"Where can you find anything -- in this region?"

"I don't know," said he; "but it must be found. If not in this

region, in some other."

"To-morrow, Mr. Landholm."

"To-morrow -- has its own work," said he; and went.

"Will he go to-morrow?" thought Elizabeth, with a pang at her

heart. "Oh, I wish -- no, I dare not wish -- that I had never

been born! What am I to do with myself?"

Conscience suggested very quietly that something might be

done; but Elizabeth bade conscience wait for another time,

though granting all it advanced. She put that by, as she did

Mrs. Nettley and Clam who both presently came where Winthrop

had been standing, to make advances of a different nature.

"What'll I do, Miss 'Lizabeth?" said the latter, in a tone

that argued a somewhat dismal view of affairs.

"Anything you can find to do."

"Can't find nothin, --" said Clam, "'cept Karen. One corner of

the house is filled enough with her; and the rest ha'n't got

nothin' in it."

"Let Karen alone, and take care of your own business, Clam."

"If I knowed what 'twas," said the persevering damsel. "I

can't make the beds, for there ain't none; nor set the

furnitur to rights, for the rooms is 'stressed empty."

"You can let me alone, at all events. The rooms will have

something in them before long. You know what to do as well as

any one; -- if you don't, ask Mr. Landholm."

"Guess I will!" said Clam; "when I want to feel foolisher than

I do. Did the furnitur come by the sloop?"

"No. Mr. Landholm will send some. I don't care anything about

it."

"Ha! then if _he's_ goin' to send it," said Clam turning away,

"the place 'll have to be ready for it, I s'pose."

Mrs. Nettley appeared in Clam's place. Elizabeth was still

sitting on the door-step, and though she knew by a side view

that one had given place to the other, she did not seem to

know it and sat looking straight before her at the sunny

landscape.

"It's a beautiful place," said Mrs. Nettley after a little

pause of doubt.

"Very beautiful," said Elizabeth coldly.

"I did not know it was so beautiful. And a healthy place, I

should suppose."

Elizabeth left the supposition unquestioned.

"You are sadly fatigued, Miss Haye," said Mrs. Nettley after a

longer pause than before.

"I suppose I am," said Elizabeth rising, for patience had

drawn her last breath; -- "I am going down by the water to

rest. Don't let any one follow me or call me -- I want nothing

-- only to rest by myself."

And drawing her scarf round her, she strode through the rank

grass to the foot of the lawn, and then between scattered

rocks and sweetbriars and wild rose-bushes, to the fringe of

cedar trees which there clothed the rocks down to the water.

Between and beneath them, just where she came out upon the

river, an outlooking mass of granite spread itself smooth and

wide enough to seat two or three people. The sun's rays could

not reach there, except through thick cedar boughs. Cedar

trees and the fall of ground hid it from the house; and in

front a clear opening gave her a view of the river and

opposite shore, and of a cedar-covered point of her own land,

outjutting a little distance further on. Solitude, silence,

and beauty invited her gently; and Elizabeth threw herself

down on the grey lichen-grown stone; but rest was not there.

"Rest!" -- she said to herself in great bitterness; -- "rest!

How can I rest? -- or where can there be rest for me? --"

And then passionate nature took its will, and poured out to

itself and drank all the deep draughts of pain that passion

alone can fill and refill for its own food. Elizabeth's proud

head bowed there, to the very rock she sat on. Yet the proud

heart would not lay itself down as well; _that_ stood up to

breast pain and wrestle with it, and take the full fierce

power of the blast that came. Till nature was tired out, --

till the frame subsided from convulsions that racked it, into

weary repose, -- so long the struggle lasted; and then the

struggle was not ended, but only the forces on either side had

lost the power of carrying it on. And then she sat, leaning

against a cedar trunk that gave her its welcome support, which

every member and muscle craved; not relieved, but with that

curious respite from pain which the dulled senses take when

they have borne suffering as long and as sharply as they can.

It was hot in the sun; but only a warm breath of summer air

played about Elizabeth where she sat. The little waves of the

river glittered and shone and rolled lazily down upon the

channel, or curled up in rippling eddies towards the shore.

The sunlight was growing ardent upon the hills and the river;

but over Elizabeth's head the shade was still unbroken. A soft

aromatic smell came from the cedars, now and then broken in

upon by a faint puff of fresher air from the surface of the

water. Hardly any sound, but the murmur of the ripple at the

water's edge and the cheruping of busy grasshoppers upon the

lawn. Now and then a locust did sing out; he only said it was

August and that the sun was shining hot and sleepily

everywhere but under the cedar trees. His song was

irresistible. Elizabeth closed her eyes and listened to it, in

a queer kind of luxurious rest-taking which was had because

mind and body would have it. Pain was put away, in a sort; for

the senses of pain were blurred. The aromatic smell of the

evergreens was wafted about her; and then came a touch, a most

gentle touch, of the south river-breeze upon her face; and

then the long dreamy cry of the locust; and the soft plashing

sound of the water at her feet. All Elizabeth's faculties were

crying for sleep; and sleep came, handed in by the locust and

the summer air, and laid its kind touch of forgetfulness upon

mind and body. At first she lost herself leaning against the

cedar tree, waking up by turns to place herself better; and at

last yielding to the overpowering influences without and

within, she curled her head down upon a thick bed of moss at

her side and gave herself up to such rest as she might.

What sort of rest? Only the rest of the body, which had made a

truce with the mind for the purpose. A quiet which knew that

storms were not over, but which would be quiet nevertheless.

Elizabeth felt that, in her intervals of half-consciousness.

But all the closer she clung to her pillow of dry moss. She

had a dispensation from sorrow there. When her head left it,

it would be to ache again. It should not ache now. Sweet moss!

-- sweet summer air! -- sweet sound of plashing water! -- sweet

dreamy lullaby of the locust! -- Oh if they could put her to

sleep for ever! -- sing pain out and joy in! --

A vague, half-realized notion of the fight that must be gone

through before rest 'for ever' could in any wise be hoped for

-- of the things that must be gained and the things that must

be lost before that 'for ever' rest could in any sort be

looked forward to, -- and dismissing the thought, Elizabeth

blessed her fragrant moss pillow of Lethe and went to sleep

again.

How she dreaded getting rested; how she longed for that

overpowering fatigue and exhaustion of mind and body to

prolong itself! And as the hours went on, she knew that she

was getting rested, and that she would have to wake up to

everything again by and by. It should not be at anybody's

bidding.

"Miss 'Lizabeth! --" sounded Clam's voice in the midst of her

slumbers.

"Go away, Clam!" said the sleeper, without opening her eyes.

"Miss 'Lizabeth, ain't ye goin' to eat nothin'?"

"No -- Go away."

"Miss 'Lizabeth! -- dinner's ready."

"Well! --"

"You're a goin' to kill yourself."

"Don't _you_ kill me!" said Elizabeth impatiently. "Go off."

"To be sure," said Clam as she turned away, -- "there ain't

much company."

It was very vexing to be disturbed. But just as she was

getting quiet again, came the tread of Mrs. Nettley's foot

behind her, and Elizabeth knew another colloquy was at hand.

"Are you asleep, Miss Haye?" said the good lady a little

timidly.

"No," said Elizabeth lifting her head wearily, -- "I wish I

were."

"There's dinner got ready for you in the house."

"Let anybody eat it that can. -- I can't."

"Wouldn't you be better for taking a little something? I'm

afraid you'll give way if you do not."

"I don't care," said Elizabeth. "Let me give way -- only let me

alone!"

She curled her head down determinately again.

"I am afraid, Miss Haye, you will be ill," said poor Mrs.

Nettley.

"I am willing," -- said Elizabeth. "I don't care about

anything, but to be quiet! --"

Mrs. Nettley went off in despair; and Elizabeth in despair

also, found that vexation had effectually driven away sleep.

In vain the locust sang and the moss smelled sweet; the tide

of feeling had made head again, and back came a rush of

disagreeable things, worse after worse; till Elizabeth's brow

quitted the moss pillow to be buried in her hands, and her

half-quieted spirit shook anew with the fresh-raised tempest.

Exhaustion came back again; and thankfully she once more laid

herself down to sleep and forgetfulness.

Her sleep was sound this time. The body asserted its rights;

and long, long she lay still upon her moss pillow, while the

regular deep-drawn breath came and went, fetching slow

supplies of strength and refreshment. The sun quitted its

overhead position and dipped towards Wut-a-qut-o, behind the

high brow of which, in summer-time, it used to hide itself. A

slant ray found an opening in the thick tree-tops, and shone

full upon Elizabeth's face; but it failed to rouse her; and it

soon went up higher and touched a little song sparrow that was

twittering in a cedar tree close by. Then the shadows of the

trees fell long over the grass towards the rocks on the east.

Elizabeth was awakened at last by a familiar adjuration.

"Miss 'Lizabeth! -- you'll catch a Typhus, or an agur, or

somethin' dreadful, down there! Don't ye want to live no more

in the world?"

Elizabeth sat up, and rested her face on her knees, feeling

giddy and sick.

"Don't ye feel bad?"

"Hush, Clam! --"

"I'm sent after ye," said Clam, -- "I dursn't hush. Folks

thinks it is time you was back in the house."

"Hush! -- I don't care what folks think."

"Not what _nobody_ thinks?" said Clam.

"What do you mean!" said Elizabeth flashing round upon her.

"Go back into the house. -- I will come when I am ready."

"You're ready now," said Clam. "Miss 'Lizabeth, ye ain't fit

for anything, for want of eatin'. Come! -- they want ye."

"Not much," -- thought Elizabeth bitterly, -- "if they left it

to her to bring me in."

"Are you sick, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"No."

"He's come home," Clam went on; -- "and you never saw the

things he has brought! Him and me's been puttin' 'em up and

down. Lots o' things. Ain't he a man!"

"'Up and down!'" repeated Elizabeth.

"Egg-zackly," -- said Clam; -- "Floor-spreads -- what-d'ye-

call'ems? -- and bedsteads -- and chairs. He said if he'd know'd

the house was all stripped, he'd never have fetched you up

here."

"Yes he would," said Elizabeth. "What do I care for a stripped

house!" -- "with a stripped heart," her thought finished it.

"Well don't you care for supper neither? -- for that old thing

is a fixin' it," said Clam.

"You must not call her names to me."

"Ain't she old?" said Clam.

"She is a very good old woman, I believe."

"Ain't you comin' Miss 'Lizabeth? They won't sit down without

you."

"Who sent you out here?"

"Karen axed where you was; and Mrs. Nettley said she dursn't

go look for you; and Mr. Landholm said I was to come and bring

you in."

"He didn't, Clam! --"

"As likely as your head's been in the moss there, he did, Miss

'Lizabeth."

"Go yourself back into the house. I'll come when I am ready,

and I am not ready yet."

"He ha'n't had nothin' to eat to-day, I don't believe," said

Clam, by way of a parting argument. But Elizabeth let her go

without seeming to hear her.

She sat with her hands clasped round her knees, looking down

upon the water; her eyes slowly filling with proud and bitter

tears. Yet she saw and felt how coolly the lowering sunbeams

were touching the river now; that evening's sweet breath was

beginning to freshen up among the hills; that the daintiest,

lightest, cheeriest gilding was upon every mountain top, and

wavelet, and pebble, and stem of a tree. "Peace be to thee,

fair nature, and thy scenes!" -- and peace from them seems to

come too. But oh how to have it! Elizabeth clasped her hands

tight together and then wrung them mutely. "O mountains -- O

river -- O birds!" -- she thought, -- "If I could but be as

senseless as you -- or as good for something!"

CHAPTER XI.

When cockleshells turn silver bells,

When wine dreips red frae ilka tree,

When frost and snaw will warm us a',

Then I'll come doun an' dine wi' thee.

JEANNIE DOUGLASS.

