"But that's no sign you mayn't live longer," said Elizabeth.

"Seventy years is nothing. How do you feel sick?"

"It's all over, Miss Lizzie," said the old woman. "Its givin'

away. I'm goin' -- I know I be. The time's come."

"I will send Anderese for a doctor -- where is there one?"

Karen shivered and put her head in her hands, before she

spoke.

"There ain't none -- I don't want none -- there was Doctor Kipp

to Mountain Spring, but he ain't no' count; and he's gone

away."

"Clam, do speak to Anderese and ask him about it, and tell him

to go directly, if there is any one he can go for. -- What can

I do for you, Karen?"

"I guess nothin', Miss Lizzie. -- If the Governor was here,

he'd pray for me; but it ain't no matter -- I've been prayin'

all my life -- It's no matter if I can't pray good just right

now. The Lord knows all."

Elizabeth stood silent and still.

"Shall I -- would you like to have me read for you?" she asked

somewhat timidly.

"No," said Karen -- "not now -- I couldn't hear. Read for

yourself, Miss Lizzie. I wish the Governor was here."

What a throbbing wish to the same effect was in Elizabeth's

heart! She stood, silent, sorrowful, dismayed, watching Karen,

wondering at herself in her changed circumstances and life and

occupation; and wondering if she were only going down into the

valley of humiliation, or if she had got to the bottom. And,

almost thinking Karen to be envied if she were, as she said,

'going.'

"What's the matter?" said Rose and her night-cap at the other

door.

"Karen don't feel very well. Don't come here, Rose."

"What are you there for?"

"I want to be here. You go to bed and keep quiet -- I'll tell

you another time."

"Is she sick?"

"Yes -- I don't know -- Go in, Rose, and be quiet!"

Which Rose did. Clam came back and reported that there was no

doctor to be sent for, short of a great many miles.

Elizabeth's heart sunk fearfully. What could she and her

companions do with a dying woman? -- if she were really that.

Karen crept nearer the fire, and Clam built it up and made it

blaze. Then she stood on one side, and her young mistress on

the other.

"Go to bed, Miss 'Lizabeth," said Clam. "I'll see to her."

But Elizabeth did not move so much as an eyelid.

"I don't want nothin'," said Karen presently. "Miss Lizzie, if

you see the Governor -- tell him --"

"Tell him what?"

"Tell him to hold on, -- will you? -- the way his mother went

and the way he's a goin'. Tell him to hold on till he gets

there. Will you tell him?"

"Certainly! I will tell him anything you please."

Karen was silent for a little space, and then began again.

"Is't _your_ way?"

Elizabeth's lips moved a little, but they closed and she made

no answer.

"Mis' Landholm went that way, and Governor's goin', and I'm

goin' too.

"'I'm going, -- I'm going, -- I'm --'"

"Do you feel better, Karen?" said Elizabeth interrupting her.

"I'm goin' -- I don' know how soon axactly, Miss Lizzie -- but I

feel it. I am all givin' away. It's time. I've seen my life

all through, and I'm ready. I'm ready -- praise the Lord. I was

ready a great while ago, but it wa'n't the Lord's time and now

if he pleases, I'm ready."

"Wouldn't you feel better if you were to go to your own room

and lie down?"

Karen made no answer for some time and then only was half

understood to say that "this was the best place." Elizabeth

did not move. Clam fetched a thick coarse coverlid and

wrapping herself in it, lay down at full length on the floor.

"Go to bed, Miss 'Lizabeth, -- I'm settled. I'll see to her. I

guess she ain't goin' afore mornin'."

"You will go to sleep, Clam, and then she will have nobody to

do anything for her."

"I'll wake up once in a while, Miss 'Lizabeth, to see she

don't do nothin' to me."

Elizabeth stood another minute, thinking bitterly how

invaluable Winthrop would be, in the very place where she knew

herself so valueless. Another sharp contrast of their two

selves; and then she drew up a chair to the fire and sat down

too; determined at least to do the little she could do, give

her eyes and her presence. Clam's entreaties and

representations were of no avail. Karen made none.

