Dam, so long her obsequious slave, think of anything contrary to

her wishes. She also feared that Edith might be right, and that Van

Dam designed evil against her. She would not openly admit, even to

herself, that this was his purpose, and yet Edith's words had been so

clear and strong, and Van Dam's conditions placed her so entirely at

his mercy, that she shrank from him and was fascinated at the same

time.

But instead of indignantly casting the letter from her, she read it

again and again. Her foolish heart pleaded for him.

"He couldn't be so false to me, so false to his written word," she

said, and the letter was hidden away, and she passed into the

dangerous stage of irresolution, where temptation is secretly dwelt

upon. She hesitated, and, according to the proverb, the woman who does

this is lost. Instead of indignantly casting temptation from her, she

left her course open, to be decided somewhat by circumstances. She

wilfully shut her eyes to the danger, and tried to believe, and did

almost believe that her lover meant honestly by her.

And so the days passed, Edith vainly trying to find something to do,

and working hard in her garden, which as yet brought no return. She

was often very sad and despondent, and again very irritable. Laura's

apathy only deepened, and she seemed like one not yet awakened from a

dream of the past. Zell made some show of work, but after all left

almost everything for Hannibal as before, and when Edith sharply

chided her, she laughed recklessly and said:

"What's the use? If we are going to starve we might as well do so at

once and have it over with."

"I won't starve," said Edith, almost fiercely. "There must be honest

work somewhere in the world for one willing to do it, and I'm going to

find it. At any rate, can raise food in my garden before long."

"I'm afraid we shall starve before your cabbages and carrots come to

maturity, and we might as well as to try to live on such garbage.

Supplies are running low, and, as you say, the money is nearly gone."

"Yes, and people won't trust us any more. Two or three declined to in

the village to-day, and I felt too discouraged and ashamed to ask any

further. For some reason people seem afraid of us. I see persons turn

and look after me, and yet they avoid me. Two or three impudent clerks

tried to make my acquaintance, but I snubbed them in such a way that

they will let me alone hereafter. I wonder if any stories could have

got around about us? Country towns are such places for gossip."

"Have you heard of any scholars?" said Laura languidly.

"No, not one," was Edith's despondent answer. "If nothing turns up

before, I'll go to New York next Monday and sell some more things, and

I'll go where I'm known this time."

Nothing turned up, and by Sunday they had nothing in the house save a

little dry bread, which they ate moistened with wine and water. Mrs.

Allen sighed and cried all day. Laura had the strange manner of one

awaking up to something unrealized before. Restlessness began to take

the place of apathy, and her eyes often sought the face of Edith in a

questioning manner. Finding her alone in the garden, she said:

"Why, Edith, I'm hungry. I never remember being hungry before. Is it

possible we have come to this?"

Edith burst into tears, and said brokenly:

"Come with me to the arbor."

"I'm sure I'm willing to do anything," said Laura piteously, "but I

never realized we would come to this."

"Oh! how can the birds sing?" said Edith bitterly. "This beautiful

spring weather, with its promise and hopefulness, seems a mockery. The

sun is shining brightly, flowers are budding and blooming, and all the

world seems so happy, but my heart aches as if it would burst. I'm

hungry, too, and I know poor old Hannibal is faint, though he tries to

keep up whenever I am around."

"But, Edith, if people knew how we are situated they would not let us

want. Our old acquaintances in New York, or our relations even, though

not very friendly, would surely help us."

"Oh, yes, I suppose so for a little while, but I can't bring myself to

ask for charity, and no one would under take to support us. What

discourages me most is that I can't get work that will bring in money.

Between people wishing to have nothing to do with us, on one hand, and

my ignorance on the other, there seems no resource. Some of those whom

we owe seem inclined to press us. I'm so afraid of losing this place

and being out on the street. If I could only get a chance somewhere,

or get time to learn to do something well!"

Then after a moment she asked suddenly, "Where's Zell?"

"In her room, I think"

"I don't like Zell's manner," said Edith, after a brief painful

revery. "It's so hard and reckless. Something seems to be on her mind.

She has long fits of abstraction as if she were thinking of something,

or weighing some plan. Could she have had any communication with that

villain Van Dam? Oh! that would be the bitterest drop of all in our

cup of sorrow. I would rather see her dead than that."

"Oh, dear!" said Laura, "it seems as if I had been in a trance and had

just awakened. Why, Edith, I must do something. It is not right to let

you bear all these things alone. But don't trouble about Zell, not one

of George Allen's daughters will sink to that."

CHAPTER XIX

A FALLING STAR

Zell slept most of the day. She had reached that point where she did

not want to think. On hearing Edith say that she would go to New York

on Monday, a sadden and strong temptation assailed her. Impulsive, but

not courageous, abounding in energy, but having little fortitude, she

found the conditions of her country life growing unendurable. Van Dam

seemed her only refuge, her only means of escape. She soon lost all

hope of their sustaining themselves by work in Pushton. Her uncurbed

nature could wait patiently for nothing, and as the long, idle days

passed, she doubted, and then despaired, of any success from Edith's

plans. She harbored Van Dam's temptation, and the consciousness of

doing this hurt her womanly nature, and her hard, reckless tone and

manner were the natural consequence. She said to herself, and tried to

believe--

"He will marry me--he has promised again and again."

Still, there was the uneasy knowledge that she was placing herself and

her reputation entirely at his mercy, and she long had known that Van

Dam was no saint. It was this lurking knowledge, shut her eyes to it

as she might, that acted on her nature like a petrifying influence.

And yet, Van Dam's temptation had more to contend with in her pride

than in her moral nature. Everything in her education had tended to

increase the former, and dwarf the latter. Her parents had taken her

to the theatre far oftener than even to the fashionable church on the

avenue. From the latter she carried away more ideas about dress than

about anything else. From a child she had been familiar with the

French school of morals, as taught by the sensational drama in New

York. Society, that will turn a poor girl out of doors the moment she

sins, will take her at the most critical age of her unformed

character, night after night, to witness plays in which the husband is

made ridiculous, but the man who destroys purity and home-happiness is

as splendid a villain as Milton's Satan. Mr. Allen himself had

familiarized Zell's mind with just what she was tempted to do, by

taking her to plays as poisonous to the soul as the malaria of the

Campagna at Rome to the body. He, though dead, had a part in the

present temptation of his child, and we unhesitatingly charge many

parents with the absolute ruin of their children, by exposing them,

and permitting them to be exposed, to influences that they know must

be fatal. No guardian of a child can plead the densest stupidity for

not knowing that French novels and plays are as demoralizing as the

devil could wish them to be; and constantly to place young, passionate

natures, just awakening in their uncurbed strength, under such

influences, and expect them to remain as spotless as snow, is the most

wretched absurdity of our day. Society brings fire to the tow, the

brand to the powder, and then lifts its hand to hurl its anathema in

case they ignite.

But Mr. Allen sinned even more grievously in permitting a man like Van

Dam to haunt his home. If now one of the lambs of his flock suffered

irretrievably, he would be as much to blame as a shepherd who daily

saw the wolf within his fold. Mr. Allen was familiar with the stories

about Van Dam, as multitudes of wealthy men are to-day with the

character of well-dressed scoundrels who visit their daughters. Some

of the worst villains in existence have the _entree_ into the "best

society." It is pretty well known among men what they are, and

fashionable mammas are not wholly in the dark. Therefore, every day,

"angels that kept not their first estate" are falling from heaven. It

may not be the open, disgraceful ruin that threatened poor Zell, but

it is ruin nevertheless.