The sun was low, near Wut-a-qut-o's brow, when at last slowly

and lingeringly, and with feet that, as it were, spurned each

step they made, Elizabeth took her way to the house. But no

sooner did her feet touch the doorstep than her listless and

sullen mood gave place to a fit of lively curiosity -- to see

what Winthrop had done. She turned to the left into the old

keeping-room.

It had been very bare in the morning. Now, it was stocked with

neat cane-bottomed chairs, of bird's-eye maple. In the middle

of the floor rested an ambitious little mahogany table with

claw feet. A stack of green window-blinds stood against the

pier between the windows, and at the bottom on the floor lay a

paper of screws and hinges. The floor was still bare, to be

sure, and so was the room, but yet it looked hopeful compared

with the morning's condition. Elizabeth stood opening her eyes

in a sort of mazed bewilderment; then hearing a little noise

of hammering in the other part of the house, she turned and

crossed over to the east room -- her sleeping-room of old and

now. She went within the door and stood fast.

Her feet were upon a green carpet which covered the room.

Round about were more of the maple chairs, looking quite

handsome on their green footing. There was a decent dressing-

table and chest of drawers of the same wood, in their places;

and a round mahogany stand which seemed to be meant for no

particular place but to do duty anywhere. And in the corner of

the room was Winthrop, with Mrs. Nettley and Clam for

assistants, busy putting up a bedstead. He looked up slightly

from his work when Elizabeth shewed herself, but gave her no

further attention. Clam grinned. Mrs. Nettley was far too

intent upon holding her leg of the bedstead true and steady,

to notice or know anything else whatever.

Elizabeth looked for a moment, without being able to utter a

word; and then turned about and went and stood at the open

door, her breast heaving thick and her eyes too full to see a

thing before her. Then she heard Winthrop pass behind her and

go into the other room. Elizabeth followed quickly. He had

stooped to the paper of screws, but stood up when she came in,

to speak to her.

"I am ashamed of myself for having so carelessly brought you

to a dismantled house. I had entirely forgotten that it was

so, in this degree, -- though I suppose I must at some time

have heard it."

"It would have made no difference, --" said Elizabeth, and said

no more.

"I will return to the city to-morrow, and send you up

immediately whatever you will give order for. It can be here

in a very few days."

Elizabeth looked at the maple chairs and the mahogany table,

and she could not speak, for her words choked her. Winthrop

stooped again to his paper of screws and hinges and began

turning them over.

"What are you going to do?" said Elizabeth, coming a step

nearer.

"I am going to see if I can put up these blinds?"

"Blinds!" said Elizabeth.

"Yes. -- I was fortunate enough to find some that were not very

far from the breadth of the windows. They were too long; and I

made the man shorten them. I think they will do."

"What _did_ you take all that trouble for?"

"It was no trouble."

"Where did all these things come from?"

"From Starlings -- I hadn't to go any further than that for

them."

"How far is it?"

"Twelve miles."

"Twelve miles there and back!"

"Makes twenty-four."

"In this hot day! -- I am very sorry, Mr. Landholm!"

"For what?" said he, shouldering one of the green blinds.

"You are not going to put those on yourself?"

"I am going to try -- as I said."

"You have done enough day's work," said Elizabeth. "Pray

don't, at least to-night. It's quite late. Please don't! --"

"If I don't to-night, I can't to-morrow," said Winthrop,

marching out. "I must go home to-morrow."

_Home!_ It shook Elizabeth's heart to hear him speak the old

word. But she only caught her breath a little, and then spoke,

following him out to the front of the house.

"I would rather they were not put up, Mr. Landholm. I can get

somebody to do it."

"Not unless I fail."

"It troubles me very much that you should have such a day."

"I have had just such a day -- as I wanted," said Winthrop,

measuring with his eye and rule the blind and the window-frame

respectively.

"Miss 'Lizabeth, Karen's got the tea all ready, she says,"

Clam announced from the door; "and she hopes everybody's tired

of waitin'."

"You've not had tea! --" exclaimed Elizabeth. "Come then, Mr.

Winthrop."

"Not now," said he, driving in his gimlet, -- "I must finish

this first. 'The night cometh wherein no man can work.'"

Elizabeth shrank inwardly, and struggled with herself.

"But the morning comes also," she said.

Winthrop's eye went up to the top hinge of the blind, and down

to the lower one, and up to the top again; busy and cool, it

seemed to consider nothing but the hinges. Elizabeth struggled

with herself again. She was mortified. But she could not let

go the matter.

"Pray leave those things!" she said in another minute. "Come

in, and take what is more necessary."

"When my work is done," said he. "Go in, Miss Elizabeth. Karen

will give me something by and by."

Elizabeth turned; she could do nothing more in the way of

persuasion. As she set her foot heavily on the door-step, she

saw Clam standing in the little passage, her lips slightly

parted in a satisfied bit of a smile. Elizabeth was vexed,

proud, and vexed again, in as many successive quarter seconds.

Her foot was heavy no longer.

"Have you nothing to do, Clam?"

"Lots," said the damsel.

"Why aren't you about it, then?"

"I was waitin' till you was about your'n, Miss 'Lizabeth. I

like folks to be out o' my way."

"Do you! Take care and keep out of mine," said her mistress.

"What are you going to do now?"

"Settle your bed, Miss 'Lizabeth. It's good we've got linen

enough, anyhow."

"Linen, --" said Elizabeth, -- "and a bedstead, -- have you got a

bed to put on it?"

"There's been care took for that," said Clam, with the same

satisfied expression and a little turn of her head.

Half angry and half sick, Elizabeth left her, and went in

through her new-furnished keeping-room, to Karen's apartment

where the table was bountifully spread and Mrs. Nettley and

Karen awaited her coming. Elizabeth silently sat down.

"Ain't he comin'?" said Karen.

"No -- I am very sorry -- Mr. Landholm thinks he must finish

what he is about first."

"He has lots o' _thoughts_," said Karen discontentedly, -- "he'd

think just as well after eatin'. -- Well, Miss -- Karen's done

her best -- There's been worse chickens than those be -- Mis'

Landholm used to cook 'em that way, and she didn't cook 'em no

better. I s'pose he'll eat some by'm by -- when he's done

thinkin'."

She went off, and Elizabeth was punctually and silently taken

care of by Mrs. Nettley. The meal over, she did not go back to

her own premises; but took a stand in the open kitchen door,

for a variety of reasons, and stood there, looking alternately

out and in. The sun had set, the darkness was slowly

gathering; soft purple clouds floated up from the west, over

Wut-a-qut-o's head, which however the nearer heads of pines

and cedars prevented her seeing. A delicate fringe of

evergreen foliage edged upon the clear white sky. The fresher

evening air breathed through the pine and cedar branches,

hardly stirred their stiff leaves, but brought from them

tokens of rare sweetness; brought them to Elizabeth's

sorrowful face, and passed on. Elizabeth turned her face from

the wind and looked into the house. Karen had made her

appearance again, and was diligently taking away broken meats

and soiled dishes and refreshing the look of the table;

setting some things to warm and some things to cool; giving

the spare plate and knife and fork the advantage of the best

place at table; brushing away crumbs, and smoothing down the

salt-cellar. "You _are_ over particular!" thought Elizabeth; --

"it would do him no harm to come after me in handling the

salt-spoon! -- that even that trace of me should be removed."

She looked out again.

Her friend the locust now and then was reminding her of the

long hot day they had passed through together; and the

intervals between were filled up by a chorus of grasshoppers

and crickets and katydids. Soft and sweet blew the west wind

again; _that_ spoke not of the bygone day, with its burden and

heat; but of rest, and repose, and the change that cometh even

to sorrowful things. The day was passed and gone. "But if one

day is passed, another is coming," -- thought Elizabeth; and

tears, hot and bitter tears, sprang to her eyes. How could

those clouds float so softly! -- how could the light and shadow

rest so lovely on them! -- how could the blue ether look so

still and clear! "Can one be like that?" -- thought Elizabeth.

"Can I? -- with this boiling depth of passion and will in my

nature? -- _One_ can --" and she again turned her eyes within. But

nothing was there, save the table, the supper, and Karen. The

question arose, what she herself was standing there for? but

passion and will said they did not care! she would stand

there; and she did. It was pleasant to stand there; for

passion and will, though they had their way, seemed to her

feeling to be quieted down under nature's influences. Perhaps

the most prominent thought now was of a great discord between

nature and her, between her and right, -- which was to be made

up. But still, while her face was towards the western sky and

soft wind, and her mind thought this, her ear listened for a

step on the kitchen floor. The colours of the western sky had

grown graver and cooler before it came.

It came, and there was the scrape of a chair on the wooden

floor. He had sat down, and Karen had got up; but Elizabeth

would not look in.

"Are ye hungry enough now, Governor?"

"I hope so, Karen, -- for your sake."

"Ye don't care much for your own," said Karen discontentedly.

Perhaps Winthrop -- perhaps Elizabeth, thought that she made up

his lack of it. Elizabeth watched, stealthily, to see how the

old woman waited upon him -- hovered about him -- supplied his

wants, actual and possible, and stood looking at him when she

could do nothing else. She could not understand the low word

or two with which Winthrop now and then rewarded her. Bitter

feeling overcame her at last; she turned away, too much out of

tune with nature to notice any more, unless by way of

contrast, what nature had spread about her and over her. She

went round the house again to the front and sat down in the

doorway. The stars were out, the moonlight lay soft on the

water, the dews fell heavily.

"Miss Lizzie! -- you'll catch seven deaths out there! -- the

day's bad enough, but the night's five times worse," -- Clam

exclaimed.

"I shan't catch but one," Elizabeth said gloomily.

"Your muslin's all wet, drinchin'!"

"It will dry."

"I can hang it up, I s'pose; but what'll I do with you if you

get sick?"

"Nothing whatever! Let me alone, Clam."

"Mis' Nettles! --" said Clam going in towards the kitchen, --

"Mis' Nettles! -- where's Mr. Landholm? -- Governor Winthrop --

here's Miss 'Lizabeth unhookin' all them blinds you've been a

hookin' up."

"What do you mean, Clam?"

"I don't mean no harm," said Clam lowering her tone, -- "but

Miss 'Lizabeth does. I wish you would go and see what she _is_

doing, Mr. Winthrop; she's makin' work for somebody; and if it

ain't nobody else, it's the doctor."

Winthrop however sat still, and Clam departed in ignorance how

he had received her information. Presently however his supper

was finished, and he sauntered round to the front of the

house. He paused before the doorway where its mistress sat.

"It is too damp for you there."

"I don't feel it."

"I do."

"I am not afraid of it."

"If the fact were according to your fears, that would be a

sufficient answer."

"It will do me no harm."

"It must not; and that it may not, you must go in," he said

gravely.

"But you are out in it," said Elizabeth, who was possessed

with an uncompromising spirit just then.

"I am out in it. Well?"

"Only -- that I may venture --" she did not like to finish her

sentence.

"What right have you to venture anything?"

"The same right that other people have."

"I risk nothing," said he gravely.

"I haven't much to risk."

"You may risk your life."

"My life!" said Elizabeth. "What does it signify! --" But she

jumped up and ran into the house.

The next morning there was an early breakfast, for which

Elizabeth was ready. Then Winthrop took her directions for

things to be forwarded from Mannahatta. Then there was a quiet

leave-taking; on his part kind and cool, on hers too full of

impassioned feeling to be guarded or constrained. But there

was reason and excuse enough for that, as she knew, or guard

and restraint would both have been there. When she quitted his

hand, it was to hide herself in her room and have one struggle

with the feeling of desolation. It was a long one.

Elizabeth came out at last, book in hand.

"Dear Miss Haye!" Mrs. Nettley exclaimed -- "you're dreadful

worn with this hot weather and being out of doors all day

yesterday!"

"I am going out again," said Elizabeth. "Clam will know where

to find me."