They watched by her, or at least Elizabeth did, through hour

after hour. She watched alone, for Clam slept and snored most

comfortably; and Karen's poor head much of the time rested in

her hands. Whether conscious or unconscious, she was very

quiet; and her watcher trimmed the fire and mused with no

interruption. At first with much fear and trembling; for she

did not know how soon Karen's prophecy might come true; but as

the night wore on and no change was to be seen or felt, this

feeling quieted down and changed into a very sober and sad

review of all the things of her own life, in the past and in

the future. The present was but a point, she did not dwell on

it; yet in that point was the sweetest and fairest thing her

mind had in possession; her beginning of a new life and her

hold of the promise which assured her that strength should not

be wanting to live it until the end. She did look over her

several present duties and made up her mind to the self-

denying and faithful performance of them; but then her longing

came back, for a human hand to hold her and help her on the

journey's way. And her head bowed to the chair-back; and it

was a good while before she recollected again to look at the

fire or at her charge in front of it.

Karen's attitude was more easy; and Elizabeth excessively

fatigued, with pain as well as weariness, felt inclined to

steal off to bed and leave her door open, that she might

readily hear if she was wanted. But it occurred to her that

Winthrop for his own ease never would have deserted his post.

She dismissed the thought of sleep and rest; and disposed

herself to wear out the remnant of the night as she had begun

it; in attendance on what she was not sure needed her

attendance.

A longer night Elizabeth never knew, and with fear in the

first part and watching in the last part of' it, the morning

found her really haggard and ill. But Karen was no worse; and

not knowing what to think about her, but comforting herself

with the hope that at least her danger was not imminent,

Elizabeth went to bed, coveting sleep inexpressibly, for its

forgetfulness as well as its rest. But sleep was not to be had

so promptly.

"Miss 'Lizabeth! --" And there stood Clam before her opening

eyes, as fresh and as black as ever, with a clean turban in

the last state of smartness.

"What _is_ the matter?"

"Where will you have breakfast? Karen ain't goin' at all at

present. Where will you have it?"

"Nowhere."

"Will I clear her out of the kitchen?"

"No! -- let her alone. Mrs. Haye's woman may see to breakfast

in her mistress's room -- I don't want anything -- but sleep.

Let Karen have and do just what she wants."

"Won't Clam do as much!" -- said the toss of the clean turban

as its owner went out of the room. And the issue was, a very

nice little breakfast brought to Miss Haye's bed-side in the

space of half an hour. Elizabeth was waked up and looked

dubious.

"You want it," said her handmaid. "The Governor said you was

to take it."

"Is he here!" exclaimed Elizabeth, with an amount of fire in

eye and action that, as Clam declared afterwards, "had like to

have made her upset everything." But she answered demurely,

"He ain't here just yet. I guess he's comin', though."

Elizabeth's eye went down, and an eye as observant if not so

brilliant as her own, watched how the pink tinge rose and

mounted in the cheeks as she betook herself to the bread and

coffee. "Ain't she eatin' her breakfast like a good child!"

said Clam to herself. "_That_ put her down."

And with a "Now you'll sleep --" Clam carried off the breakfast

tray, and took care her mistress should have no second

disturbance from anybody else. Elizabeth only heard once or

twice in the course of the day that nothing was wanted from

her; so slept her sleep out.

It was slept out at last, and Elizabeth got up and began to

dress. Or rather, took her dressing-comb in hand and planted

herself in front of the window, and there forgot what she had

to do. It was a fine afternoon of October, late in the day. It

was very fair outside. The hills touched here and there in

their green with a frost-spot -- yellow, or tawny, or red; the

river water lying very calm; and a calm sky over-head; the air

as pure as though vapours and mists were refined away for

ever. The distant trees of the woodland shewed in round

distinct masses of foliage, through such an atmosphere; the

rocky shore edge cut sharp against the water; the nearer

cedars around the home valley seemed to tell their individual

leaves. Here and there in some one of them a Virginia

creeper's luxuriant wreaths were colouring with suspicious

tokens of crimson. Not in their full brilliancy yet, the trees

and the vine-leaves were in fair preparation; and fancy could

not imagine them more fair than they looked that afternoon.

"So bright without! -- and so dark within!" -- Elizabeth

thought. "When will it end -- or is it only beginning? Such a

flood of brightness was over me a little while ago, -- and now,

there is one burden in one room, and another in another room,

and I myself am the greatest burden of all. Because my life

has nothing to look forward to -- in this world -- and heaven is

not enough; I want something in this world. -- Yes, I do. -- Yet

Winthrop Landholm has nothing more than I have, in this

world's things, and he don't feel like me. What is the reason?

Why is his face _always_ so at rest, -- so bright -- so strong?

Ah, it must be that he is so much better than I! -- he _has_

more, not of this world's things; religion is something to him

that it is not to me; he must love his Master far better than

I do. -- Then religion might be more to me. -- It shall be -- I

will try; -- but oh! if I had never seen another Christian in

all my life, how well his single example would make me know

that religion is a strong reality. What a reward his will be!