After all, it was the undermining, unhallowed influence of long

association with Van Dam that now made Zell so weak in her first sharp

stress of temptation. Crime was not awful and repulsive to her. There

was little in her cunningly-perverted nature that revolted at it. She

hesitated mainly on the ground of her pride, and in view of the

consequences. And even these latter she in no sense realized, for the

school in which she had been taught showed only the flowery opening of

the path into sin, while its terrible retributions were kept hidden.

Therefore, as the miseries of her condition in the country increased,

Zell's pride failed her, and she began to be willing to risk all to

get away, and when she felt the pinch of hunger she became almost

desperate. As we have said, on Edith's naming a day on which she would

be absent on the forlorn mission that would only put off the day of

utter want a little longer, the temptation took definite shape in

Zell's mind to write at once to Van Dam, acceding to his shameful

conditions.

But, to satisfy her conscience, which she could not stifle, and to

provide some excuse for her action, and still more, to brace the hope

she tried to cherish that he really meant truly by her, she wrote:

"If I will meet you at the boat Monday evening, will you surely marry

me? Promise me on your sacred honor."

Van Dam muttered, with a low laugh, as he read the note:

"That's a rich joke, for her to accept such a proposition as mine,

especially after all that has happened, and still prate of 'sacred

honor.'"

But he unhesitatingly, promptly, and with many protestations assured

her that he would, and at once prepared to carry out his part of the

programme.

"What's the use of half-way lies?" he said, carelessly.

On Monday Edith again took the early train with the valuables of which

she designed to dispose. Zell had said indifferently:

"You may take anything I have left except my watch and chain."

But Laura had insisted on sending her watch, saying, "I really wish to

do something, Edith. I've left all the burden on you too long."

Mrs. Allen sighed, and said, "Take any thing you please."

So Edith carried away with her the means of fighting the wolf, hunger,

from their doors a little longer. But if she had known that a more

cruel enemy would despoil her home in her absence, she would rather

have starved than gone.

Laura was reading to her mother when Zell put her head in at the door,

saying:

"I am going for a short walk, and will be back soon."

She hastened to the office at which she had told Van Dam to address

her, and found his reply. With feverish cheeks, and eyes in which

glowed excitement rather than happiness, she read it as soon as she

was alone on the road, and returned as quickly as possible. Her mind

was in a wild tumult, but she would not allow herself one rational

thought. She spent most of the day in her room preparing for her

flight. But when she came down to see Hannibal about their meagre

lunch, he said in some surprise and alarm:

"Oh, Miss Zell, how burnin' red your cheeks be! You'se got a ragin'

feber, sure 'nuff. Go and lie right straight down, and I'se see to

eberyting. I'se been to de willage and got some tea. A man guv it to

me as a sample, and I telled him we'se like our tea mighty strong, so

you'se all hab a cup of tea to-day, and to-night Miss Edie'll come

back wid a heap of money."

"Poor old Hannibal!" said Zell, with a sudden rush of tenderness. "I

wish I were as good as you are."

"Lor bress you, Miss Zell, I isn't good. I'se kind of a heathen. But

somehow I feels dat de Lord will bress me when I steals for you alls."

"Oh, Hannibal, I wish I was dead and out of the way! Then there would

be one less to provide for."

"Dead and out of de way!" said Hannibal, half indignantly; "dat's jest

how to get into de way. I'd be afeard of seein' your spook whenever I

was alone. I had no comfort in New York arter Massa Allen died, and

was mighty glad to get away even to Bushtown. And den Miss Edie and

all would cry dar eyes out, and couldn't do nothin'. Folks is often

more in de way arter dey's dead and gone dan when livin'. Seein' your

sweet face around ebery day, honey, is a great help to ole Hannibal.

It seems only yesterday it was a little baby face, and we was all

pretty nigh crazy over you."

"I wish I had died then!" said Zell, passionately, and hurrying away.

"Poor chile, poor chile! she takes it mighty hard," said innocent

Hannibal.

She kept her room during the afternoon, pleading that she did not feel

well. It gave her pain to be with her mother and Laura, now that she

purposed to leave them so abruptly, and she wished to see nothing that

would shake her resolution to go as she had arranged. She wrote to

Edith as follows:

"I am going, Edith, to meet Mr. Van Dam, as he told me. I cannot--I

will not believe that he will prove false to me. I leave his letter,

which I received to-day. Perhaps you never will forgive me at home;

but whatever becomes of poor little Zell, she will not cease to love

you all. I should only be a burden if I stayed. There will be one less

to provide for, and I may be able to help you far more by going than

staying. Don't follow me. I've made my venture, and chosen my lot.

ZELL."

As the long twilight was deepening, Hannibal, returning from the well

with a pail of water, heard the gate-latch click, and, looking up, saw

Zell hurrying out with hat and shawl on, and having the appearance of

carrying something under her shawl. He felt a little surprise at

first, but then, Zell was so full of impulse, that he concluded:

"She's gwine to meet Miss Edie. We'se all a-lookin' and leanin' on

Miss Edie, Lor bres her."

But Zell was going to perdition.

Little later the stage brought tired Edith home, but in better spirits

than before, as she had realized a somewhat fair sum for what she had

sold, and had been treated politely.

After taking off her things, she asked, "Where's Zell?"

"Lying down, I think," said Laura. "She complained of not feeling well

this afternoon."

But Hannibal's anxious face in the door now caught her attention, and

she joined him at once.

"Didn't you meet Miss Zell?" he asked in a whisper.

"Meet her? No," answered Edith, excitedly.

"Dat's quare. She went out with hat and shawl on a little while ago.

P'raps she's come back, and gone upstairs again."

Trembling so she could hardly walk steadily, Edith hurried to her

room, and there saw Zell's note. Tearing it open, she only read the

first line, and then rushed down to her mother and Laura, sobbing:

"Zell's gone."

"Gone! Where?" they said, with dismayed faces.

Edith's only reply was to look suddenly at her watch, put on her hat,

and dart out of the door. She saw that there were still ten minutes

before the evening boat passed the Pushton landing, and remembered

that it was sometimes delayed. There was a shorter road to the dock

than the one through the village, and this she took, with flying feet,

and a white but determined face. It would have been a terrible thing

for Van Dam to have met her then. She seemed sustained by supernatural

strength, and, walking and running by turns, made the mile and a half

in an incredibly short space of time. As she reached the top of the

hill above the landing, she saw the boat coming in to the dock. Though

panting and almost spent, again she ran at the top of her speed. Half-way down she heard the plank ring out upon the wharf.

"Stop!" she called. But her parched lips uttered only a faint sound,

like the cry of one in a dream.

A moment later, as she struggled desperately forward, there came, like

the knell of hope, the command:

"All aboard!"

"Oh, wait, wait!" she again tried to call, but her tongue seemed

paralyzed.

As she reached the commencement of the long dock, she saw the lines

cast off. The great wheels gave a vigorous revolution, and the boat

swept away.

She was too late. She staggered forward a few steps more, and then all

her remaining strength went into one agonized cry:

"Zell!"

And she fell fainting on the dock.

Zell heard that cry, and recognized the voice. Taking her hand from

Mr. Van Dam's arm, she covered her face in sudden remorseful weeping.

But it was too late.

She had left the shelter of home, and ventured out into the great

pitiless world on nothing better than Van Dam's word. It was like

walking a rotten plank out into the sea.

Zell was lost!