"If you had wings, I'd know where to find you," said Clam;

"but on your feet 'taint so certain."

"You needn't try, unless it is necessary," said Elizabeth

dryly.

"But dear Miss Haye!" pleaded Mrs. Nettley, -- "you're not

surely going out to try the sun again to-day?"

Elizabeth's lip quivered.

"It's the pleasantest place, Mrs. Nettley -- I am quite in the

shade -- I can't be better than I am there, thank you."

"Don't she look dreadful!" said the good lady, as Elizabeth

went from the house. "Oh, I never have seen anybody so

changed!"

"She's pulled down a bit since she come," said Karen, who gave

Elizabeth but a moderate share of her good will at any time.

"She's got her mind up high enough, anyway, for all she's gone

through."

"Who hain't?" said Clam. "Hain't the Governor _his_ mind up high

enough? And you can't pull him down, but you can her."

"His don't never need," said Karen.

"Well -- I don' know, --" said Clam, picking up several things

about the floor -- "but them high minds is a trial."

"Hain't you got one yourself, girl?" said old Karen.

"Hope so, ma'am. I take after my admirers. That's all the way

I live, -- keeping my head up -- always did."

Karen deigned no reply, but went off.

"Mis' Nettles," said Clam, "do _you_ think Miss Haye 'll ever

stand it up here all alone in this here place?"

"Why not?" said Mrs. Nettley innocently.

"I guess your head ain't high enough up for to see her'n,"

said Clam, in scornful impatience. And she too quitted the

conversation in disgust.

CHAPTER XII.

'Resolve,' the haughty moralist would say,

'The single act is all that we demand.'

Alas! such wisdom bids a creature fly

Whose very sorrow is, that time hath shorn

His natural wings.

WORDSWORTH.

The book in Elizabeth's hand was her bible. It was the next

thing, and the only thing to be done after Winthrop's going

away, that she could think of, to begin upon the first chapter

of Matthew. It was action, and she craved action. It was an

undertaking; for her mind remembered and laid hold of

Winthrop's words -- "Ask honestly, of your own conscience and

of God, at each step, what obligation upon you grows out of

what you read." And it was an undertaking that Winthrop had

set her upon. So she sought out her yesterday's couch of moss

with its cedar canopy, and sat down in very different mood

from yesterday's mood, and put her bible on her lap. It was a

feeling of dull passive pain now; a mood that did not want to

sleep.

The day itself was very like yesterday. Elizabeth listened a

minute to the sparrow and the locust and the summer wind, but

presently she felt that they were overcoming her; and she

opened her book to the first chapter of Matthew. She was very

curious to find her first _obligation_. Not that she was

unconscious of many resting upon her already; but those were

vague, old, dimly recognized obligations; she meant to take

them up now definitely, in the order in which they might come.

She half paused at the name in the first verse, -- was there

not a shadow of obligation hanging around that? But if there

were, she would find it more clearly set forth and in detail

as she went on. She passed it for the present.

From that she went on smoothly as far as the twenty-first

verse. That stopped her.

"And she shall bring forth a son; and thou shalt call his name

Jesus; for he shall save his people from their sins."

"'_His people_,' --" thought Elizabeth. "I am not one of his

people. Ought I not to be?"

The words of the passage did not say; but an imperative

whisper at her heart said "Ay!"

"_His people!_ -- but how can I be one of his people?" she

thought again. And impatience bade her turn over the leaf, and

find something more or something else; but conscience said,

"Stop -- and deal with this obligation first."

"What obligation? -- '_He shall save his people from their

sins_.' Then certainly I ought to let him save me from mine --

that is the least I can do. But what is the first thing -- the

first step to be taken? I wish Mr. Landholm was here to tell

me. --"

She allowed herself to read on to the end of the page, but

that gave her not much additional light. She would not turn

over the leaf; she had no business with the second obligation

till the first was mastered; she sat looking at the words in a

sort of impatient puzzle; and not permitting herself to look

forward, she turned back a leaf. That gave her but the

titlepage of the New Testament. She turned back another, to

the last chapter of the Old. Its opening words caught her eye.

"For behold, the day cometh that shall burn as an oven; and

all the proud, yea, and all that do wickedly, shall be

stubble; and the day that cometh shall burn them up, saith the

Lord of Hosts, that it shall leave them neither root nor

branch."

"_The proud, and they that do wickedly_ -- that is my character

and name truly," thought Elizabeth. "I am of them. -- And it is

from this, and this fate, that 'his people' shall be

delivered. But how shall I get to be of them?" Her eye glanced

restlessly up to the next words above --

"Then shall ye return and discern between the righteous and

the wicked, between him that serveth God and him that serveth

him not."

"'_Then_,' -- in that day," -- thought Elizabeth, "I can discern

between them now, without waiting for that. -- Winthrop

Landholm is one that serveth God -- I am one that serve him

not. There is difference enough, I can see now -- but this

speaks of the difference at that day; another sort of

difference. -- Then I ought to be a servant of God --"

The obligation was pretty plain.

"Well, I will, when I find out how," -- she began. But

conscience checked her.

"This is not the first chapter of Matthew," she said then. "I

will go back to that."

Her eye fell lower, to the words,

"But unto you that fear my name shall the Sun of Righteousness

arise with healing in his wings."

The tears started to Elizabeth's eyes. "This is that same who

will save his people from their sins, -- is it? -- and that is

his healing? Oh, I want it! -- There is too much difference

between me and them. He shall save his people from their sins,

-- I have plenty, -- plenty. But how? -- and what shall I do? It

don't tell me here."

It did not; yet Elizabeth could not pass on. She was honest;

she felt an obligation, arising from these words, which yet

she did not at once recognize. It stayed her. She must do

something -- what could she do? It was a most unwelcome answer

that at last slid itself into her mind. _Ask_ to be made one of

'his people' -- or to be taught how to become one? Her very

soul started. _Ask?_ -- but now the obligation stood full and

strong before her, and she could cease to see it no more. _Ask?_

-- why she never did such a thing in her whole life as ask God

to do anything for her. Not of her own mind, at her own

choice, and in simplicity; her thoughts and feelings had

perhaps at some time joined in prayers made by another, and in

church, and in solemn time. But here? with the blue sky over

her, in broad day, and in open air? It did not seem like

praying time. Elizabeth shut her book. Her heart beat. Duty

and she were at a struggle now; she knew which must give way,

but she was not ready yet. It never entered her head to

question the power or the will to which she must apply

herself, no more than if she had been a child. Herself she

doubted; she doubted not him. Elizabeth knew very little of

his works or word, beyond a vague general outline, got from

sermons; but she knew one servant of God. That servant

glorified him; and in the light which she saw and loved,

Elizabeth could do no other but, in her measure, to glorify

him too. She did not doubt, but she hesitated, and trembled.

The song of the birds and the flow of the water mocked her

hesitancy and difficulty. But Elizabeth was honest; and though

she trembled she would not and could not disobey the voice of

conscience which set before her one clear, plain duty. She was

in great doubt whether to stand or to kneel; she was afraid of

being seen if she knelt; she would not be so irreverent as to

pray sitting; she rose to her feet, and clasping a cedar tree

with her arms, she leaned her head beside the trunk, and

whispered her prayer, to him who saves his people from their

sins, that he would make her one of them, she did not know

how, she confessed; she prayed that he would teach her.

She kept her position and did not move her bended head, till

the tears which had gathered were fallen or dried; then she

sat down and took up her book again and looked down into the

water. What had she done? Entered a pledge, she felt, to be

what she had prayed to be; else her prayer would be but a

mockery, and Elizabeth was in earnest. "What a full-grown fair

specimen he is of his class," she thought, her mind recurring

again to her adviser and exemplar; "and I -- a poor ignorant

thing in the dark, groping for a bit of light to begin!" -- The

tears gathered again; she opened the second chapter of

Matthew.

She looked off again to feel glad. Was a pledge entered only

on her side? -- was there not an assurance given somewhere, by

lips that cannot lie, that prayer earnestly offered should not

be in vain? She could not recall the words, but she was sure of

the thing; and there was more than one throb of pleasure, and

a tiny shoot of grateful feeling in her heart, before

Elizabeth went back to her book. What was the next

'obligation'? She was all ready for it.

Nothing stopped her much in the second chapter. The 'next

obligation' did not start up till the words of John the

Baptist in the beginning of the third --

"Repent ye, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand."

"What is repentance? -- and what is the kingdom of heaven?"

pondered Elizabeth. "I wish somebody was here to tell me.

Repent? -- I know what it is to repent -- it is to change one's

mind about something, and to will just against what one willed

before. -- And what ought I to repent about? -- Everything

wrong! _Everything wrong!_ -- That is, to turn about and set my

face just the other way from what it has been all my life! -- I

might as good take hold of this moving earth with my two

fingers and give it a twist to go westwards. --"

Elizabeth shut up her book, and laid it on the moss beside

her.

"Repent? -- yes, it's an obligation. Oh what shall I do with

it! --"

She would have liked to do with it as she did with her head --

lay it down.

"These wrong things are iron-strong in me -- how can I unscrew

them from their fastenings, and change all the out-goings and

in-comings of my mind? -- when the very hands that must do the

work have a bent the wrong way. How can I? -- I am strong for

evil -- I am weak as a child for good."

"I will try!" she said the next instant, lifting her head up --

"I will _try_ to do what I can. -- But that is not changing my

whole inner way of feeling -- that is not _repenting_. Perhaps it

will come. Or is this determination of mine to _try_, the

beginning of it? I do not know that it is -- I cannot be sure

that it is. No -- one might wish to be a good lawyer, without

at all being willing to go through all the labour and pains

for it which Winthrop Landholm has taken. -- No, _this_ is not,

or it may not be, repentance -- I cannot be sure that it is

anything. But will it not come? or how can I get it? How alone

I am from all counsel and help! -- Still it must be my duty to

try -- to try to do particular things right, as they come up,

even though I cannot feel right all at once. And if I try,

won't the help come, and the knowledge? -- What a confusion it

is! In the midst of it all it is my duty to repent, and I

haven't the least idea how to set about it, and I can't do it!

O I wish Winthrop Landholm was here! --"

Elizabeth pondered the matter a good deal; and the more she

thought about it, the worse the confusion grew. The duty

seemed more imminent, the difficulty more obstinate. She was

driven at last, unwillingly again, to her former ressource --

what she could not give herself, to ask to have given her. She

did it, with tears again, that were wrung from breaking pride

and weary wishing. More quietly then she resolved to lay off

perplexing care, and to strive to meet the moment's duty, as

it arose. And by this time with a very humbled and quieted

brow, she went on with her chapter. The words of the next

verse caught her eye and her mind at once.

"For this is he that was spoken of by the prophet Esaias,

saying, The voice of one crying in the wilderness, prepare ye

the way of the Lord, make his paths straight."

"Is not this it?" cried Elizabeth. "If I do my part -- all I

can -- is not that _preparing the way_ for him to do what I

cannot do?"

She thought so, at any rate, and it comforted her.

"Miss 'Lizabeth," said Clam, just behind her, "Karen wants to

know what time you'll have dinner?"

"I don't care."

"That's 'zackly Karen's time o' day," said Clam

discontentedly.

"I don't care at all, Clam."

"And she says, _what_ 'll you have?"

"Nothing -- or anything. Don't talk to me about it."

"Ain't much good in choosing," said Clam, "when there ain't

three things to choose from. How long can you live on pork,

Miss 'Lizabeth?"

Elizabeth looked up impatiently.

"Longer than you can. Clam! --"

"Ma'am?"

"Let me alone. I don't care about anything."

Clam went off; but ten minutes had not gone when she was back

again.

"Miss Lizzie, -- Anderese wants to know if he'll go on cuttin'

wood just as he's a mind to?"

"Anderese? -- who's he?"

"Karen and him used to be brother and sister when they was

little."