I wonder how many besides me he will have drawn to heaven -- he

does not dream that he has ever done me any good. Yet it is

pleasant to owe so much to him -- and it's bitter! --"

"You'll tire yourself with lookin', Miss 'Lizabeth," said Clam

behind her. "Mannahatta ain't so far off as that."

Elizabeth started a little from her fixed attitude and began

to handle her dressing-comb.

"'Taint so far folks can't get here, I guess."

"Clam!" -- said her mistress facing about.

"Well, Miss Lizzie --"

"Go and take care of Karen. I don't want you."

"_She_ don't want me," said Clam. "And you've had no dinner."

"Do as I tell you. I shall not have any."

With this spur, Elizabeth was soon dressed, and then walked

into Mrs. Haye's room. Rose apparently had had leisure for

meditation and had made up her mind upon several things; but

her brow changed as her cousin came in.

"Lizzie -- Why you've been up all night, Emma says."

"That's nothing. I have been down all day."

"But what's the matter with this old woman?"

"I don't know. She don't know herself."

"But Emma said she thought she was dying?"

"So she did. I don't know whether she is right or not."

"Dying! -- is she!" said Rose with a little scream.

"I don't know. I hope not, so soon as she thinks. She is no

worse to-night."

"But what are you going to do?"

"Nothing -- more than I have done."

"But are you going to stay here?"

"Stay here, Rose! --"

"Yes -- I mean -- who's going to take care of her? And isn't she

your cook?"

A curious quick gleam of a laugh passed over Elizabeth's face;

it settled graver than before.

"Clam can cook all you and I want."

"But who's going to take care of her?"

"I have sent for help, and for a doctor."

"Haven't you sent for a doctor before! Why Lizzie!"

"I sent early this morning. The messenger had to go a number

of miles."

"And isn't there anybody about the house but Clam and Emma?"

"Anderese is here. I sent somebody else."

"What use is an old thing like that about a place?"

Elizabeth was silent. The cloud gathered on Rose's face, and

as if that it might not cast its shadow on her cousin, she

looked out of the window. Then Clam came in.

"Where'll supper be, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"Is Karen in the kitchen?"

"Oh! -- I won't have tea in there!" said Rose with one of her

old little screams.

"Let it be here, Clam."

"What'll it be, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"Anything you please."

"There's nothing in the house to be pleased with," said Clam;

"and you've had no dinner."

"Bread and butter and tea -- and boil an egg."

"That would be pleasant," said Clam, capacity and fun shining

out of every feature; -- "but Karen's hens don't lay no eggs

when she ain't round."

"Bread and butter and tea, then."

"Butter's gone," said Clam.

"Bread and cold meat, then."

"Fresh meat was all eat up days ago; and you and Mis' Haye

don't make no 'count of ham."

Elizabeth got up and went out to Anderese and despatched him

to Mountain Spring after what forage he could find. Then from

a sense of duty went back to her cousin. Rose was looking out

of the window again when she came in, and kept silence for a

little space; but silence was never Rose's forte.

"Lizzie -- what makes you live in such a place?"

"It was the pleasantest place I could find," said her cousin,

with a tone of suppressed feeling.

"It's so lonely!" said Rose.

"It suited me."

"But it isn't safe," said Rose. "What if something happened to

you, with nobody about, -- what would you do?"

"It has not been a subject of fear with me," said Elizabeth.

"I haven't thought about it."

"Who comes to see you here? anybody?"

"No. Who should come?" said Elizabeth sternly. "Whom should I

want to see?"

"Don't you want to see anybody, ever? I do. I don't like to be

in a desert so."

Elizabeth was silent, with a set of the lips that told of

thoughts at work.

"Doesn't Winthrop Landholm come here?"

"No!"

"I'm not used to it," said Rose whimpering, -- "I can't live

so. It makes me feel dreadfully."

"Whom do _you_ want to see, Rose?" said Elizabeth, with an

expression that ought to have reminded her companion whom she

was dealing with.

"I don't care who -- any one. It's dreadful to live so, and see

nothing but the leaves shaking and the river rolling and this

great empty place."

"Empty!" said Elizabeth, with again a quick glancing laugh.

"Well! -- you are yourself yet! But at any rate the leaves

don't shake much to-day."

"They did last night," said Rose. "I was so frightened I

didn't know what to do, and with no man in the house either,

good for anything -- I didn't sleep a wink till after one

o'clock."