CHAPTER XX

DESOLATION

Not only did Edith's bitter cry startle poor Zell, coming to her ear

as a despairing recall from the battlements of heaven might have

sounded to a falling angel, but Arden Lacey was as thoroughly aroused

from his painful revery as if shaken by a giant hand. He had been down

to meet the boat, with many others, and was sending off some little

produce from their place. He had not noticed in the dusk the closely-veiled lady; indeed, he rarely noticed any one unless they spoke to

him, and then gave but brief, surly attention. Only one had scanned

Zell curiously, and that was Tom Crowl. With his quick eye for

something wrong in human action, he was attracted by Zell's manner. He

could not make out through her thick veil who she was, in the

increasing darkness, but he saw that she was agitated, and that she

looked eagerly for the coming of the boat, also landward, where the

road came out on the dock, as if fearing or expecting something from

that quarter. But when he saw her join Van Dam, he recognized his old

bar-room acquaintance, and surmised that the lady was one of the Allen

family. Possessing these links in the chain, he was ready for the

next. Edith's presence and cry supplied this, and he chuckled

exultantly:

"An elopement!" and ran in the direction of the sound.

But Arden was already at Edith's side, having reached her almost at a

bound, and was gently lifting the unconscious girl, and regarding her

with a tenderness only equalled by his helplessness and perplexity in

not knowing what to do with her.

The first impulse of his great strength was to carry her directly to

her home. But Edith was anything but ethereal, and long before he

could have passed the mile and a half, he would have fainted under the

burden, even though love nerved his arms. But while he stood in

piteous irresolution, there came out from the crowd that had gathered

round, a stout, middle-aged woman, who said, in a voice that not only

betokened the utmost confidence in herself, but also the assurance

that all the world had confidence in her:

"Here, give me the girl. What do you men-folks know about women?"

"I declare, it's Mrs. Groody from the hotel," ejaculated Tom Crowl, as

this delightful drama (to him) went on from act to act.

"Standin' there and holdin' of her," continued Mrs. Groody, who was

sometimes a little severe on both sexes, "won't bring her to, unless

she fainted 'cause she wanted some one to hold her."

A general laugh greeted this implied satire, but Arden, between anger

and desire to do something, was almost beside himself. He had the

presence of mind to rush to the boat-house for a bucket of water, and

when he arrived with it a man had also procured a lantern, which

revealed to the curious onlookers who gathered round with craning

necks the pale features of Edith Allen.

"By golly, but it's one of them Allen girls," said Tom Crowl, eagerly.

"I see it all now. She's down to stop her sister, who's just run away

with one of those city scamps that was up here awhile ago. I saw her

join him and take his arm on the boat, but wasn't sure who she was

then."

"Might know you was around, Tom Crowl," said Mrs. Groody. "There's

never nothing wrong going on but you see it. You are worse than any

old woman for gossip. Why don't you put on petticoats and go out to

tea for a livin'?"

When the laugh ceased at Crowl's expense, he said:

"Don't you put on airs, Mrs. Groody; you are as glad, to hear the news

as any one. It's a pity you turned up and spoiled Mr. Lacey's part of

the play, for, if this one is anything like her sister, she, perhaps,

wanted to be held, as you--"

Tom's further utterance was effectually stopped by such a blow across

his mouth, from Lacey's hand, as brought the blood profusely on the

spot, and caused such disfigurement, for days after, that appropriate

justice seemed visited on the offending region.

"Leave this dock," said Arden, sternly; "and if I trace any slander to

you concerning this lady or myself, I will break every bone in your

miserable body."

Crowl shrank off amid the jeers of the crowd, but on reaching a safe

distance, said, "You will be sorry for this."

Arden paid no need to him, for Edith, under Mrs. Groody's treatment,

gave signs of returning consciousness. She slowly opened her eyes, and

turned them wonderingly around; then came a look of wild alarm, as she

saw herself surrounded by strange bearded faces, that appeared both

savage and grotesque in the flickering light of the lantern.

"O, Heaven! have mercy," she cried, faintly. "Where am I?"

"Among friends, I assure you, Miss Allen," said Arden, kneeling at her

side.

"Mr. Lacey! and are you here?" said Edith, trying to rise. "You surely

will protect me."

"Do not be afraid, Miss Allen. No one would harm you for the world;

and Mrs. Groody is a good kind lady, and will see you safely home, I

am sure."

Edith now became conscious that it was Mrs. Groody who was supporting

her, and regained confidence, as she recognized the presence of a

woman.

"Law bless you, child, you needn't be scared. You have only had a

faint. I'll take care of you, as young Lacey says. Seems to me he's

got wonderfully polite since last summer," she muttered to herself.

"But where am I?" asked Edith, with a bewildered air; "what has

happened?"

"Oh, don't worry yourself; you'll soon be home and safe."

But the memory of it all suddenly came to Edith, and even by the

lantern's light, Arden saw the sudden crimson pour into her face and

neck, She gave one wild, deprecating look around, and then buried her

face in her hands as if to hide the look of scorn she expected to see

on every face.

The first arrow aimed by Zell's great wrong already quivered in her

heart.

"Don't you think you could walk a little now, just enough to get into

the hack with me and go home?" asked the kind woman, in a soothing

voice.

"Yes, yes," said Edith, eagerly; "let us get away at once." And with

Mrs. Groody's and Arden's assistance, she was soon seated in the hack,

and was glad to note that there was no other passenger. The ride was a

comparatively silent one. Edith was too exhausted from her desperate

struggle to reach the boat, and her heart was too bruised and sore, to

permit on her part much more than monosyllables, in answer to Mrs.

Groody's efforts at conversation. But as they stopped at the cottage

her new friend said, cheerily:

"Don't take it so hard, my child; you ain't to blame. I'll stand by

you if no one else will. It don't take me long to know a good honest

girl when I see one, and I know you mean well. What's more, I've took

a likin' to you, and I can be a pretty fair sort of friend if I do

work for a livin'."

Mrs. Groody was good if not grammatical. She had broad shoulders, that

had borne in their day many burdens--her own and others'. She had a

strong, stout frame, in which thumped a large, kindly heart. She had

long earned her bread by callings that brought her in contact with all

classes, and had learned to know the world very thoroughly without

becoming worldly or hardened. But she had a quick, sharp tongue, and

could pay anybody off in his own coin with interest. Everybody soon

found it to his advantage to keep on the right side of Mrs. Groody,

and the old habitues of the hotel were as polite and deferential to

her as if she were a duchess. She was one of those shrewd, strong,

cheery people, who would make themselves snug, useful, and influential

in a very short time, if set down anywhere on the face of the earth.

Such a woman readily surmised the nature of Edith's trouble, and knew

well how deeply the shadow of Zell's disgrace would fall on the

family. Edith's desperate effort to save her sister, her bitter

humiliation and shrinking shame in view of the flight, all proved her

to be worthy of respect and confidence herself. When Mrs. Groody saw

that Edith lived in a little house, and was probably not in so high a

social position as to resent her patronage, her big heart yearned in

double sympathy over the poor girl, and she determined to help her in

the struggle she knew to be before her; so she said, kindly:

"If you'll wait till a clumsy old body like me can get out, I'll see

you safe into your home."

"Oh, no," said Edith, eagerly, following the strong instinct to keep a

stranger from seeing herself, her mother, and Laura in the first hour

of their shame. "You have been very kind, and I feel that I can never

repay you."

"Bless you, child, I don't expect greenbacks for all I do. I want a

little of the Lord's work to come to me, though I'm afraid I fell from

grace long ago. But a body can't be pious in a hotel. There's so many

aggravatin' people and things that you think swearin', if you darsn't

say it out. But I'm a human sort of a heathen, after all, and I feel

sorry for you. Now ain't there somethin' I can do for you?"