"What does he want?"

"Wants to know if he shall go on cuttin' wood just as ever."

"Cutting wood! -- what wood?"

"I s'pect it's your trees."

"Mine! What trees?"

"Why the trees in the woods, Miss Lizzie. As long as they was

nobody's, Anderese used to cut 'em for the fire; now they're

yourn, he wants to know what he shall do with 'em."

"Let 'em alone, certainly! Don't let him cut any more."

"Then the next question is, where'll he go for something to

make a fire?"

"To make a fire!"

"Yes, Miss Lizzie -- unless no time 'll do for dinner as well

as any time. Can't cook pork without a fire. And _then_ you'd

want the kettle boiled for tea, I reckon."

"Can't he get wood anywhere, Clam? without cutting down

trees."

"There ain't none to sell anywheres -- _he_ says."

"What trees has he been cutting?" said Elizabeth, rousing

herself in despair.

"Any that come handy, I s'pose, Miss Lizzie -- they'll all

burn, once get 'em in the chimney."

"He mustn't do that. Tell him -- but you can't tell him-- and _I_

can't. --"

She hesitated, between the intense desire to bid him cut

whatever he had a mind, and the notion of attending to all her

duties, which was strong upon her.

"Tell him to cut anything he pleases, for to-day -- I'll see

about it myself the next time."

Two minutes' peace; and then Clam was at her back again.

"Miss Lizzie, he don't know nothin' and he wants to know a

heap. Do you want him to cut down a cedar, he says, or an oak,

or somethin' else. There's the most cedars, he says; but Karen

says they snap all to pieces."

Elizabeth rose to her feet.

"I suppose I can find a tree in a minute that he can cut

without doing any harm. -- Bring me a parasol, Clam, -- and come

along with me."

Clam and the parasol came out at one door, and Anderese and

his axe at another, as Elizabeth slowly paced towards the

house. The three joined company. Anderese was an old grey-

haired negro, many years younger however than his sister.

Elizabeth asked him, "Which way?"

"Which way the young lady pleases."

"I don't please about it," said Elizabeth, -- "I don't know

anything about it -- lead to the nearest place -- where a tree

can be soonest found."

The old man shouldered his axe and went before, presently

entering a little wood path; of which many struck off into the

leafy wilderness which bordered the house. Leaves overhead,

rock and moss under foot; a winding, jagged, up and down,

stony, and soft green way, sometimes the one, sometimes the

other. Elizabeth's bible was still in her hand, her finger

still kept it open at the second chapter of Matthew; she went

musingly along over grey lichens and sunny green beds of moss,

thinking of many things. How she was wandering in Winthrop's

old haunts, where the trees had once upon a time been cut by

him, she now to order the cutting of the fellow trees. Strange

it was! How she was desolate and alone, nobody but herself

there to do it; her father gone; and she without another

protector or friend to care for the trees or her either. There

were times when the weight of pain, like the pressure of the

atmosphere, seemed so equally distributed that it was

distinctly felt nowhere, -- or else so mighty that the nerves

of feeling were benumbed. Elizabeth wandered along in a kind

of maze, half wondering half indignant at herself that she

could walk and think at all. She did not execute much

thinking, to do her justice; she passed through the sweet

broken sunlight and still shadows, among the rough trunks of

the cedars, as if it had been the scenery of dreamland. On

every hand were up-shooting young pines, struggling oaks that

were caught in thickets of cedar, and ashes and elms that were

humbly asking leave to spread and see the light and reach

their heads up to freedom and free air. They asked in vain.

Elizabeth was only conscious of the struggling hopes and

wishes that seemed crushed for ever, her own.

"She don't see nothin'," whispered Clam to Anderese, whom she

had joined in front. "She's lookin' into vacancy. If you don't

stop, our axe and parasol 'll walk all round the place, and

one 'll do as much work as the other. I can't put up my awning

till you cut down something to let the sun in."

The old man glanced back over his shoulder at his young lady.

"What be I goin' to do?" he whispered, with a sidelong glance

at Clam.

"Fling your axe into something," said Clam. "That'll bring her

up."

The old man presently stepped aside to a young sapling oak,

which having outgrown its strength bent its slim altitude in a

beautiful parabolic curve athwart the sturdy stems of cedars

and yellow pines which lined the path. Anderese stopped there

and looked at Elizabeth. She had stopped too, without noticing

him, and stood sending an intent, fixed, far-going look into

the pretty wilderness of rock and wood on the other side of

the way. All three stood silently.

"Will this do to come down, young lady?" inquired Anderese,

with his axe on his shoulder. Elizabeth faced about.

"'Twon't grow up to make a good tree -- it's slantin' off so

among the others." He brought his axe down.

"_That?_" said Elizabeth, -- "that reaching-over one? O no! you

mustn't touch that. What is it?"

"It's an oak, miss; it's good wood."

"It's a better tree. No indeed -- leave that. Never cut such

trees. Won't some of those old things do?"

"Them? -- them are cedars, young lady."

"Well, won't they do?"

"They'd fly all over and burn the house up," said Clam.

"What do you want?"

"Some o' the best there is, I guess," said Clam.

"Hard wood is the best, young lady."

"What's that?"

"Oak -- maple -- hickory -- and there's ash, and birch -- 'tain't

very good."

Elizabeth sighed, and led the way on again, while the old

negro shouldered his axe and followed with Clam; probably

sighing on his own part, if habitual gentleness of spirit did

not prevent. Nobody ever knew Clam do such a thing.

"Look at her!" muttered the damsel; -- "going with her head

down, -- when'll she see a tree? Ain't we on a march! Miss

'Lizabeth! -- the tree won't walk home after it's cut."

"What?" said her mistress.

"How'll it get there?"

"What?"

"The tree, Miss Lizzie -- when Anderese has cut it."

"Can't he carry some home?"

"He'll be a good while about it -- if he takes one stick at a

time -- and we ain't nigh home, neither."

Elizabeth came to a stand, and finally turned in another

direction, homewards. But she broke from the path then, and

took up the quest in earnest, leading her panting followers

over rocks and moss-beds and fallen cedars and tangled vines

and undergrowth, which in many places hindered their way. She

found trees enough at last, and near enough home; but both she

and her companions had had tree-hunting to their satisfaction.

Elizabeth commissioned Anderese to find fuel in another way;

and herself in some disgust at her new charge, returned to her

rock and her bible. She tried to go through with the third

chapter of Matthew; and her eye did go over it, though often

swimming in tears. But that was the end of her studies at that

time. Sorrow claimed the rest of the day for its own, and held

the whole ground. Her household and its perplexities -- her

bible and its teachings -- her ignorance and her necessities, --

faded away from view; and instead thereof rose up the lost

father, the lost home, and the lost friend yet dearer than

all.

"What's become of Miss Haye?" whispered Mrs. Nettley late in

the evening.

"Don' know," answered Clam. "Melted away -- all that can melt,

and shaken down -- all that can shake, of her. That ain't all,

so I s'pose there's somethin' left."

"Poor thing! -- no wonder she takes it hard," said the good

lady.

"No," said Clam, -- she never did take nothin' easy."

"Has she been crying all the afternoon?"

"Don' know," said Clam; "the eye of curiosity ain't invited;

but she don't take that easy neither, when she's about it.

I've seen her cry -- once; she'd do a year o' your crying in

half an hour."

CHAPTER XIII.

O Land of Quiet! to thy shore the surf

Of the perturbed Present rolls and sleeps;

Our storms breathe soft as June upon thy turf,

And lure out blossoms.

LOWELL.

They were days of violent grief which for a little while

followed each other. Elizabeth spent them out of doors; in the

woods, on the rocks, by the water's edge. She would take her

bible out with her, and sometimes try to read a little; but a

very few words would generally touch some spring which set her

off upon a torrent of sorrow. Pleasant things past or out of

her reach, the present time a blank, the future worse than a

blank, -- she knew nothing else. She did often in her distress

repeat the prayer she had made over the first chapter of

Matthew; but that was rather the fruit of past thought; she

did not think in those days; she gave up to feeling; and the

hours were a change from bitter and violent sorrow to dull and

listless quiet. Conscience sometimes spoke of duties resolved

upon; impatient pain always answered that their time was not

now.

The first thing that roused her was a little letter from

Winthrop, which came with the pieces of furniture and stores

he sent up to her order. It was but a word, -- or two words;

one of business, to say what he had done for her; and one of

kindness, to say what he hoped she was doing for herself. Both

words were brief, and cool; but with them, with the very

handwriting of them, came a waft of that atmosphere of

influence -- that silent breath of truth which every character

breathes -- which in this instance was sweetened with airs from

heaven. The image of the writer rose before her brightly, in

its truth and uprightness and high and fixed principle; and

though Elizabeth wept bitter tears at the miserable contrast

of her own, they were more healing tears than she had shed all

those days. When she dried them, it was with a new mind, to

live no more hours like those she had been living. Something

less distantly unlike him she could be, and would be. She rose

and went into the house, while her eyes were yet red, and gave

her patient and unwearied attention, for hours, to details of

household arrangements that needed it. Her wits were not

wandering, nor her eyes; nor did they suffer others to wander.

Then, when it was all done, she took her bonnet and went back

to her old wood-place and her bible, with an humbler and

quieter spirit than she had ever brought to it before. It was

the fifth chapter of Matthew now.

The first beatitude puzzled her. She did not know what was

meant by 'poor in spirit,' and she could not satisfy herself.

She passed it as something to be made out by and by, and went

on to the others. There were obligations enough.

"'Meek?'" said Elizabeth, -- "I suppose if there is anything

in the world I am _not_, it is meek. I am the very, very

opposite. What can I do with this? It is like a fire in my

veins. Can _I_ cool it? And if I could control the outward

seeming of it, that would not be the change of the thing

itself. Besides, I couldn't, I must _be_ meek, if I am ever to

seem so."

She went on sorrowfully to the next.

"'Hunger and thirst after righteousness' -- I do desire it -- I

do not '_hunger and thirst_.' I don't think I do -- and it is

those and those only to whom the promise is given. I am so

miserable that I cannot even wish enough for what I need most.

O God, help me to know what I am seeking, and to seek it more

earnestly! --"

"'Merciful?'" she went on with tears in her eyes -- "I think

I am merciful. -- I haven't been tried, but I am pretty sure I

am merciful. But there it is -- one must have all the marks, I

suppose, to be a Christian. Some people may be merciful by

nature -- I suppose I am. --"

"Blessed are the _pure in heart_."

She stopped there, and even shut up her book, in utter sorrow

and shame, that if 'pure in heart' meant pure to the All-

seeing eye, hers was so very, very far from it. There was not

a little scrap of her heart fit for looking into. And what

could she do with it? The words of Job recurred to her, -- "Who

can bring a clean thing out of an unclean? not one."

Elizabeth was growing 'poor in spirit' before she knew what

the words meant. She went on carefully, sorrowfully,

earnestly -- till she came to the twenty-fourth verse of the

sixth chapter. It startled her.

"No man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one

and love the other; or else he will hold to the one and

despise the other. You cannot serve God and Mammon."

"That is to say then," said Elizabeth, "that I must devote

myself _entirely_ to God -- or not at all. All my life and

possessions and aims. It means all that! --"

And for 'all that' she felt she was not ready. One corner for

self-will and doing her own pleasure she wanted somewhere; and

wanted so obstinately, that she felt, as it were, a mountain

of strong unwillingness rise up between God's requirements and

her; an iron lock upon the door of her heart, the key of which

she could not turn, shutting and barring it fast against his

entrance and rule. And she sat down before the strong mountain

and the locked door, as before something which must, and could

not, give way; with a desperate feeling that it _must_ -- with

another desperate feeling that it would not.