"Was your sleep ever disturbed by anything of more importance

than the wind?"

"I don't know what you mean," said Rose in tears. "I think

you're very unkind! --"

"What would you like me to do, Rose?"

"Let's go away from here."

"Where?"

"I don't care -- to Mannahatta."

"What do you want to do in Mannahatta?"

"Why, nothing, -- what everybody does -- live like other people.

I shall die here."

"Is the memory of the best friend you ever had, so little

worth, Rose, that you are in a hurry to banish it your company

already?"

"I don't know what you mean," said Rose, with one of her old

pouts and then bursting into fresh weeping. "I don't know why

one should be miserable any more than one can help. I have

been miserable enough, I am sure. Oh Lizzie! -- I think you're

very unkind! --"

Elizabeth's face was a study; for the fire in her eyes shone

through water, and every feature was alive. But her lips only

moved to tremble.

"I won't stay here!" said Rose. "I'll go away and do

something. I don't care what I do. I dare say there's enough

left for me to live upon; and I can do without Emma. I can

live somehow, if not quite as well as you do."

"Hush, Rose, and keep a little sense along with you," said

Elizabeth.

"There _must_ be enough left for me somehow," Rose went on,

sobbing. "Nobody had any right to take my money. It was mine.

Nobody else had a right to it. It is mine. I ought to have

it."

"Rose! --"

Rose involuntarily looked up at the speaker who was standing

before her, fire flashing from eye and lip, like the relations

of Queen Gulnare in the fairy story.

"Rose! -- do not dare speak to me in that way! -- ever again! --

whatever else you do. I will leave you to get back your

senses."

With very prompt and decided action, Miss Haye sought her

rowing gloves in her own room, put them on, and went down to

the rocks where the Merry-go-round lay. She stopped not to

look at anything; she loosened the boat and pushed out into

the water. And quick and smartly the oars were pulled, till

the skiff was half way over the river towards Mr. Underhill's

house. Suddenly there they stopped. Elizabeth's eyes were bent

on the water about two yards from the stern of the boat; while

the paddles hung dripping, dripping more and more slowly, at

the sides, and the little skiff floated gently up with the

tide. But if Elizabeth's eyes were looking into nature, it was

her own; her face grew more settled and grave and then

sorrowful every minute; and at last the paddle-handles were

thrown across the boat and her arms and her head rested upon

them. And the little skiff floated gently up stream.

It had got some distance above Mr. Underhill's, when its

mistress lifted her head and looked about, with wet eyelashes,

to see where she was. Then the boat's head was turned, and

some steady pulling brought her to the gravelly beach in front

of Mr. Underhill's house. Its owner was luckily there to help

her out.

"Well, I declare that's clever of you," said he, as he grasped

the bow of the little vessel to draw it further up. "I didn't

much expect you'd come when I asked you. Why you can row, real

smart."

"I don't see how I am going to get out, Mr. Underhill."

"Step up on there, can't you -- I'll hold her, -- can you jump?"

--

"But Mr. Underhill, that's going to do no good to my boat. --"

"What aint? --"

"That gravel -- grating and grinding on it, as the tide makes."

"'Twon't do nothin' -- it'll just stay still so. Well, you go

in and speak to mother, and I'll see to her. I didn't know you

could row so smart, -- real handsome!"

"I learnt a good while ago," said Elizabeth. "I'll not be gone

long, Mr. Underhill."

Up the neglected green slope she ran, wondering at herself the

while. What new steps were these, which Miss Haye was not

taking for her own pleasure. What a strange visit was this,

which her heart shrank from more and more as she neared the

house door.

The house was tenanted by sundry younger fry of the feminine

gender, of various ages, who met Elizabeth with wonder equal

to her own, and a sort of mixed politeness and curiosity to

which her experience had no parallel. By the fireside sat the

old grandam, very old, and blind, as Elizabeth now perceived

she was. Miss Haye drew near with the most utter want of

knowledge what to do or say to such a person, -- how to give

the pleasure she had come to give. She hoped the mere fact of

her coming and presence would do it, for to anything further

she felt herself unequal. The old lady looked up curiously,

hearing the noise of entering feet and a stranger's among

them.

"Will you tell your grandmother who I am," Elizabeth asked,

with a shy ignorance how to address her, and an exceeding

reluctance to it.

"Grand'ma," said the eldest girl, "here is Miss Haye, -- the

young lady from Shahweetah -- she's here."

The old woman turned her sightless eyes towards her visiter,

got up and curtseyed.