The driver stood with his lantern near the door, and its rays fell on

Edith's pale face and large, tearful eyes, and she turned, and for the

first time tried to see who this kind woman was, that seemed to feel

for her. Taking Mrs. Groody's hands, she said, in a voice of tremulous

pathos:

"God bless you for speaking to me at all. I didn't think any one would

again who knew. You ask if you can do anything for me. If you'll only

get me work, I'll bless you every day of my life. No one on earth or

in heaven can help me, unless I get work. I'm almost desperate for it,

and I can't seem to find any that will bring us bread, but I'll do any

honest work, no matter what, and I'll take whatever people are willing

to give for it, till I can do better." Edith spoke in a rapid manner,

but in a tone that went straight to the heart.

"Why, my poor child," said Mrs. Groody, wiping her eyes, "you can't do

work. You are pale as a ghost, and you look like a delicate lady."

"What is there in this world for a delicate lady who has no money but

honest work?" asked Edith, in a tone that was almost stern.

"I see that you are such a lady, and it seems that you ought to find

some lady-like work, if you must do it," said Mrs. Groody, musingly.

"We have tried to get employment--almost any kind. I can't think my

sister would have taken her desperate course if we could have obtained

something to do. I know she ought to have starved first. But we were

not brought up to work, and we can't do anything well enough to

satisfy people, and we haven't time to learn. Besides, before this

happened, for some reason people stood aloof from us, and now it will

be far worse. Oh, what shall we do? What shall we do?" cried Edith,

despairingly; and in her trouble she seemed to turn her eyes away from

Mrs. Groody, with wild questioning of the future.

Her new acquaintance was sniffling and blowing her nose in a manner

that betokened serious internal commotion. The driver, who would have

hustled any ordinary passenger out quickly enough, waited Mrs.

Groody's leisure at a respectful distance. He knew her potential

influence at the hotel. At last the good woman found her voice, though

it seemed a little husky:

"Lor' bless you, child! I ain't got a millstun for a heart, and if I

had, you'd turn it into wax. If work's all you want, you shall have

it. I'm housekeeper at the hotel. You come to me as soon as you are

able, and we'll find something."

"Oh, thank you, thank you!" said Edith, fervidly.

"Is dat you, Miss Edie?" called Hannibal's anxious voice.

"Good-night, my dear," said Mrs. Groody, hastily, "Don't lose courage.

I ain't on as good terms with the Lord as I ought to be. I seem too

worried and busy to 'tend to religion; but I know enough about Him to

be sure that He will take care of a poor child that wants to do

right."

"I don't understand how God lets happen all that's happened to-day.

The best I can believe is, that we are dealt with in a mass, and the

poor human atoms are lost sight of. But I am indeed grateful for your

kindness, and will come to-morrow and do anything I can. Good-by."

And the hack rumbled away, leaving her in the darkness, with Hannibal

at the gate.

"Oh, Hannibal, Hannibal," was all that Edith could say.

"Is she done gone clean away?" asked Hannibal, in an awed whisper.

"Would to heaven she had never been born!" said Edith, bitterly. "Help

me into the house, for I feel as if I should die."

Hannibal, trembling with fear himself, supported poor, exhausted Edith

to a sofa, and then disappeared into the kitchen.

Mrs. Allen and Laura came and stood with white faces by Edith's

languid, unnerved form.

There was no need of asking questions. She had returned alone, with

her fresh young face looking old and drawn in its grief.

At last Mrs. Allen said, with bitter emphasis:

"She is no child of mine, from this day forth."

Then followed such a dreary silence that it might seem that Zell had

died and was no more.

At last Hannibal bustled in, making a most desperate effort to keep up

a poor show of courage and hope. He placed on a little table before

Edith a steaming hot cup of tea, some toast, and wine, but the food

was motioned away.

"It would choke me," said Edith.

Hannibal stood before her a moment, his quaint old visage working

under the influence of emotion, almost beyond control. At last he

managed to say:

"Miss Edie, we'se all a leanin' on you. We'se nothin' but vines a

climbin' up de orange-bush. If you goes down, we all does. And now,

Miss Edie, I'd swallow pison for you. Won't you take a cup o' tea for

de sake of ole Hannibal? 'Cause your sweet face looks so pinched,

honey, dat I feels dat my ole black heart's ready to bust;" and

Hannibal, feeling that the limit of his restraint was reached,

retreated precipitately to the kitchen.

The appeal, with its element of deep affection, was more needed by

Edith in her half-paralyzed state than even the material refreshment.

She sat up instantly, and drank the tea and wine, and ate a little of

the toast. Then taking the cup and glass into the kitchen:

"There," she said, "see, I've drunk every drop. So don't worry about

me any more, my poor old Hannibal, but go to bed, after your hard

day's work."

But Hannibal would not venture out of his dark corner, but muttered,

brokenly:

"Lor--bress--you--Miss Edie--you'se an angel--I'se be better soon--I'se got--de hiccups."

Edith thought it kindness to leave the old man to recover his self-control in his own time and way, so she said:

"Good-night, my faithful old friend. You're worth your weight in

gold."

Meantime, Laura had helped Mrs. Allen to her room but now she came

running down to Edith, with new trouble in her face, saying:

"Mother's crying so, I can't do anything with her."

At first Mrs. Allen's heart seemed hardened against her erring child,

but on reaching her room she stood a few moments irresolutely, then

went to a drawer, took out an old faded picture-case and opened it.

From it Zell smiled out upon her, a little, dimpled baby. Then, as if

by a sudden impulse rare to her, she pressed her lips against the

unconscious face, and threw herself into her low chair, sobbing so

violently that Laura became alarmed.

Even in that arid place, Mrs. Allen's heart, there appeared a little

oasis of mother love, as this last and bitterest sorrow pierced its

lowest depths. She might cast out from her affection the grown,

sinning daughter, but not the baby that once slept upon her breast.

As Edith came and took her hand she said, brokenly:

"It seems--but yesterday--that she was--a wee black-eyed--little

thing--in my arms--and your father--came--and looked at her--so

proudly--tenderly--"

"Would to heaven she had died then!" said Edith, sternly.

"It would have been better if we had all died then,", said Mrs. Allen

drearily, and becoming quiet.

Edith's words fell like a chill upon her unwontedly stirred heart, and

old habits of feeling and action resumed sway.

With Mrs. Allen's words ended the miserable day of Zell's flight.

Hannibal's words were true. Zell, in her unnatural absence, would be

more in the way--a heavier burden--than if she had become a helpless

invalid upon their hands.

CHAPTER XXI

EDITH'S TRUE KNIGHT

The next morning Edith was too ill to rise. She had become chilled

after her extraordinary exertion of the previous evening, and a severe

cold was the consequence; and this, with the nervous prostration of an

over-taxed system, made her appear more seriously indisposed than she

really was. For the sake of her mother and Laura, she wished to be

present at the meagre little breakfast which her economy now

permitted, but found it impossible; and later in the day her mind

seemed disposed to wander.

Mrs. Allen and Laura were terror-stricken at this new trouble. As

Hannibal had said, they were all leaning on Edith. They had lost

confidence in themselves, and now hoped nothing from the outside

world. They had scarcely the shadow of an expectation that Van Dam

would marry Zell, and therefore they knew that worse than work would

separate them from all old connections, and they had learned to hope

nothing from the people of Pushton. Poor, feverish, wandering Edith

seemed the only one who could keep them from falling into the abyss of

utter want. They instinctively felt that total wreck was impossible as

long as she kept her hand upon the helm; but now they had all the wild

alarm of those who are drifting helplessly toward a reef, with a deep

and stormy sea on either side of it. Thus to the natural anxiety of

affection was added sickening fear.