Now was Elizabeth very uncomfortable, and she hated

discomfort. She would have given a great deal to make herself

right; if a movement of her hand could have changed her and

cleared away the hindrance, it would have been made on the

instant; her judgment and her wish were clear; but her will

was not. Unconditional submission she thought she was ready

for; unconditional obedience was a stumbling-block before

which she stopped short. She _knew_ there would come up

occasions when her own will would take its way -- she could not

promise for it that it would not; and she was afraid to give

up her freedom utterly and engage to serve God in _everything_.

An enormous engagement, she felt! How was she to meet with ten

thousand the enemy that came against her with twenty thousand?

-- Ay, how? But if he were not met -- if she were to be the

servant of _sin_ for ever -- all was lost then! And she was not

going to be lost; therefore she _was_ going to be the

unconditional servant of God. When? --

The tears came, but they did not flow; they could not, for the

fever of doubt and questioning. She dashed them away as

impertinent asides. What were they to the matter in hand.

Elizabeth was in distress. But at the same time it was

distress that she was resolved to get out of. She did not know

just what to do; but neither would she go into the house till

something was done.

"If Mr. Landholm were here! --"

"What could he do?" answered conscience; "there is the

question before you, for you to deal with. You must deal with

it. It's a plain question."

"I cannot" -- and "Who will undertake for me?" -- were

Elizabeth's answering cry.

Her heart involuntarily turned to the great helper, but what

could or would he do for her? -- it was his will she was

thwarting. Nevertheless, "_to whom should she go?_" -- the shaken

needle of her mind's compass turned more and more steadily to

its great centre. There was light in no other quarter but on

that 'wicket-gate' towards which Bunyan's Pilgrim first long

ago set off to run. With some such sorrowful blind looking,

she opened to her chapter of Matthew again, and carelessly and

sadly turned over a leaf or two; till she saw a word which

though printed in the ordinary type of the rest, stood out to

her eyes like the lettering on a signboard. "ASK." --

"Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find;

knock, and it shall be opened unto you."

The tears came then with a gush.

"Ask what? -- it doesn't say, --but it must be whatever my

difficulty needs -- there is no restriction. 'Knock'! -- I will

-- till it is opened to me -- as it will be! --"

The difficulty was not gone -- the mountain had not suddenly

sunk to a level; but she had got a clue to get over the one,

and daylight had broken through the other. Elizabeth felt not

changed at all; no better, and no tenderer; but she laid hold

of those words as one who has but uncertain footing puts his

arms round a strong tree, -- she clung as one clings there; and

clasped them with assurance of life. Ask? -- did she not ask,

with tears that streamed now; she knocked, clasping that

stronghold with more glad and sure clasp; she knew then that

everything would be 'made plain' in the rough places of her

heart.

She did not sit still long then for meditation or to rest; her

mood was action. She took her bible from the moss, and with a

strong beating sense both of the hopeful and of the forlorn in

her condition, she walked slowly through the grass to the

steps of her house door. As she mounted them a new thought

suddenly struck her, and instead of turning to the right she

turned to the left.

"Mrs. Nettley," said Elizabeth as she entered the sitting-

room, "isn't it very inconvenient for you to be staying here

with me?"

Good Mrs. Nettley was sitting quietly at her work, and looked

up at this quite startled.

"Isn't it inconvenient for you?" Elizabeth repeated.

"Miss Haye! -- it isn't inconvenient; -- I am very glad to do it

-- if I can be of any service --"

"It is very kind of you, and very pleasant to me; but aren't

you wanted at home?"

"I don't think I am wanted, Miss Haye, -- at least I am sure my

brother is very glad to have me do anything for Mr. Landholm,

or for you, I am sure; -- if I can."

Elizabeth's eye flashed; but then in an instant she called

herself a fool, and in the same breath wondered why it should

be, that Winthrop's benevolence must put him in the way of

giving her so much pain.

"Who fills your place at home, while you are taking care of me

here, Mrs. Nettley?"

"I don't suppose any of 'em can just do that," said the good

lady with a little bit of a laugh at the idea.

"Well, is there any one to take care of your house and your

brother?"

"Mr. Landholm -- he said he'd see to it."

"Mr. Landholm! --"

"He promised he'd take care of George and the house as well. --

I dare say they don't manage much amiss."

"But who takes care of Mr. Landholm?"

"Nobody does, if he don't himself," said Mrs. Nettley with a

shake of her head. "He don't give that pleasure to any other

living person."

"Not when you are at home?"

"It makes no difference, Miss Haye," said Mrs. Nettley going

on with her sewing. "He never will. He never did."

"But surely he boards somewhere, don't he? He don't live

entirely by himself in that room?"

"That's what he always used," said Mrs. Nettley; "he _does_ take

his dinners somewhere now, I believe. But nothing else. He

makes his own tea and breakfast, -- that is! -- for he don't

drink anything. If it was any one else, one would be apt to

say one would grow unsociable, living in such a way; but it

don't make any change in him, no more than in the sun, what

sort of a place he lives in."

Elizabeth stood for a minute very still; and then said gently,

"Mrs. Nettley, I mustn't let you stay here with me."

"Why not, Miss Haye? -- I am sure they don't want me. I can

just as well stay as not. I am very glad to stay."

"You are wanted more there than here. I must learn to get

along alone. -- It don't matter how soon I begin."

"Dear Miss Haye, not yet. Never mind now -- we'll talk about it

by and by," said Mrs. Nettley hurriedly and somewhat

anxiously. She was a little afraid of Elizabeth.

"How could you get home from this place?"

"O by and by -- there'll be ways -- when the time comes."

"The time must come, Mrs. Nettley. You are very good -- I'm

very much obliged to you for coming and staying with me, -- but

in conscience I cannot let you stay any longer. It don't make

any difference, a little sooner or later."

"Later is better, Miss Elizabeth."

"No -- I shall feel more comfortable to think you are at home,

than to think I am keeping you here. I would rather you should

make your arrangements and choose what day you will go; and I

will find some way for you to go."

"I am very sorry, Miss Elizabeth," said Mrs. Nettley most

unaffectedly. "I am sure Mr. Landholm would a great deal

rather I should stay."

It was the last word Elizabeth could stand. Her lip trembled,

as she crossed the passage to her own room and bolted the

door; and then she threw herself on her knees by the bedside

and hid the quivering face in her hands.

Why should it, that kind care of his, pierce her like thorns

and arrows? why give her that when he could give her no more?

"But it will all be over," she thought to herself, -- "this

struggle like all other struggles will come to an end;

meanwhile I have it to bear and my work to do. Perhaps I shall

get over this feeling in time -- time wears out so much. -- But

I should despise myself if I did. No, when I have taken up a

liking on so good and solid grounds, I hope I am of good

enough stuff to keep it to the end of my days."

Then came over her the feeling of forlornness, of loneliness,

well and thoroughly realized; with the single gleam of better

things that sprung from the promise her heart had embraced

that day. True and strong it was, and her soul clung to it.

But yet its real brightness, to her apprehension, shone upon a

"land that is very far off;" and left all the way thereunto

with but a twilight earnest of good things to come; and

Elizabeth did not like looking forward; she wanted some

sweetness in hand. Yet she clung to that, her one stand-by.

She had a vague notion that its gleam might lead to more

brightness even this side of heaven; that there might be a

sort of comfort growing out of doing one's duty, and the

favour of him whose service duty is. Winthrop Landholm was

always bright, -- and what else had he to make him so? She

would try what virtue there might be in it; she would essay

those paths of wisdom which are said to be 'pleasantness;' but

again came the longing for help; she felt that she knew so

little. Again the word '_ask_' -- came back to her; and at last,

half comforted, wholly wearied, she rose from her long

meditation by the bed-side and went towards the window.

There was such a sparkling beauty on everything outside, under

the clear evening sun, that its brilliancy half rebuked her.

The very shadows seemed bright, so bright were the lines of

light between them, where the tall pointed cedars were casting

their mantle on the grass. Elizabeth stood by the open window,

wondering. She looked back to the time when she had been there

before, when she was as bright, though not as pure, as all

things else; and now -- father and friend were away from her,

and she was alone. Yet still the sun shone -- might it not

again some time for her? Poor child, as she stood there the

tears dropped fast, at that meeting of hope and sorrow; hope

as intangible as the light, sorrow a thicker mantle than that

of the cedar trees. And now the sunlight seemed to say '_Ask_' --

and the green glittering earth responded -- "and ye shall

receive." Elizabeth looked; -- she heard them say it

constantly. She did not question the one word or the other. It

seemed very sweet to her, the thought of doing her duty; and

yet, -- the tears which had stayed, ran fast again when she

thought of Mrs. Nettley's going away and how utterly alone she

should be.

She had sat down and was resting her arm on the window-sill;

and Miss Haye's face was in a state of humbled and saddened

gravity which no one ever saw it in before these days. As she

sat there, Karen's voice reached her from the back of the

house somewhere; and it suddenly occurred to Elizabeth that it

might be as well for her to acquaint herself somewhat better

with one of her few remaining inmates, since their number was

to be so lessened. She dried her eyes, and went out with quick

step through the kitchen till she neared the door of the

little back porch where Karen was at work. There she paused.

The old woman was singing one of her Methodist songs, in a

voice that had once very likely been sweet and strong. It was

trembling and cracked now. Yet none of the fire and spirit of

old was wanting; as was shewn, not indeed by the power of the

notes, but by the loving flow or cadence the singer gave them.

Elizabeth lingered just within the door to listen. The melody

was as wild and sweet as suited the words. The first of the

song she had lost; it went on --

"Till Jesus shall come,

"Protect and defend me until I'm called home;

"Though worms my poor body may claim as their prey,

"'Twill outshine, when rising, the sun at noon-day.

"The sun shall be darkened, the moon turned to blood,

"The mountains all melt at the presence of God;

"Red lightnings may flash, and loud thunders may roar,

"All this cannot daunt me on Canaan's blest shore.

"A glimpse of bright glory surprises my soul,

"I sink in sweet visions to view the bright goal;

"My soul, while I'm singing, is leaping to go,

"This moment for heaven I'd leave all below.

"Farewell, my dear brethren -- my Lord bids me come;

"Farewell, my dear sisters --I'm now going home;

"Bright angels are whispering so sweet in my ear, --

"Away to my Saviour my spirit they'll bear.

"I am going -- I'm going -- but what do I see! --"

She was interrupted.

"Do you mean all that, Karen?" said Elizabeth, stepping

without the door.

Karen stopped her song and looked round.

"Do you mean all that you are singing, Karen?"

"What I'm singing? --"

"Yes. I've been listening to you. -- Do you feel and mean all

those words of your hymn?"

"I don't say no words I don't mean," said Karen, going on with

her work; -- "anyhow, I don't mean to."

"But those words you have been singing -- do you mean that you

feel them all?"

Karen stood up and faced her as she answered,

"Yes!"

"Do you mean that you would rather die than live?"

"If 'twas the Lord's will, I would," said Karen, without

moving her face.

"Why?"

Karen looked at her still, but her face unbent in a little bit

of a smile.

"You ain't one of the Lord's people, be you, young lady?"

"I don't know --" said Elizabeth, blushing and hesitating, -- "I

mean to be."

"Do you mean to be one of 'em?" said Karen.

"I wish to be -- yes, I mean to be, -- if I can."

The old woman dried her hand which had been busy in water, and

coming up took one of Elizabeth's, -- looked at its delicate

tints in her own wrinkled and black fingers, and then lifting

a moistened eye to Elizabeth's face, she answered

expressively,

"_Then_ you'll know."

"But I want to know something about it now," said the young

lady as Karen went back to her work. "Tell me. How can you

wish to 'leave all for heaven,' as you were singing a moment

ago?"

"I'd ha' done that plenty o' years ago," said Karen. "I'd got

enough of this world by that time."

"Is that the reason?"

"What reason?" said Karen.

"Is that the reason you would like to go to heaven?"

"It's the reason why I'm willing to leave the earth," said

Karen. "It hain't nothin' to do with heaven."