"Don't do that," said Elizabeth, taking a seat near her. "Mr.

Underhill asked me some time ago to come and see his mother."

"I've heerd of ye," said the old woman. "'Siah was over to

your place, makin' of a boat, or mendin', or somethin', he

telled me. I'm glad to see ye. How did ye come across?"

"In a boat -- in the boat he mended for me."

"Have you got somebody to row ye over?"

"I rowed myself over."

"Why did ye? -- ain't ye afeard? I wouldn't ha' thought! 'Siah

said she was a slim handsome girl, as one would see in the

country."

"Well, I can row," said Elizabeth colouring; for she had an

instant sense that several pairs of eyes _not_ blind were

comparing the report with the reality.

"Be you the owner of Shahweetah now?"

"Yes."

"I heerd it was so. And what's become of the old family?"

"They are scattered. Mr. Landholm is gone West, with one of

his sons; the others are in different places."

"And the girl is dead, ain't she?"

"Winnie? -- yes."

Elizabeth knew that!

"The mother was gone first -- to a better place. She had a fine

lot o' children. Will was a pictur; -- the farmer, he was a

fine man too; -- but there was one -- the second boy -- Winthrop,

-- he was the flower of the flock, to my thinkin'. I ha'n't

seen him this great while. He's been here since I lost my

sight, but I thought I could see him when I heerd him speak."

There was silence. Elizabeth did not feel inclined to break

it.

"Do you know him, maybe?" the old woman said presently.

Winthrop _had_ made himself pleasant there! --

"Yes."

"Is he lookin' as well as he used to?"

"Quite as well, I believe."

"Is he gettin' along well?"

"Yes -- I believe so -- very well."

"Whatever he does 'll prosper, _I_ believe," said Mrs.

Underhill; "for the Lord knoweth the way of the righteous. Is

that a way you have any knowledge of, young lady?"

"Not much --" said Elizabeth hesitating.

"'Siah says he 'spects you're rich."

"What makes him think so?"

"He says that's what he 'spects. Does the hull Shahweetah farm

belong to you?"

"Yes."

"It's a good farm. Who's goin' to take care of it for you?"

"I don't know, yet."

"I 'spose you'll be gettin' married, one of these days, and

then there'll be some one to do it for you. Be you handsome,

particular, as 'Siah says?"

Elizabeth coloured exceedingly, and a tittering laugh,

somewhat boisterous, ran round the group of spectators and

listeners, with a murmured "Oh Grand'ma! --"

"Whisht!" -- said the old woman; -- "I'm not talkin' like you.

I'm old and blind. I can't see for myself, and I want to know.

She can tell me."

"Father telled ye already," said the eldest girl.

"I can tell better from what _she_ says," said Mrs. Underhill,

turning her face towards her visiter. "What does she say? Be

you uncommon fair and handsome? -- or not more than the

common?"

The red deepened on Elizabeth's cheek and brow, but she

answered, not without some hesitation,

"I believe -- more than the common."

A little glimpse of a smile stole over the old woman's face.

"Handsome, and rich. Well -- Be you happy too, young lady,

above the common?"

"I have learned, ma'am, that that depends upon right-doing; --

so I am not always happy."

"Have you learned that lesson?" said the old woman. "It's a

good one. Let me see your hand?"

Elizabeth drew near and gave it.

"It's a pretty hand," -- said the old woman. "It's soft -- it

hain't done much work. It feels rich and handsome. Don't you

give it to no one who will help you to forget that the

blessing of God is better than silver and gold."

"Thank you. I will not."

"Be you a servant of the Lord, young lady?"

"I hope I am, Mrs. Underhill," Elizabeth answered with some

hesitation. "Not a good one."

The old woman dropped her hand and fell back in her chair,

only saying, for Elizabeth had risen,

"Come and see me again -- I'll be pleased to see ye."

"If I do! --" thought Elizabeth as she ran down to her boat.

The free air seemed doubly free. But then came the instant

thought, -- "Winthrop Landholm would not have said that. How

far I am -- how far! -- from where he stands!" --

She walked slowly down to the water's edge.

"Mr. Underhill," she said as she prepared to spring into the

boat which he held for her, -- "I have forgotten, while I was

at the house, what I partly came for to-night. We are out of

provisions -- have you any eggs, or anything of any kind, to

spare?"

"Eggs?" -- said Mr. Underhill, holding the boat, -- "what else

would you like along of eggs?"

"Almost anything, that is not salt meat."

"Chickens? -- we've got some o' them."