Poor old Hannibal had no fear for himself. His devotion to Edith

reminded one of a faithful dog: it was so strong, instinctive,

unreasoning. He realized vaguely that his whole existence depended on

Edith's getting well, and yet we doubt whether he thought of himself

any more than the Newfoundland, who watches beside the bed, and then

beside the grave of a loved master, till famine, that form of pain

which humanity cannot endure, robs him of life.

"We must have a physician immediately," said Laura, with white lips.

"Oh, no," murmured Edith; "we can't afford it."

"We must," said Laura, with a sudden rush of tears. "Everything

depends on you."

Hannibal, who heard this brief dialogue, went silently downstairs, and

at once started in quest of Arden Lacey.

"If he is quar, he seemed kind o' human; and I'se believe he'll help

us now."

Arden was on the way to the barn, having just finished a farmer's

twelve o'clock dinner, when Hannibal entered the yard. An angel of

light could not have been more welcome than this dusky messenger, for

he came from the centre of all light and hope to poor Arden. Then a

feeling of alarm took possession of him. Had anything happened to

Edith? He had seen her shrinking shame. Had it led her to--and he

shuddered at the thought his wild imagination suggested. It was almost

a relief when Hannibal said:

"Oh, Mr. Lacey, I'se sure from de way you acted when we fust come, dat

you can feel for people in trouble. Miss Edie's berry sick, and I

don't know whar to go for a doctor, and she won't have any; but she

mus, and right away. Den again, I oughter not leave, for dey's all

nearly dead with trouble and cryin'."

"You are a good, faithful fellow," said Arden, heartily. "Go back and

do all you can for Miss Edith, and I'll bring a doctor myself, and

much quicker too than you could."

Before Hannibal reached home, Arden galloped past him, and the old man

chuckled:

"De drunken Laceys' mighty good neighbors when dey's sober."

As may well be imagined, recent events, as far as he understood them,

had stirred Arden's sensitive nature to the very depths. Hiding his

feelings from all save his mother, and often from her; appearing to

his neighbors stolid and sullen in the extreme, he was, in fact, in

his whole being, like a morbidly-excited nerve. He did not shrink from

the world because indifferent to it, but because it wounded him when

he came in contact with it. He seemed so out of tune with society that

it produced only jarring discord. His father's course brought him many

real slights, and these he resented as we have seen, and he resented

fancied slights quite as often, and thus he had cut himself off from

the sympathies, and even the recognition, of nearly all.

But what human soul can dwell alone? The true hermit finds in

communion with the Divine mind the perfection of companionship. But

Arden knew not God. He had heard of Him all his life; but Jove and

Thor were images more familiar to his mind than that of his Creator.

He loved his mother and sister, but their life seemed a poor, shaded

little nook, where they toiled and moped. And so, to satisfy the

cravings of his lonely heart, he had created and peopled an unreal

world of his own, in which he dwelt most of the time. As his interest

in the real world ceased, his imagination more vividly portrayed the

shadowy one, till at last, in the scenes of poetry and fiction, and

the splendid panorama of history, he thought he might rest satisfied,

and find all the society he needed in converse with those whom, by a

refinement of spiritualism, he could summon to his side from any age

or land. He secretly exulted in the still greater magic by which the

unreal creatures of poetic thought would come at his volition, and he

often smiled to think how royally attended was "old, drunken Lacey's"

son, whom many of the neighbors thought scarcely better than the

horses he drove.

Thus he lived under a spell of the past, in a world moon-lighted by

sentiment and fancy, surrounded by his ideals of those about whom he

read, and Shakespeare's vivid, life-like women were better known to

him than any of the ladies of Pushton. But dreams cannot last in our

material world, and ghosts vanish in the sunlight of fact. Woman's

nature is as beautiful and fascinating now as when the master-hand of

the world's greatest poet delineated it, and when living, breathing

Edith Allen stepped suddenly among his shadows, seemingly so luminous,

they vanished before her, as the stars pale into nothingness when the

eastern sky is aglow with morning. Now, in all his horizon, she only

shone, but the past seemed like night, and the present, day.

The circumstances under which he had met Edith had, in brief time,

done more to acquaint him with her than years might have accomplished,

and for the first time in his life he saw a superior girl with the

distorting medium of his prejudice pushed aside. Therefore she was a

sudden beautiful revelation to him, as vivid as unexpected. He did not

believe any such being existed, and indeed there did not, if we

consider into what he came to idealize Edith. But a better Edith

really lived than the unnatural paragon that he pictured to himself,

and the reality was capable of a vast improvement, though not in the

direction that his morbid mind would have indicated.

The treatment of his sister, the sudden ceasing of all intercourse,

and the appearance of Gus Elliot upon the scene, had cruelly wounded

his fair ideal, but with a lover's faith and a poet's fancy he soon

repaired the ravages of facts. He assured himself that Edith did not

know the character of the men who visited her house.

Then came Crowl's gossip, the knowledge of her poverty, and her

wretched errands to New York to dispose of the relics of the happy

past. He gathered from such observations as he could maintain without

being suspected, by every crumb of gossip that he could pick up (for

once he listened to gossip as if it were gospel), that they were in

trouble, that Edith was looking for work, and that she was so superior

to the rest of the family that they now all deferred to her and leaned

upon her. Then, to his deep satisfaction, he had seen Elliot, the

morning after his scathing repulse, going to the train, and looking

forlorn and sadly out of humor, and he was quite sure he had not been

near the little cottage since. Arden needed but little fact upon which

to rear a wondrous superstructure, and here seemed much, and all in

Edith's favor, and he longed with an intensity beyond language to do

something to help her.

Then came the tragedy of Zell's flight, Edith's heroic and almost

superhuman effort to save her, now followed by her pathetic weakness

and suffering, and no knight in the romantic age of chivalry ever more

wholly and loyally devoted himself to the high-born lady of his

choice, than did Arden to the poor sick girl at whom the finger of

scorn would now be generally pointed in Pushton.

To come back to our hero, galloping away on his old farm horse to find

a country doctor, may seem a short step down from the sublime. And so,

perhaps, it may be to those whose ideal of the sublime is only in

outward and material things. But to those who look past these things

to the passionate human heart, the same in every age, it will be

evident that Arden was animated by the same spirit with which he would

have sought and fought the traditional dragon.

Dr. Neak, a new-comer who was gaining some little name for skill and

success, and was making the most of it, was at home; but on Arden's

hurried application, ahemmed, hesitated, colored a little, and at last

said:

"Look here, Mr.---(I beg your pardon, I've not the pleasure of knowing

your name), I'm a comparative stranger in Pushton, and am just gaining

some little reputation among the better classes. I would rather not

compromise myself by attendance upon that family. If you can't get any

one else, and the girl is suffering, of course I'll try and go, but--"

"Enough," interrupted Arden, starting up blazing with wrath. "You

should spell your name with an S. I want a man as well as a

physician," and, with a look of utter contempt, he hastened away,

leaving the medical man somewhat anxious, not about Edith, but whether

he had taken the best course in view of his growing reputation.

Arden next traced out Dr. Blunt, who readily promised to come. He

attended all alike, and charged roundly also.

"Business is business," was his motto. "People who employ me must

expect to pay. After all, I'm the cheapest man in the place, for I

tell my patients the truth, and cure them as quickly as possible."

Arden's urgency soon brought him to Edith's side, and his practiced

eye saw no serious cause for alarm, and having heard more fully the

circumstances, he said:

"She will be well in a few days if she is kept very quiet, and nothing

new sets in. Of course she would be sick after last night. One might

as well put his hand in the fire and not expect it to burn him, as to

get very warm and then cool off suddenly and not expect to be ill. Her

pulse indicates general depression of her system, and need of rest.