"Anybody might be willing to go to heaven at that rate," said

Elizabeth.

"That ain't all, young lady," said Karen, working away while

she spoke. "I'm not only willin' to go -- I'm willin' to _be_

there when I get there -- and I'm ready too, thank the Lord!"

"How can one be 'ready' for it, Karen? -- It seems such a

change."

"It'll be a good change," said Karen. "Mis' Landholm thinks it

is."

Elizabeth stood silent, the tears swelling; she got little

light from Karen.

"You wa'n't one of the Lord's people when you come? -- be you?

--" said Karen suddenly, looking round at her.

"I hardly know whether I am one now, Karen, -- but I mean to

try."

"Tryin' ain't no use," said Karen. "If you want to be one of

the Lord's people, you've only to knock, and it shall be

opened to you."

"Did you never know that fail?"

"I never tried it but once -- it didn't fail me then," said the

old woman. "The Lord keeps his promises. -- I tried it a good

while -- it don't do to stop knockin'."

"But I must -- one must try to do something -- I must try to do

my duty," said Elizabeth.

"Surely!" said Karen, facing round upon her again, "but you

can't help that. Do you s'pose you can love Jesus Christ, and

_not_ love to please him? 'Tain't in natur' -- you can't help

it."

"But suppose I don't love him, Karen?" said Elizabeth, her

voice choking as she said it. "I don't know him yet -- I don't

know him enough to love him."

There was a little pause; and then without looking at her,

Karen said in her trembling voice, a little more trembling

than it was,

"I don't know, Miss 'Lizabeth -- 'To them gave he power to

become the sons of God, even to them that believe on his

name!' -- I heard a man preach that once."

The tears rushed in full measure to Elizabeth's eyes. She

stood, not heeding Karen nor anything else, and the thick veil

of tears hiding everything from her sight. It was a moment of

strong joy; for she knew she believed in him! She was, or she

would be, one of 'his people.' Her strong pillar of assurance

she clasped again, and leaned her heart upon, with unspeakable

rest.

She stood, till the water had cleared itself from her eyes;

and then she was turning into the house, but turned back

again, and went close up to the old black woman.

"Thank you, Karen," said she. "You have given me comfort."

"You hain't got it all," said Karen without looking at her.

"What do you mean?"

"Did you ever read a book called the 'Pilgrim's Progress,'

young lady?"

"No."

"I ain't much like the people there," said Karen, "but they

was always glad to hear of one more that was going to be a

pilgrim; and clapped their hands, they did."

"Did _you_ ever read it, Karen?"

"I hearn Mis' Landholm read it -- and the Governor."

Elizabeth turned away, and she had not half crossed the

kitchen when she heard Karen strike up, in a sweet refrain,

"I'll march to Canaan's land,

"I'll land on Canaan's shore," --

Then something stopped the song, and Elizabeth came back to

her room. She sat down by the window. The light was changed.

There seemed a strange clear brightness on all things without

that they had not a little while ago, and that they never had

before. And her bread was sweet to her that night.

CHAPTER XIV.

Heaven doth with us as we with torches do;

Not light them for themselves: for if our virtues

Did not go forth of us, 'twere all alike

As if we had them not.

SHAKSPEARE.

Much against Mrs. Nettley's will, she was despatched on her

journey homewards within a few days after. She begged to be

allowed to stay yet a week or two, or three; but Elizabeth was

unmoveable. "It would make no difference," she said, "or at

least I would rather you should go. You ought to be there --

and I may as well learn at once to get used to it."

"But it will be very bad for you, Miss Elizabeth."

"I think it is right, Mrs. Nettley."

So Mrs. Nettley went; and how their young lady passed her days

and bore the quietude and the sorrow of them, the rest of the

household marvelled together.

"She'd die, if there was dyin' stuff in her," said Clam; "but

there ain't."

"What for should she die?" said Karen.

"I'm as near dead as I can be, myself," was Clam's conclusive

reply.

"What ails you, girl?"

"I can't catch my breath good among all these mountains," said

Clam. "I guess the hills spiles the air hereabouts."

"Your young lady don't think so."

"No," said Clam, -- "she looks at the mountains as if she'd

swaller them whole -- them and her Bible; -- only she looks into

that as if it would swaller her."

"Poor bird! she's beat down; -- its too lonesome up here for

her!" said Karen more tenderly than her wont was.

"That ain't no sign she'll go," said Clam. "She's as notional

as the Governor himself, when she takes a notion; only there's

some sense in his, and you never know where the sense of hers

is till it comes out."

"The house is so still, it's pitiful to hear it," said Karen.

"I never minded it when there wa'n't nobody in it -- I knowed

the old family was all gone -- but now I hear it, seems to me,

the whole day long. You can't hear a foot, when you ain't in

there."

"That'll last awhile, maybe," said Clam; "and then you'll have

a row. 'Tain't in her to keep still more'n a certain length o'

time; and when she comes out, there'll be a firing up, I tell

ye."

"The Lord 'll keep his own," said Karen rising from the table.

Which sentence Clam made nothing of.

Spite of her anticipations, the days, and the weeks, sped on

smoothly and noiselessly. Indeed _more_ quietness, and not less,

seemed to be the order of them. Probably too much for

Elizabeth's good, if such a state of mere mind-life had been

of long lasting. It would not long have been healthy. The stir

of passion, at first, was fresh enough to keep her thoughts

fresh; but as time went on there were fewer tears and a more

settled borne-down look of sorrow. Even her Bible, constantly

studied, -- even prayer, constantly made over it, did not

hinder this. Her active nature was in an unnatural state; it

could not be well so. And it sometimes burst the bounds she

had set to it, and indulged in a passionate wrestling with the

image of joys lost and longed for. Meanwhile, the hot days of

August were passed, the first heats of September were slowly

gone; and days and nights began to cool off in earnest towards

the frosty weather.

"If there ain't some way found to keep Miss Haye's eyes from

cryin', she won't have 'em to do anything else with. And

she'll want 'em, some day."

Clam, like Elizabeth of old, having nobody else to speak to,

was sometimes driven to speak to the nearest at hand.

"Is she cryin', now?" said Karen.

"I don' know what _you_'d call it," said Clam. "'Tain't much

like other folks' cryin'."

"Well there's a letter Anderese fetched -- you'd better take it

to her as soon as it'll do. Maybe it'll do her good."

"Where from?" said Clam seizing it.

"Anderese fetched it from Mountain Spring."

"Now I wish 'twas -- but it ain't! --" said Clam. "I'll take it

to her anyhow."

Elizabeth knew that _it wasn't_, as soon as she took it. The

letter was from the gentleman who had been her father's lawyer

in the city.

Mannahatta, Sept. 26, 1817.

"Dear madam,

"Upon arrangement of Mr. Haye's affairs, I regret to say, we

find it will take nearly all his effects to meet the standing

liabilities and cover the failure of two or three large

operations in which Mr. Haye had ventured more upon uncertain

contingencies than was his general habit in business matters.

So little indeed will be left, at the best issue we can hope

for, that Mrs. Haye's interest, whose whole property, I

suppose you are aware, was involved, I grieve to say will

amount to little or nothing. It were greatly to be wished that

some settlement had in time been made for her benefit; but

nothing of the kind was done, nor I suppose in the

circumstances latterly was possible. The will makes ample

provision, but I am deeply pained to say, is, as matters

stand, but a nullity. I enclose a copy.

"I have thought it right to advertise you of these painful

tidings, and am,

"Dear madam, with great respect,

"Your obedient servant,

"Dustus O. Brick."

Elizabeth had read this letter, and pondered over it by turns

half the day, when a startling thought for the first time

flashed into her mind. Rose's desolate condition! Less

desolate than her own indeed, in so far that Rose had less

strength to feel; but more desolate by far, because being as

friendless she was much more helpless than herself. "What will

she do, without money and friends? -- for she never had any

near and dear friends but father and me. Where can she live? -- "

Elizabeth jumped up and ran into the house to get away from

the inference. But when she had sat down in her chair the

inference stood before her.

"Bring her here! -- I cannot. I cannot. It would ruin my life."

Then, clear and fair, stood the words she had been reading --

'Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you --'

"But there is no bed-room for her but this -- or else there

will be no sitting-room for either of us; -- and then we must

eat in the kitchen! --"

"_She_ has neither house, nor home, nor friend, nor money. What

wouldst thou, in her place? --"

Elizabeth put her face in her hands and almost groaned. She

took it up and looked out, but in all bright nature she could

find nothing which did not side against her. She got up and

walked the room; then she sat down and began to consider what

arrangements would be necessary, and what would be possible.

Then confessed to herself that it would not be _all_ bad to have

somebody to break her solitude, even anybody; then got over

another qualm of repugnance, and drew the table near her and

opened her desk.

Shahweetah, Sept. 26, 1817.

"Dear Rose,

"I am all alone, like you. Will you come here and let us do

the best we can together? I am at a place you don't like, but

I shall not stay here all the time, and I think you can bear

it with me for a while. I shall have things arranged so as to

make you as comfortable as you can be in such straitened

quarters, and expect you will come as soon as you can get a

good opportunity. Whether you come by boat or not, part of the

way, you will have to take the stage-coach from Pimpernel

here; and you must stop at the little village of Mountain

Spring, opposite Wut-a-qut-o. From there you can get here by

wagon or boat. I can't send for you, for I have neither one

nor the other.

"Yours truly, dear Rose,

"Elizabeth Haye."

With the letter in her hand, Elizabeth went forth to the

kitchen.

"Karen, is there any sort of a cabinet-maker at Mountain

Spring?"

"What's that?" said Karen.

"Is there any sort of a cabinet-maker at the village? -- a

cabinet-maker, -- somebody that makes tables and bedsteads, and

that sort of thing?"

"A furnitur' shop?" said Karen.

"Yes -- something of that kind. Is there such a thing in

Mountain Spring?"

Karen shook her head.

"They don't make nothin' at Mountain Spring."

"Where do the people get their tables and chairs? where do

they go for them?"

"They go 'most any place," said Karen; -- "sometimes they goes

to Pimpernel, -- and maybe to Starlings, or to Deerford; they

don't go much nowheres."

"Can I get such things at Pimpernel?"

"If you was there, you could, I s'pose," said Karen.

"Could Anderese get a horse and cart at the village, to go for

me?"

"I guess he can find a wagon round somewheres," said Karen.

"You couldn't go in a cart handy."

"I! -- no, but I want to send him, to fetch home a load of

things."

"How'll he know what to get?"

"I will tell him. Couldn't he do it?"

"If he knowed what was wanted, he could," said Karen. "Me and

him 'll go, Miss Lizzie, and we'll do it."

"You, Karen! I don't want to send you."

"Guess I'll do the best," said the old woman. "Anderese

mightn't know what to fetch. What you want, Miss Lizzie?"

Elizabeth thought a moment whether she should ask Winthrop to

send up the things for her; but she could not bear to do it.

"I want a bedstead, Karen, in the first place."

"What sort'll a one?"

"The best you can find."

"That'll be what'll spend the most money," said Karen

musingly.

"I don't care about that, but the nicest sort you can meet

with. And a bureau --"

"What's that?" said Karen. "I dun' know what that means."

"To hold clothes -- with drawers -- like that in my room."

"A cupboard?" said Karen; -- "some sort like that?"

"No, no; I'll shew you what I mean, in my room; it is called a

bureau. And a washstand -- a large one, if you can find it. And

a rocking-chair -- the handsomest one that can be had."

"I know them two," said Karen. "That'll be a load, Miss

Lizzie. I don't b'lieve the wagon 'll hold no more."

"The first fine day, Karen, I want you to go."

"The days is all fine, I speck, hereabouts," said Karen.

"We'll start as quick as Anderese gets a wagon."

"Who's comin', Miss 'Lizabeth?" said Clam as she met her young

lady coming out of the kitchen.