"Very glad of them indeed, -- or fresh meat."

"Ha'n't got any of that just to-day," said the old farmer

shaking his head. "I'll see. The boat won't stir -- tide's

makin' yet. You'll have a pull home, I expect."

He went back to the house, and Elizabeth stood waiting, alone

with her boat.

There was refreshment and strength to be had from nature's

pure and calm face; so very pure and calm the mountains looked

down upon her and the river smiled up. The opposite hill-tops

shone in the warm clear light of the October setting sun, the

more warm and bright for the occasional red and yellow leaves

that chequered their green, and many tawny and half turned

trees that mellowed the whole mountain side. Such clear light

as shone upon them! such unearthly blue as rose above them!

such a soft and fair water face that gave back the blue! What

could eyes do but look; what could the mind do but wonder, and

be thankful; and wonder again, at the beauty, and grow bright

in the sunlight, and grow pure in that shadowless atmosphere.

The sharp cedar tops on Shahweetah were so many illuminated

points, and further down the river the sunlight caught just

the deep bend of the water in the bay; the rest was under

shadow of the western hills. All was under a still and hush, --

nothing sounded or moved but here and there a cricket; the

tide was near flood and crept up noiselessly; the wind blew

somewhere else, but not in October. Softly the sun went down

and the shadows stole up.

Elizabeth stood with her hands pressed upon her breast,

drinking in all the sights and sounds, and many of their soft

whisperings that only the spirit catches; when her ear was

caught by very dissimilar and discordant notes behind her, --

the screaming of discomposed chickens and the grating of Mr.

Underhill's boots on the gravel.

"Here's chickens for ye," said the farmer, who held the legs

of two pair in his single hand, the heads of the same

depending and screaming in company, -- "and here's three dozen

of fresh eggs -- if you want more you can send for 'em. Will

you take these along in the Merry-go-round?"

"If you please -- there is no other way," said Elizabeth. "Wait

-- let me get in first, Mr. Underhill -- Are they tied so they

can't get loose?"

"La! yes," said the old man putting them into the bow of the

boat, -- "they can't do nothin'! I'll engage they won't hurt

ye. Do you good, if you eat 'em right. Good bye! -- it's pretty

nigh slack water, I guess -- you'll go home easy. Come again! --

and you shall have some more fowls to take home with ye!" --

Elizabeth bowed her acknowledgments, and pulled away towards

home, over the bright water, wondering again very much at

herself and her chickens. The dark barrier of the western

hills rose up now before her, darkening and growing more

distant -- as she went all the way over the river home.

Elizabeth admired them and admired at herself by turns.

Near the landing, however, the boat paused again, and one oar

splashed discontentedly in the water and then lay still, while

the face of its owner betrayed a struggle of some sort going

on. The displeased brow, and the firm-set lips, said

respectively, 'I would not,' and 'I must;' and it was five

minutes good before the brow cleared up and the lips unbent to

their usual full free outline; and the oars were in play once

more, and the Merry-go-round brought in and made fast.

"Well, Miss 'Lizabeth!" said Clam who met her at the door, --

"where _have_ you been! Here's Mis' Haye been cryin' and the

tea-kettle singing an hour and a half, if it isn't two hours."

"Has Anderese come home?"

"Yes, and supper's ready, and 'taint bad, for Mis' Landholm

learned me how to do fresh mutton and cream; and it's all

ready. You look as if you wanted it, Miss 'Lizabeth. My! --"

"There are some eggs and chickens down in the boat, Clam"

"In what boat, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"In mine -- down at the rocks."

"Who fetched 'em?"

"I did, from Mr. Underhill's. You may bring them up to the

house."

Leaving her handmaid in an excess of astonishment unusual with

her, Elizabeth walked into her guest's room, where the table

was laid. Rose sat yet by the window, her head in her

handkerchief on the window-sill. Elizabeth went up to her.

"Rose --"

"What?" said Rose without moving.

"Rose -- look up at me --"

The pretty face was lifted at her bidding, but it was sullen,

and the response was a sullen "Well --"

"I am very sorry I spoke to you so -- I was very wrong. I am

very sorry. Forgive me and forget it -- will you?"

"It was very unkind!" -- said Rose, her head going down again

in fresh tears.

"It was very unkind and unhandsome. What can I say more, but

that I am sorry? Won't you forget it?"

"Of course," said Rose wiping her eyes, -- "I don't want to

remember it if you want to forget it. I dare say I was foolish

--"

"Then come to supper," said Elizabeth. "Here's the tea -- I'm

very hungry."