That's all."

After prescribing remedies and a tonic, he said, "Let me know if I am

needed again," and departed in rather ill-humor.

Meeting Arden's anxious, questioning face at the gate, he said

gruffly:

"I thought from what you said the girl was dying. Used up and a bad

cold, that's all. Somewhat feverish yourself, ain't you?" he added

meaningly.

Though Arden colored under the doctor's satire, he was chiefly

conscious of a great relief that his idol was not in danger. His only

reply was the sullen, impassive expression he usually turned toward

the world.

As the doctor rode away, Hannibal joined him, saying:

"Mr. Lacey, you'se a friend in need, and if you only knowed what an

angel you'se servin', you wouldn't look so cross."

"Do I look cross?" asked Arden, his face becoming friendly in a

moment. "Well, it wasn't with you, still less with Miss Edith; for

even you cannot serve her more gladly than I will. That old doctor

r'iled me a little, though I can forgive him, since he says she is not

seriously ill."

"I'se glad you feels your privileges," said Hannibal, with some

dignity. "I'se knowed Miss Edie eber since she was a baby, and when we

lived on de avenue, de biggest and beautifullest in de city come to

our house, but none of 'em could compare wid my young lady. I don't

care what folks say, she's jes as good now, if she be poor, and her

sister hab run away, poor chile. De world don't know all;" and old

Hannibal shook his white head sadly and reproachfully.

This panegyric found strong echo in Arden's heart, but his habit of

reticence and his sensitive shrinking from any display of feeling

permitted him only to say, "I am sure every word you say is more than

true, and you will do me a great favor when you let me know how I can

serve Miss Edith."

Hannibal saw that he need waste no more ammunition on Arden, so he

pulled out the prescriptions, and said:

"The doctor guv me dese, but, Lor bress you, my ole jints is stiff,

and I'd be a week in gittin' down and back from de willage."

"That's enough," interrupted Arden. "You shall have the medicines in

half an hour;" and he kept his word.

"He is quar," muttered Hannibal, looking after him. "Neber saw a man

so 'bligin'. Folks say winegar ain't nothin' to him, but he seems

sweet on Miss Edie, sure 'nuff. What 'ud he say, 'You'se do me great

favor to tell me how I can serve Miss Edie'? I'se hope it'll last,"

chuckled Hannibal, retiring to his domain in the kitchen, "'cause I'se

gwine to do him a heap ob favors."

CHAPTER XXII

A MYSTERY

At Arden's request his mother called in the evening, and also Mrs.

Groody, from the hotel. Hannibal met them, and stated the doctor's

orders. Mrs. Allen and Laura did not feel equal to facing any one.

Though the old servant was excessively polite, the callers felt rather

slighted that they saw no member of the family. They went away a

little chilled in consequence, and contented themselves thereafter by

sending a few delicacies and inquiring how Edith was.

"If you have any self-respect at all," said Rose Lacey to her mother,

"you will not go there again till you are invited. It's rather too

great a condescension for you to go at all, after what has happened."

Arden listened with a black look, and asked, rather sharply:

"Will you never learn to distinguish between Miss Edith and the

others?"

"Yes," said Rose, dryly, "when she gives me a chance."

The doctor's view of Edith's case was correct. Her vigorous and

elastic constitution soon rallied from the shock it had received.

Hannibal had sent to the village for nutritious diet, which he knew so

well how to prepare, and, after a few days, she was quite herself

again. But with returning strength came also a sense of shame,

anxiety, and a torturing dread of the future. The money accruing from

her last sale of jewelry would not pay the debts resting on them now,

and she could not hope to earn enough to pay the balance remaining, in

addition to their support. Her mother suggested the mortgaging of her

place. She had at first repelled the idea, but at last entertained it

reluctantly. There seemed no other resource. It would put off the evil

day of utter want, and might give her time to learn something by which

she could compete with trained workers.

Then there was the garden. Might not that and the orchard, in time,

help them out of their troubles?

As the long hours of her convalescence passed, she sat at her window

and scanned the little spot with a wistfulness that might have been

given to one of Eden-like proportions. She was astonished to see how

her strawberries had improved since she hoed them, but noted in dismay

that both they and the rest of the garden were growing very weedy.

When the full knowledge of their poverty and danger dawned upon her,

she felt that it would not be right for Malcom to come any more. At

the same time she could not explain things to him; so she sent a

written request through the mail for his bill, telling him not to come

any more. This action, following the evening when Gus Elliot had

surprised her in the garden, perplexed and rather nettled Malcom, who

was, to use his own expression, "a bit tetchy." Their money had grown

so scarce that Edith could not pay the bill, and she was ashamed to go

to see him till there was some prospect of her doing so. Thus Malcom,

though disposed to be very friendly, was lost to her at this critical

time, and her garden suffered accordingly. She and Hannibal had done

what they could, but of late her illness, and the great accession of

duties resting on the old servant, had caused complete neglect in her

little plantation of fruit and vegetables. Thus, while all her crops

were growing well, the weeds were gaining on them, and even Edith knew

that the vigor of evil was in them, and that, unchecked, they would

soon make a tangled swamp of that one little place of hope. She could

not ask Hannibal to work there now, for he was overburdened already.

Laura seemed so feeble and crushed that her strength was scarcely

equal to taking care of her mother, and the few lighter duties of

housework. Therefore, though the June sunshine rested on the little

garden, and all nature seemed in the rapture of its early summer life,

poor, practical Edith saw only the pestiferous weeds that threatened

to destroy her one slender prospect of escape from environing

difficulties. At last she turned away. To the sad and suffering,

scenes most full of cheer and beauty often seem the most painful

mockery.

She brooded over her affairs most of the day, dwelling specially on

the suggestion of a mortgage. She felt extreme reluctance in perilling

her home. Then again she said to herself, "It will at least give me

time, and perhaps the place will be sold for debt, for we must live."

The next morning she slept late, her weary, overtaxed frame asserting

its need. But she rose greatly refreshed, and it seemed that her

strength had come back. With returning vigor hopefulness revived. She

felt some cessation of the weary, aching sorrow at her heart. The

world is phosphorescent to the eyes of youth, and even ingulfing waves

of misfortune will sometimes gleam with sudden brightness.

The morning light also brought Edith a pleasant surprise, for, as she

was dressing, her eyes eagerly sought the strawberry-bed. She had been

thinking, "If I only continue to gain in this style, I shall soon be

able myself to attack the weeds." Therefore, instead of a helpless

look, such as she gave yesterday, her glance had something vengeful

and threatening in it. But the moment she opened the lattice, so that

she could see, an exclamation came from her lips, and she threw back

the blinds, in order that there might be no mistake as to the wonder

that startled her. What magic had transformed the little place since,

in the twilight of the previous evening, she had given the last

discouraged look in that direction? There was scarcely a weed to be

seen in the strawberry-bed. They had not only been cut off, but raked

away, and here and there she could see a berry reddening in the

morning sun. In addition, some of her most important vegetables, and

her prettiest flower border, had been cleaned and nicely dressed. A

long row of Dan O'Rourk peas, that had commenced to sprawl on the

ground, was now hedged in by brush; and, better still, thirty cedar

poles stood tall and straight among her Lima beans, whose long slender

shoots had been vainly feeling round for a support the last few days.

Her first impulse was to clap her hands with delight and exclaim:

"How, in the name of wonder, could he do it all in a night! Oh,

Malcom, you are a canny Scotchman, but you put the 'black art' to very

white uses."