"I don't know -- possibly Mrs. Haye. I wish all things to be in

readiness for her."

"Where'll she sleep, Miss 'Lizabeth," said Clam with opening

eyes.

"Here."

"Will she have this for her bedroom? -- And what'll you do,

Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"If she comes, we will eat in the kitchen." And with the

thought the young lady stepped back.

"I forgot -- Karen, do you think the wagon will hold no more?

Anderese must get a large one. I want a few neat chairs --

plain ones -- cane-bottomed, or rush-bottomed will do; I want

them for this room; for if this lady comes we shall have to

take this for our eating-room. I don't want a table; we can

make this do; -- or we can take the one I use now; but we want

the chairs."

"Well, Miss Lizzie, you'll have to have 'em -- we'll manage to

pile 'em on someways."

And Miss Haye withdrew.

"Ain't this a start now?" said Clam after she had rubbed her

knives in silence for several minutes. "Didn't I tell you so?"

"Tell what?" said Karen.

"Why! that Miss 'Lizabeth couldn't keep quiet more'n long

enough to get her spunk up. What in the name of variety is she

at work at now!"

"What's the matter with you?" grumbled Karen.

"Why I tell you," said Clam facing round, "them two love each

other like pison!"

"That's a queer way to love," said Karen.

"They hate each other then -- do you understand me? they hate

so, one wouldn't thaw a piece of ice off the other's head if

it was freezin' her!"

"Maybe 'tain't jus' so," said Karen.

"What do you know about it!" said Clam contemptuously.

"What do you, perhaps?" suggested Karen.

"I know _my_ young lady," said Clam rubbing her knives, "and I

know t'other one. There ain't but one person in _this_ world

that can make Miss 'Lizabeth keep her fire down -- but she does

have an idee of mindin' him."

"Who's that?" said Karen.

"Somebody you don't know, I guess," said Clam.

"If 'twas all true, she wouldn't want her here," said Karen.

"It's all true," said Clam, -- "'cept the last. _You_ don't know

nothin', Karen. We'll see what a time there'll be when she

comes. Eat in here! --"

"She's eat in here afore now -- and I guess she can again,"

said old Karen, in a tone of voice which spoke her by no means

so discomposed as Clam's words would seem to justify.

Perhaps Elizabeth herself had a thought or two on the close

quarters which would be the infallible result of Mrs. Haye's

seizure of the old 'keeping-room.'

The twenty-seventh, spite of Karen's understanding of the

weather, was a rainy day. The twenty-eighth, Karen and

Anderese went to Pimpernel on their furniture hunting, and

came back at night with the articles, selected somewhat in

accordance with a limited experience of the usual contents of

a cabinet-maker's warehouse. The very next day, Elizabeth set

Anderese to foisting out and putting together her little old

boat, the Merry-go-round. Putting together, literally; she was

dropping to pieces from the effects of years and confinement.

Anderese was hardly equal to the business; Elizabeth sent for

better help from Mountain Spring, and watched rather eagerly

the restoring of her favourite to strength and beauty. Watched

and pressed the work, as if she was in a hurry. But after

tightening and caulking, the boat must be repainted. Elizabeth

watched the doing of that; and bargained for a pair of light

oars with her friend the workman. He was an old, respectable-

looking man, of no particular calling, that appeared.

"Where was this here boat built?" he inquired one day as he

was at work and Elizabeth looking on.

"It was built in Mannahatta."

"A good while ago, likely?"

"Yes, it was."

"Did this here belong to old Squire Landholm?"

"No."

"'Twa'n't fetched here lately, I guess, was it?"

"No -- it has lain here a long time."

"Who _did_ it belong to, then?"

"It belonged to me."

"Is it your'n now?" said the man looking up at her.

"No," said Elizabeth colouring, -- "it is not; but it belongs

to a friend of mine."

"Was you ever in these parts before?"

"Some time ago."

"Then you knew the old family, likely?"

"Yes, I did."

"There was fine stuff in them Landholms," said the old man,

perhaps supplied with the figure by the timber he was nailing,

-- "real what I call good stuff -- parents and children. There

was a great deal of good in all of 'em; only the boys took

notions they wouldn't be nothin' but ministers or lawyers or

some sort o' people that wears black coats and don't have to

roll up their trowsers for nothin'. They were clever lads,

too. I don't mean to say nothin' agin 'em."

"Do you know how they're gettin' on?" he asked after a pause

on his part and on Elizabeth's.

"I believe Asahel is with his father, -- gone West."

"Ay, ay; but I mean the others -- them two that went to

College. I ha'n't seen Rufus for a great spell -- I went down

and fetched up Winthrop when his mother died."

"Will you have paint enough to finish that gunwale?"

"Guess so," said the old man looking into his paint-pot.

"There's more oil in the bottle. What be them two doing now?

Winthrop's a lawyer, ain't he?"

"Yes."

"Well, he's made a smart one, ha'n't he? -- ain't he about as

smart as any one they've got in Mannahatta?"

"I'm not a judge," said Elizabeth, who could not quite keep

her countenance. "I dare say he is."

"He was my favourite, always, Winthrop was, -- the Governor, as

they called him. Well -- I'd vote for him if he was sot up for

that office -- or any other office -- if they'd do it while I'm

above ground. Where is he now? -- in Mannahatta?"

"Yes."

"Where's t'other one -- the oldest -- Rufus -- where's he?"

"I don't know where he is. How soon will this do to be put in

the water, Mr. Underhill?"

"Well -- I guess it'll want somethin' of a dryin' fust. You can

get along without it till next week, can't you?"

"Next week! and this is Tuesday! --"

"Yes -- will you want it afore that? It hadn't ought to be put

in the water one day afore Monday -- if you want it to look

handsome -- or to wear worth speakin' of."

Miss Haye was silent, and the old man's brush made long sweeps

back and forward over the shining gunwale.

"You see," Mr. Underhill went on, "it'll be all of night afore

I get the bottom of this here done. -- What's Rufus doin'? is

he got to be a minister yet?"

"No."

"Another lawyer?"

"No."

"What is he then?"

"I don't know -- I believe he was an engineer."

"An engineer?" said the old man standing up and looking at

her. "Do you mean he's one o' them fellers that sees to the

ingines on the boats? -- _that_ ain't much gettin' up in the

world. I see one o' them once -- I went to Mannahatta in the

boat, just to see what 'twas -- is Rufus one o' them smutty

fellers standing over the fires there?"

"Not at all; it's a very different business, and as

respectable as that of a clergyman or lawyer."

"There ain't anything more respectable than what his father

was," said Mr. Underhill. "But Rufus was too handsome -- he

wanted to wear shiny boots always."

Elizabeth walked off.

So it was not till the early part of October that the little

boat was painted and dried and in the water; and very nice she

looked. Painted in the old colours; Elizabeth had been

particular about that. Rose in the meantime had been heard

from. She was coming, very soon, only staying for something,

it wasn't very clearly made out what, that would however let

her go in a few days. Elizabeth threw the letter down, with

the mental conclusion that it was "just like Rose;" and

resolved that her arms should be in a good state of training

before the 'few days' were over.

"Who's goin' in this little concern?" said Mr. Underhill as he

pushed it into the water. "Looks kind o' handsome, don't it?"

"Very nice!" said Elizabeth.

"That old black feller ain't up to rowin' you anywhere, is he?

I don't believe he is."

"I'll find a way to get about in her, somehow."

"You must come over and see our folks -- over the other side.

My old mother's a great notion to see you --" said he, pulling

the boat round into place, -- "and I like she should have what

she's a fancy for."

"Thank you," said Elizabeth; with about as much heed to his

words as if a coney had requested her to take a look into his

burrow. But a few minutes after, some thought made her speak

again.

"Have you a mother living, sir?"

"Ay," he said with a little laugh, "she ain't a great deal

older than I be. She's as spry in her mind, as she was when

she was sixteen. Now -- will you get into this?"

"Not now. Whereabouts do you live?"

"Just over," he said, pointing with his thumb over his

shoulder and across the river, -- "the only house you can see,

under the mountain there -- just under Wut-a-qut-o. 'Tain't a

very sociable place and we are glad to see visiters."

He went; and Elizabeth only waited to have him out of sight,

when she took gloves and oars and planted herself in the

little 'Merry-go-round.'

"My arms won't carry me far to-day," she thought, as she

pushed away from the rocks and slowly skimmed out over the

smooth water. But how sweet to be dappling it again with her

oar-blades, -- how gracefully they rose and fell -- how

refreshing already that slight movement of her arms -- how

deliciously independent and alone she felt in her light

carriage. Even the thrill of recollection could not overcome

the instant's pleasure. Slowly and lovingly Elizabeth's oars

dipped into the water; slowly and stealthily the little boat

glided along. She presently was far enough out to see Mr.

Underhill's bit of a farmhouse, sitting brown and lone at the

foot of the hill, close by the water's edge. Elizabeth lay on

her oars and stopped and looked at it.

"Go over there! Ridiculous! Why should I? --"

"And why shouldn't I?" came in another whisper. "Do me no harm

-- give them some pleasure. It is doing as I would be done by."

"But I can't give pleasure to all the old women in the land,"

she went on with excessive disgust at the idea.

"And this is only _one_ old woman," went on the other quiet

whisper, -- "and kindness is kindness, especially to the old

and lonesome. --"

It was very disagreeable to think of; Elizabeth rebelled at it

strongly; but she could not get rid of the idea that Winthrop

in her place would go, and would make himself exceedingly

acceptable; she knew he would; and in the light of that idea,

more than of any other argument that could be brought to bear,

Elizabeth's conscience troubled her. She lay still on her oars

now and then to think about it; she could not go on and get

rid of the matter. She pondered Winthrop's fancied doing in

the circumstances; she knew how he would comport himself among

these poor people; she felt it; and then it suddenly flashed

across her mind, "Even Christ pleased not himself;" -- and she

knew then why Winthrop did not. Elizabeth's head drooped for a

minute. "I'll go," -- she said to herself.

Her head was raised again then, and with a good will the oars

made the little boat go over the water. She was elated to find

her arms so strong, stronger now than they had been five

minutes ago; and she took her way down towards the bottom of

the bay, where once she had gone huckleberrying, and where a

rich growth of wood covered the banks and shewed in one or two

of its members here and there already a touch of frost. Here

and there an orange or reddish branch of maple leaves -- a

yellow-headed butternut, partly bare -- a ruddying dogwood or

dogwood's family connection, -- a hickory shewing suspicions of

tawny among its green. A fresh and rich wall-side of beauty

the woody bank was. Elizabeth pulled slowly along, coasting

the green wilderness, exulting in her freedom and escape from

all possible forms of home annoyance and intrusion; but that

exulting, only a very sad break in a train of weary and

painful thoughts and remembrances. It was the only break to

them; for just then sorrowful things had got the upper hand;

and even the Bible promises to which she had clung, and the

faith that laid hold of them, and the hopes that grew out of

them, could not make her be other than downcast and

desponding. Even a Christian life, all alone in the world,

with nobody and for nobody, seemed desolate and uncheering.

Winthrop Landholm led such a life, and was not desolate, nor

uncheered. -- "But he is very different from me; he has been

long a traveller on the road where my unsteady feet have but

just set themselves; he is a man and I am a woman!" -- And once

Elizabeth even laid down her oars, and her head upon the hands

that had held them, to shed the tears that would have their

own peculiar way of comfort and relief. The bay, and the boat,

and the woody shore, and the light, and the time of year, all

had too much to say about her causes of sorrow. But tears

wrought their own relief; and again able to bear the burden of

life, Elizabeth pulled slowly and quietly homewards.

Looking behind her as she neared the rocks, to make sure that

she was approaching them in a right direction, she was

startled to see a man's figure standing there. Startled,

because it was not the bent-shouldered form of Mr. Underhill,

nor the slouching habit of Anderese; but tall, stately and

well put on. It was too far to see the face; and in her one

startled look Elizabeth did not distinctly recognize anything.