CHAPTER XVI.

And Phant'sie, I tell you, has dreams that have wings,

And dreams that have honey, and dreams that have stings,

Dreams of the maker, and dreams of the teller,

Dreams of the kitchen, and dreams of the cellar.

BEN JONSON.

A few days more passed; days of sameness in the house, while

Autumn's beautiful work was going on without, and the woods

were changing from day to day with added glories. It seemed as

if the sun had broken one or two of his beams across the

hills, and left fragments of coloured splendour all over. The

elm trees reared heads of straw-colour among their forest

brethren; the maples shewed yellow and red and flame-colour;

the birches were in bright orange. Sad purple ashes stood the

moderators of the Assembly; and hickories of gold made sunny

slopes down the mountain sides. All softened together in the

distance to a mellow, ruddy, glowing hue over the whole wood

country.

The two cousins sat by the two windows watching the fading

light, in what used once to be the 'keeping-room' -- Mrs.

Haye's now. Elizabeth had been long looking out of the window,

with a fixed, thoughtful, sorrowful, gaze. Rose's look was

never fixed long upon anything and never betrayed her thoughts

to be so. It wavered now uneasily between her cousin and the

broad and bright hills and river -- which probably Mrs. Haye

did not see.

"How long are you going to stay here, Lizzie?"

"I don't know."

"How is that old woman?"

"I don't know. There don't seem to be much difference from one

day to another."

"What ails her?"

"I don't know. I suppose it is as the doctor says, -- that

there is a general breaking up of nature."

"Is she going to live long?"

"I don't know. He said probably not."

"Well, who's going to take care of her?"

"She is taken care of. There is a woman here from Mountain

Spring, to do all that is necessary."

"Why must we stay here, Lizzie? -- it's so dismal."

"_We_ mustn't -- _I_ must."

"Why?"

"I would rather -- and I think it is right."

"To take care of that old woman?"

"No -- I can't do much for her -- but I can see that she is

taken care of."

"But how would she have done if you had never come here?"

"I don't know. I don't know what that has to do with it,

seeing that I am here."

"You wouldn't stay for her now, if she wasn't somebody's old

nurse."

Elizabeth did not answer.

"But how long _do_ you mean to stay here, Lizzie? -- any how?"

"Till I must go -- till it is less pleasant here than somewhere

else."

"And when will you think that?"

"Not for a good while."

"But _when_, Lizzie?"

"I don't know. I suppose when the cold weather comes in

earnest."

"I'm sure it has come now!" said Rose shrugging her shoulders.

"I'm shivering every morning after the fire goes out. What

sort of cold weather do you mean?"

"I mean snow and ice."

"Snow and ice -- And then you will go -- where will you go?"

said Rose discontentedly.

"I suppose, to Mannahatta."

"Will you go the first snow?"

"I cannot tell yet, Rose."

There was a pause. Elizabeth had not stirred from her

position. Her head rested yet on her hand, her eyes looked

steadily out of the window.

"It will seem so lonely there!" said Rose whimpering.

"Yes! -- more lonely than here."

"I meant in the house. But there one can get out and see some

one."

"There isn't a soul in Mannahatta I care to see."

"Lizzie! --"

"Not that I know of."

"Lizzie! -- Mr. Landholm?"

"I mean, not one that I am like to see."

"What do you go to Mannahatta for, then?" said Rose

unbelievingly.

"One must be somewhere, to do something in the world."

"To do what?"

"I don't know -- I suppose I shall find my work."

"Work? -- what work?" -- said Rose wonderingly.

"I don't know yet, Rose. But everybody has something to do in

the world -- so I have, -- and you have."

"I haven't anything. What have we to do, except what we like

to do?"

"I hope I shall like my work," said Elizabeth. "I must like

it, if I am to do it well."

"What do you mean? -- what are you talking of, Lizzie?"

"Listen to me, Rose. Do you think that you and I have been put

in this world with so many means of usefulness, of one sort

and another, and that it was never meant we should do anything

but trifle away them and life till the end of it came? Do you

think God has given us nothing to do for him?"

"_I_ haven't much means of doing anything," said Rose, half

pouting, half sobbing. "Have you taken up your friend Winthrop

Landholm's notions?"

There was a rush to Elizabeth's heart, that his name and hers,

in such a connection, should be named in the same day; but the

colour started and the eyes flushed with tears, and she said

nothing.

"What sort of 'work' do you suppose you are going to do?"

"I don't know. I shall find out, Rose, I hope, in time."