She dressed in excited haste, meaning to question Hannibal, but, as

she left her room, Laura met her, and said, in a tone of the deepest

despondency--

"Mother seems very ill. She has not felt like herself since that

dreadful night, but we did not like to tell you, fearing it would put

back your recovery."

The rift in the heavy clouds, through which the sun had gleamed for a

moment, now closed, and a deeper gloom seemed to gather round them. In

sudden revulsion Edith said, bitterly:

"Are we to be persecuted to the end? Cannot the heavy hand of

misfortune be lifted a moment?"

She found her mother suffering from a low, nervous fever, and quite

delirious.

Hannibal was at once despatched for the doctor, who, having examined

Mrs. Allen's symptoms, shook his head, saying:

"Nothing but good nursing will bring her through this."

Edith's heart sank like lead. What prospect was there for work now,

even if Mrs. Groody gave it to her, as she had promised? She saw

nothing before her but the part of a weary watcher, for perhaps

several weeks. She hesitated no longer, but resolved to mortgage her

place at once. Her mother must have delicacies and good attendance,

and she must have time to extricate herself from the difficulties into

which she had been brought by false steps at the beginning. Therefore

she told Hannibal to give her an early lunch, after which she would

walk to the village.

"You isn't able," said he earnestly.

"Oh, yes I am," she replied; "better able than to stay at home and

worry. I must have something settled, and my mind at rest, even for a

little while, or I shall go distracted." Then she added, "Did you see

Malcom here early this morning?"

"No, Miss Edie, he hasn't been here."

"Go look at the garden."

He returned with eyes dilated in wonder, and asked quickly, "Miss

Edie, when was all dat done?"

"Between dark last night and when I got up this morning. It seems like

magic, don't it? But of course it is Malcom's work. I only wish I

could see him."

But Hannibal shook his head ominously and said with emphasis, "Dat

little Scotchman couldn't scratch around like dat, even if de debil

was arter him. 'Tain't his work."

"Why, whose else could it be?" asked Edith, sipping a strong cup of

coffee, with which she was fortifying herself for the walk.

Hannibal only shook his head with a very troubled expression, but at

last he ventured:

"If 'tis a spook, I hope it won't do nothin' wuss to us."

Even across Edith's pale face a wan smile flitted at this solution of

the mystery, and she said:

"Why, Hannibal, you foolish old fellow! The idea of a ghost hoeing a

strawberry-bed and sticking in bean-poles!"

But Hannibal's superstitious nature was deeply stirred. He had been

under a severe strain himself of late, and the succession of sorrows

and strange experiences was telling on him as well as on the others.

He could not indulge in a nervous fever, like Mrs. Allen, but he had

reached that stage when he could easily see visions, and tremble

before the slightest vestige of the supernatural. So he replied a

little doggedly:

"Spooks does a heap ob quar tings, Miss Edie. I'd tink it was Massa

Allen, ony I knows dat he neber hab a hoe in his hand all his life. I

doesn't like it. I'd radder hab de weeds."

"O Hannibal, Hannibal! I couldn't believe it of you. I'll go and see

Malcom, just to satisfy you."

CHAPTER XXIII

A DANGEROUS STEP

Edith took her deed, and went first to Mr. Hard. There were both

coldness and curiosity in his manner, but he could gather little from

Edith's face through her thick veil.

She had a painful shrinking from meeting people again after what had

happened, and this was greatly increased by the curious and

significant looks she saw turned toward her as soon as it was surmised

who she was.

Mr. Hard promptly declined to lend any money. He "never did such

things," he said.

"Where would I be apt to get it?" asked Edith, despondently.

"I scarcely know. Money is scarce, and people don't like to lend it on

country mortgages, especially when there may be trouble. Lawyer Keen

might give you some information."

To his office Edith went, with slow, heavy steps, and presented her

case.

Mr. Keen was a red-faced, burly-looking man, hiding the traditional

shrewdness of a village lawyer under a bluff, outspoken manner. He had

a sort of good-nature, which, though not lending him to help others

who were in trouble, kept him from trying to get them into more

trouble, and he quite prided himself on this. He heard Edith partly

through, and then interrupted her, saying:

"Couldn't think of it, miss. Widows, orphans, and churches are

institutions on which a fellow can never foreclose. I'll give you good

advice, and won't charge you anything for it. You had better keep out

of debt."

"But I must have the money," said Edith.

"Then you have come to the wrong shop for it," replied the lawyer,

coolly. "Here's Crowl, now, he lends where I wouldn't. He's got money

of his own, while I invest mainly for other people."

Edith's attention was thus directed to another red-faced man, whom,

thus far, she had scarcely noticed, though he had been watching her

with the closest scrutiny. He was quite corpulent, past middle age,

and not much taller than herself. He was quite bald, and had what

seemed a black moustache, but Edith's quick eye noted that it was

unskilfully dyed. There seemed a wide expanse in his heavy, flabby

cheeks, and the rather puggish nose appeared insignificant between

them. A slight tobacco stain in one corner of his mouth did not

increase his attractions to Edith, and she positively shrank from the

expression of his small, cunning black eyes. He was dressed both

showily and shabbily, and a great breastpin was like a blotch upon his

rumpled shirt-bosom.

"Let me see your deed, my dear," he said, with coarse familiarity.

"My name is Miss Allen," replied Edith, with dignity.

The man paid little heed to her rebuke, but looked over the deed with

slow and microscopic scrutiny. At last he said to Edith, whom nothing

but dire necessity impelled to have dealings with so disagreeable a

person:

"Will you come with me to my office?"

Reluctantly she followed. At first she had a strong impulse to have

nothing to do with him, but then she thought, "It makes no difference

of whom I borrow the money, for it must be paid in any case, and

perhaps I can't get it anywhere else."

"Are you sure there is no other mortgage?" he asked.

"Yes," replied Edith.

"How much do you want?"

"I will try to make four hundred answer."

"I suppose you know how hard it is to borrow money now," said Mr.

Crowl, in a depressing manner, "especially in cases like this. I don't

believe you'd get a dollar anywhere else in town. Even where

everything is good and promising, we usually get a bonus on such a

loan. The best I could do would be to let you have three hundred and

sixty on such a mortgage."

"Then give me my deed. The security is good, and I'm not willing to

pay more than seven per cent."

Old Crowl looked a moment at her resolute face, beautiful even in its

pallor and pain, and a new thought seemed to strike him.

"Well, well," said he, with an awkward show of gallantry, "one can't

do business with a pretty girl as with a man. You shall make your own

terms."

"I wish to make no terms whatever," said Edith, frigidly. "I only

expect what is right and just."

"And I'm the man that'll do what's right and just when appealed to by

the fair unfortunate," said Mr. Crowl, with a wave of his hand.

Edith's only response to this sentiment was a frown, and an impatient

tapping of the floor with her foot.

"Now, see how I trust you," he continued, filling out a check. "There

is the money. I'll draw up the papers, and you may sign them at your

leisure. Only just put your name to this receipt, which gives the

nature of our transaction;" and, in a scrawling hand, he soon stated

the case.

It was with strong misgivings that Edith took the money and gave her

signature, but she did not see what else to do, and she was already

very weary.

"You may call again the first time you are in the village, and by that

time I'll have things fixed up. You see now what it is to have a

friend in need."

Edith's only reply was a bow, and she hastened to the bank. The

cashier looked curiously at her, and as he saw Crowl's check, smiled a

little significant smile which she did not like; but, at her request,

he placed the amount, and what was left from the second sale of

jewelry, to her credit, and gave her a small check-book.