Her heart gave a pang of a leap at the possibility of its

being Winthrop; but she could not tell whether it were he or

no; she could not be sure that it was, yet who else should

come there with that habit of a gentleman? Could Mr. Brick? --

No, he had never such an air, oven at a distance. It was not

Mr. Brick. Neither was it Mr. Herder; Mr. Herder was too

short. Every nerve now trembled, and her arms pulled nervously

and weakly her boat to the shore. When might she look again?

She did not till she must; then her look went first to the

rocks, with a vivid impression of that dark figure standing

above them, seen and not seen -- she guided her boat in

carefully -- then just grazing the rocks she looked up. The

pang and the start came again, for though not Winthrop it was

Winthrop's brother. It was Rufus.

The nervousness and the flutter quieted themselves, almost;

but probably Elizabeth could not have told then by the impulse

of what feeling or feelings it was, that she coolly looked

down again and gave her attention so steadily and minutely to

the careful bestowment of her skiff, before she would set foot

on the rocks and give her hand and eye to the person who had

been waiting to claim them. By what impulse also she left it

to him entirely to say what he was there for, and gave him no

help whatever in her capacity of hostess.

"You are surprised to see me," said Rufus after he had shaken

the lady's hand and helped her on shore.

"Rather. I could not imagine at first who it might be."

"I am glad to find you looking so well," said the gentleman

gravely. "Very well indeed."

"It is the flush of exercise," said Elizabeth. "I was not

looking well, a little while ago; and shall not be, in a

little time to come."

"Rowing is good for you," said Rufus.

"It is pleasant," said Elizabeth. "I do it for the

pleasantness, not for the goodness."

"Rather severe exercise, isn't it?"

"Not at all!" said Elizabeth a little scornfully. "I am not

strong-armed just now -- but it is nothing to move a boat like

that."

"Some ladies would not think so."

They had been slowly moving up the path towards the house. As

they reached the level of the grassy garden ground, where the

path took a turn, Rufus stopped and faced about upon the

river. The fair October evening air and light were there, over

the water and over the land.

"It is beautiful!" he said somewhat abstractedly.

"You are not so fond of it as your brother, Mr. Landholm,"

said Elizabeth.

"What makes you think so?"

There was quick annoyance in his tone, but Miss Haye was not

careful.

"Am I wrong? Are you as fond of it?"

"I don't know," said Rufus. "His life has been as steadily

given to his pursuits as mine has to mine."

"Perhaps more. But what then? I always thought you loved the

city."

"Yes," Rufus said thoughtfully, -- "I did; -- but I love this

too. It would be a very cold head and heart that did not."

Elizabeth made no reply; and the two enjoyed it in silence for

a minute or two longer.

"For what do you suppose I have intruded upon you at this

time, Miss Haye?"

"For some particular purpose -- what, I don't know. I have been

trying to think."

"I did not venture to presume upon making an ordinary call of

civility."

What _less_ are you going to do? -- thought Elizabeth, looking at

him with her eyes a little opened.

"I have been -- for a few months past -- constantly engaged in

business at the South; and it is but a chance which permitted

me to come here lately -- I mean, to Mannahatta -- on a visit to

my brother. I am not willing to let slip any such

opportunity."

"I should think you would not," said Elizabeth, wondering.

"There I heard of you. -- Shall we walk down again?"

"If you please. I don't care whether up or down."

"I could not go home without turning a little out of my way to

pay this visit to you. I hope I shall be forgiven."

"I don't know what I have to forgive, yet," said Elizabeth.

He was silent, and bit his lip nervously.

"Will you permit me to say -- that I look back with great

pleasure to former times passed in your society -- in

Mannahatta; -- that in those days I once ventured to entertain

a thought which I abandoned as hopeless, -- I had no right to

hope, -- but that since I have heard of the misfortunes which

have befallen you, it has come back to me again with a power I

have not had the strength to resist -- along with my sympathy

for those misfortunes. Dear Miss Haye, I hope for your

forgiveness and noble interpretation, when I say that I have

dared to confess this to you from the impulse of the very

circumstances which make it seem most daring."

"The misfortunes you allude to, are but one," said Elizabeth.

"One -- yes, -- but not one in the consequences it involved."

"At that rate of reckoning," said Elizabeth, "there would be

to such a thing as _one_ misfortune in the world."

"I was not thinking of one," said Rufus quietly. "The actual

loss you have suffered is one shared by many -- pardon me, it

does not always imply equal deprivation, nor the same need of

a strong and helping friendly hand."

Elizabeth answered with as much quietness, --

"It is probably good for me that I have care on my hands -- it

would be a weak wish, however natural, to wish that I could

throw off on some agent the charge of my affairs."

"The charge I should better like," said Rufus looking at her,

-- "the only charge I should care for, -- would be the charge of

their mistress."

An involuntary quick movement of Elizabeth put several feet

between them; then after half a minute, with a flushed face

and somewhat excited breathing, she said, not knowing

precisely what she said,

"I would rather give you the charge of my property, sir. The

other is, you don't very well know what."

"My brother would be the better person to perform the first

duty, probably," Rufus returned, with a little of his old-

fashioned haughtiness of style.

Elizabeth's lips parted and her eye flashed, but as she was

not looking at him, it only flashed into the water. Both stood

proudly silent and still. Elizabeth was the first to speak,

and her tone was gentle, whatever the words might be.

"You cannot have your wish in this matter, Mr. Landholm, and

it would be no blessing to you if you could. I trust it will

be no great grief to you that you cannot."

"My grief is my own," said Rufus with a mixture of

expressions. "How should that be no blessing to me, which it

is the greatest desire of my life to obtain, Miss Haye?"

"I don't think it is," said Elizabeth. "At least it will not

be. You will find that it is not. It is not the desire of

mine, Mr. Landholm."

There was silence again, a mortified silence on one part, --

for a little space.

"You will do justice to my motives?" he said. "I have a right

to ask that, for I deserve so much of you. If my suit had been

an ungenerous one, it might better have been pressed years ago

than now."

"Why was it not?" said Elizabeth.

It was the turn of Rufus's eyes to flash, and his lips and

teeth saluted each other vexedly.

"It would probably have been as unavailing then as now," he

replied. "I bid you good evening, Miss Haye. I ask nothing

from you. I beg pardon for my unfortunate and inopportune

intrusion just now. I shall annoy you no more."

Elizabeth returned his parting bow, and then stood quite still

where he left her while he walked up the path they had just

come down. She did not move, except her head, till he had

passed out of sight and was quite gone; then she seated

herself on one of the rocks near which her boat was moored,

and clasping her hands round her knees, looked down into the

water. What to find there? -- the grounds of the disturbance in

which her whole nature was working? it lay deeper than that.

It wrought and wrought, whatever it was -- the colour flushed

and the lips moved tremulously, -- her brow knit, -- till at

last the hands came to her eyes and her face sunk down, and

passionate tears, passionate sobbing, told what Elizabeth

could tell in no other way. Tears proud and humble -- rebelling

and submitting.

"It is good for me, I suppose," she said as she at last rose

to her feet, fearing that her handmaid might come to seek her,

-- "my proud heart needed to be brought down in some such way --

needed to be mortified even to this. Even to this last point

of humiliation. To have my desire come and mock me so and as

it were shake my wish in my face! But how could _he_ think of

me? -- he could not -- he is too good -- and I am a poor thing,

that may be made good, I suppose --"

Tears flowed again, hot and unbidden; for she was walking up

to the house and did not want anybody to see them. And in

truth before she was near the house Clam came out and met her

half way down the path.

"Miss 'Lizabeth, -- I don' know as you want to see nobody --"

"Who is there for me to see?"

"Well -- there's an arrival -- I s'pect we'll have to have

supper in the kitchen to-night."

CHAPTER XV.

With weary steps I loiter on,

Though always under altered skies;

The purple from the distance dies,

My prospect and horizon gone.

TENNYSON.

Whether or not Elizabeth wanted to see anybody she did not say

-- except to herself. She walked into the house, fortified with

all the muniments of her spirit for the meeting. It was a

quiet one on the whole. Rose cried a good deal, but Elizabeth

bore it without any giving way; saving once or twice a slight

twinkling of lip and eye, instantly commanded back. Rose had

all the demonstration to herself, of whatever kind. Elizabeth

sat still, silent and pale; and when she could get free went

and ordered supper.

The supper was in Mrs. Landholm's old kitchen; they two alone

at the table. Perhaps Elizabeth thought of the old time,

perhaps her thoughts had enough to do with the present; she

was silent, grave and stern, not wanting in any kind care

nevertheless. Rose took tears and bread and butter by turns;

and then sat with her face in her handkerchief all the

evening. It seemed a very, very long evening to her hostess,

whose face bespoke her more tired, weary, and grave, with

every succeeding half hour. Why was this companion, whose

company of all others she least loved, to be yet her sole and

only companion, of all the world? Elizabeth by turns fretted

and by turns scolded herself for being ungrateful, since she

confessed that even Rose was better for her than to be utterly

alone. Yet Rose was a blessing that greatly irritated her

composure and peace of mind. So the evening literally wore

away. But when at last Rose was kissing her hostess for good

night, between sobs she stammered, "I am very glad to be here

Lizzie, -- it seems like being at home again."

Elizabeth gave her no answer besides the answering kiss; but

her eyes filled full at that, and as soon as she reached her

own room the tears came in long and swift flow, but sweeter

and gentler and softer than they had flowed lately. And very

thankful that she had done right, very soothed and refreshed

that her right doing had promised to work good, she laid

herself down to sleep.

But her eyes had hardly closed when the click of her door-

latch made them open again. Rose's pretty night-cap was

presenting itself.

"Lizzie! -- aren't you afraid without a man in the house?"

"There _is_ a man in the house."

"Is there?"

"Yes. Anderese -- Karen's brother."

"But he is old."

"He's a man."

"But aren't you ever afraid?"

"It's no use to be afraid," said Elizabeth. "I am accustomed

to it. I don't often think of it."

"I heard such queer noises," said Rose whispering. "I didn't

think of anything before, either. May I come in here?"

"It's of no use, Rose," said Elizabeth. "You would be just as

much afraid to-morrow night. There is nothing in the world to

be afraid of."

Rose slowly took her night-cap away and Elizabeth's head went

down on her pillow. But her closing eyes opened again at the

click of the latch of the other door.

"Miss 'Lizabeth! --"

"Well, Clam? --"

"Karen's all alive, and says she ain't goin' to live no

longer."

"What! --"

"Karen."

"What's the matter?"

"Maybe she's goin', as she says she is; but I think maybe she

ain't."

"Where is she?" said Elizabeth jumping up.

"In here," said Clam. "She won't die out of the kitchen."

Elizabeth threw on her dressing-gown and hurried out; thinking

by the way that she had got into a thorn forest of

difficulties, and wishing the daylight would look through.

Karen was sitting before the fire, wrapped up in shawls, in

the rocking-chair.

"What's the matter, Karen?"

Karen's reply was to break forth into a tremulous scrap of her

old song, --

"'I'm going, -- I'm going, -- I'm going, --'"

"Stop," said Elizabeth. "Don't sing. Tell me what's the

matter."

"It's nothin' else, Miss Lizzie," said the old woman. "I'm

goin' -- I think I be."

"Why do you think so? How do you feel?"

"I don't feel no ways, somehow; -- it's a kinder givin' away. I

think I'm just goin', ma'am."

"But what _ails_ you, Karen?"

"It's time," said Karen, jerking herself backwards and

forwards in her rocking-chair. "I'm seventy years and more

old. I hain't got no more work to do. I'm goin'; and I'm

ready, praise the Lord! They're most all gone; -- and the rest

is comin' after; -- it's time old Karen was there."