CHAPTER XXIV

SCORN AND KINDNESS

Though her strength hardly seemed equal to it, she determined to go

and see Malcom, for she felt very grateful to him. And yet the little

time she had been in the village made her fear to speak to him or any

one again, and she almost felt that she would like to shrink into some

hidden place and die.

Quiet, respectable Pushton had been dreadfully scandalized by Zell's

elopement with a man who by one brief visit had gained such bad

notoriety. Those who had stood aloof, surmised, and doubted about the

Allens before, now said, triumphantly, "I told you so." Good, kind,

Christian people were deeply pained that such a thing could have

happened; and it came to be the general opinion that the Allens were

anything but an acquisition to the neighborhood.

"If they are going to bring that style of men here, the sooner they

move away the better," was a frequent remark. All save the "baser

sort" shrank from having much to do with them, and again Edith was

insulted by the bold advances of some brazen clerks and shop-boys as

she passed along. She also saw significant glances and whisperings,

and once or twice detected a pointing finger.

With cheeks burning with shame and knees trembling with weakness, she

reached Malcom's gate, to which she clung panting for a moment, and

then passed in. The little man had his coat off, and, stooping in his

strawberry-bed, he did look very small indeed. Edith approached quite

near before he noticed her. He suddenly straightened himself up almost

as a jumping-jack might, and gave her a sharp, surprised look. He had

heard the gossip in several distorted forms, but what hurt him most

was that she did not come or send to him. But when he saw her standing

before him with her head bent down like a moss-rosebud wilting in the

sun, when he met her timid, deprecating glance, his soft heart

relented instantly, and coming toward her he said:

"An' ha' ye coom to see ould Malcom at last? What ha' I dune that I

suld be sae forgotten?"

"You were not forgotten, Mr. McTrump. God knows that I have too few

friends to forget the best of them," answered Edith, in a voice of

tremulous pathos.

After that Malcom was wax in her hands, and with moistened eyes he

stood gazing at her in undisguised admiration.

"I have been through deep trouble, Mr. McTrump," continued she, "and

perhaps you, like so many others, may think me not fit to speak to you

any more. Besides, I have been very sick, and really ought not to be

out to-day. Indeed I feel very weak. Isn't there some place where I

could sit down?"

"Now God forgie me for an uncoo Highlander," cried Malcom, springing

forward, "to think that I suld let ye ston there, like a tall, white,

swayin' calla lily, in the rough wind. Take me arm till I support ye

to the best room o' me house."

Edith did take and cling to it with the feeling of one ready to fall.

"Oh, Mr. McTrump, you are too kind," she murmured.

"Why suld I not be kind?" he said, heartily, "when I see ye nipt by

the wourld's unkindness? Why suld I not be kind? Is the rose there to

blame because a weed has grown alongside? Ye could na help it that the

wild bird flitted, and I heerd how ye roon like a brave lassie to stop

her. But the evil wourld is quick to see the bad and slow to see the

gude." And Malcom escorted her like a "leddy o' high degree" to his

little parlor, and there she told him and his wife all her trouble,

and Malcom seemed afflicted with a sudden cold in his head. Then Mrs.

McTrump bustled in and out in a breezy eagerness to make her

comfortable.

"Ye're a stranger in our toon," she said, "and sae I was once mysel,

an' I ken how ye feel."

"An' the Gude Book, which I hope ye read," added the gallant Malcom,

"says hoo in entertainin' a stranger ye may ha' an angel aroond."

"Oh, Mr. McTrump," said Edith, with peony-like face, "Hannibal is the

only one who calls me that, and he doesn't know any better."

"Why suld he know ony better?" responded Malcom quickly. "I ha' never

seen an angel, na mair than I ha' seen a goolden harp, but I'm a

thinkin' a modest bonny lassie like yoursel cooms as near to ane as

anything can in this world."

"But, Mr. McTrump," said Edith, with a half-pathetic, half-comic face,

"I am in such deep trouble that I shall soon grow old and wrinkled, so

I shall not be an angel long."

"Na, na, dinna say that," said Malcom earnestly. "An ye will, ye may

keepit the angel a-growin' within ye alway, though ye live as old as

Methuselah. D'ye see this wee brown seed? There's a mornin'-glory vine

hidden in it, as would daze your een at the peep o' day wi' its gay

blossoms. An' ye see my ould gudewife there? Ah, she will daze the een

o' the greatest o' the earth in the bright springtime o' the

Resurrection; and though I'm a little mon here, it may be I'll see

o'er the heads of soom up there."

"An ye had true humeelity ye'd be a-hopin' to get there, instead of

expectin' to speir o'er the heads o' yer betters," said his wife in a

rebuking tone.

"'A-hopin' to get there'!" said Malcom with some warmth. "Why suld I

hope when 'I _know_ that my Redeemer liveth'?"

Edith's eyes filled with wistful tears, for the quaint talk of these

old people suggested a hope and faith that she knew nothing of. But,

in a low voice, she said, "Why does God let his creatures suffer so

much?"

"Bless your heart, puir child, He suffered mair than ony on us," said

Malcom tenderly. "But ye'll learn it a' soon. He who fed the famishin'

would bid ye eat noo. But wait a bit till ye see what I'll bring ye."

In a moment he was back with a dainty basket of Triomphe de Gand

strawberries, and Edith uttered an exclamation of delight as she

inhaled their delicious aroma.

"They are the first ripe the season, an' noo see what the gudewife

will do with them."

Soon their hulls were off, and, swimming in a saucer of cream, they

were added to the dainty little lunch that Mrs. McTrump had prepared.

"Oh!" exclaimed Edith, drawing a long breath, "you can't know how you

ease my poor sore heart. I began to think all the world was against

me."

At this Malcom beat such a precipitate retreat that he half stumbled

over a chair, but outside the door he ventured to say:

"An ye coom out I'll cut ye a posy before ye go." But Edith saw him

rub his rough sleeve across his eyes as he passed the window. His wife

said, in a grave gentle tone:

"Would ye might learn to know Him who said, 'Be of good cheer, I have

overcome the wourld.'"

Edith shook her head sadly, and said, "I don't understand Him, and He

seems far off."

"It's only seemin', me dear," said the old woman kindly, "but, as

Malcom says, ye'll learn it a' by and by."

Mrs. McTrump was one of those simple souls who never presume to "talk

religion" to any one. "I can ony venture what I hope'll be a 'word in

season' noo and then, as the Maister gies me a chance," she would say

to her husband.

Though she did not know it, she had spread before Edith a Gospel

feast, and her genuine, hearty sympathy was teaching more than

eloquent sermons could have done, and already the grateful girl was

questioning:

"What makes these people differ so from others?"

With some dismay she saw how late it was growing, and hastened out to

Malcom, who had cut an exquisite little bouquet for her, and had

another basket of berries for her to take to her mother.

"Mr. McTrump," said Edith, "it's time we had a settlement; your

kindness I never can repay, but I am able now to carry out my

agreement."

"Don't bother me wi' that noo," said Malcom, rather testily. "I ha' no

time to make oot your account in the height o' the season. Let it ston

till I ha' time. An' ye might help me soomtimes make up posies far the

grand folk at the hotel. But how does your garden sin ye dismissed

ould Malcom?"

"Oh, Mr. McTrump," said Edith, slyly, "do you know you almost scared

old Hannibal out of his wits by the wonders you wrought last night or

this morning in that same garden you inquire about so innocently. How

can you work so fast and hard?"

"The woonders I wrought! Indeed I've not been near the garden sin ye

told me not to coom. Ye could hardly expect otherwise of a Scotchman."