"I guess he can tell you, -- if you were to ask him," said Rose

meaningly.

Elizabeth sat a minute silent, with quickened breath.

"Rose," she said, leaning back into the room that she might

see and be seen, -- "look at me and listen to me."

Rose obeyed.

"Don't say that kind of thing to me again."

"One may say what one has a mind to, in a free land," said

Rose pouting, -- "and one needn't be commanded like a child or

a servant. Don't I know you would never plague yourself with

that old woman if she wasn't Winthrop's old nurse?"

Elizabeth rose and came near to her.

"I will not have this thing said to me!" she repeated. "My

motives, in any deed of charity, are no man's or woman's to

meddle with. Mr. Landholm is most absolutely nothing to me,

nor I to him; except in the respect and regard he has from me,

which he has more or less, I presume, from everybody that has

the happiness of knowing him. Do you understand me, Rose?

clearly?"

Another answer was upon Rose's tongue, but she was cowed, and

only responded a meek 'yes.' Elizabeth turned and walked off

in stately fashion to the door of the kitchen. The latch was

raised, and then she let it fall again, came back, and stood

again with a very different face and voice before her guest.

"Rose," she said gravely, "I didn't speak just in the best way

to you; but I do not always recollect myself quickly enough.

You mustn't say that sort of thing to me -- I can't bear it. I

am sorry for anything in my manner that was disagreeable to

you just now."

And before Rose had in the least made up her mind how to

answer her, Elizabeth had quitted the room.

"She ain't goin' never!" said Clam, meeting and passing her

mistress as she entered the kitchen. "_I_ don't believe! She's a

goin' to stay."

Karen sat in her wonted rocking-chair before the fire, rocking

a very little jog on her rockers. Elizabeth came up to the

side of the fireplace and stood there, silent and probably

meditative. She had at any rate forgotten Karen, when the old

woman spoke, in a feebler voice than usual.

"Is the Governor comin'?"

"What, Karen?" said Elizabeth, knowing very well what she had

asked, but not knowing so well the drift and intent of it.

"Is the Governor comin'? will he be along directly?"

"No -- I suppose not. Do you want to see him, Karen?"

"I'd like to see him," said the old woman covering her eyes

with her withered hand. "I thought he was comin'."

"Perhaps something may bring him, some day. I dare say you

will see him by and by -- I don't know how soon."

"I'll see him _there_," said the old woman. "I can't stay here

long."

"Why, you don't seem any worse, Karen, do you? Aren't you

going to be well again?"

"Not here," said the old woman. "I'm all goin' to pieces. I'll

go to bed to-night, and I won't get up again."

"Don't say that, Karen; because I think you will."

"I'll go to bed," she repeated in a rather plaintive manner.

"I thought he'd be here."

It touched Elizabeth acutely; perhaps because she had so near

a fellow feeling that answered Karen's, and allowed her to

comprehend how exceedingly the desire for his presence might

grow strong in one who had a right to wish for it. And she

knew that he would reckon old Karen his friend, whatever other

people would do.

"What can I do for you, Karen?" she said gently. "Let me be

the best substitute I can. What can I do for you, that he

could do better?"

"There can't nobody do just the Governor's work," said his old

nurse. "I thought he'd ha' been here. This'll be my last

night, and I'd like to spend it hearin' good things."

"Would you like me to send for anybody," said Elizabeth.

"Could ye send for _him?_" said Karen earnestly.

"Not in time. No, Karen, -- there'd be no time to send a

message from here to Mannahatta and get him here to-night."

She jogged herself back and forward a little while on her

rocking-chair; and then said she would go to bed. Elizabeth

helped her into the little room, formerly Asahel's, opening

out of the kitchen, which she had insisted Karen should take

during her illness; and after she was put to bed, came again

and asked her what she should do for her. Karen requested to

have the Bible read.

Elizabeth set open the kitchen door, took a low seat by

Karen's bedside, and established herself with her book. It was

strange work to her, to read the Bible to a person who thought

herself dying. She, who so lately had to do with everything

else but the Bible, now seated by the bedside of an old black

woman, and the Bible the only matter in hand between the two.

Karen's manner made it more strange. She was every now and

then breaking in upon the reading, or accompanying it, with

remarks and interjections. Sometimes it was "Hallelujah!" --

sometimes, "That's true, that's true!" -- sometimes, and very

often, "Praise the Lord!" Not loud, nor boisterous; they were

most of the time little underbreath words said to herself,

words seemingly that she could not help, the good of which she

took and meant for nobody else's edification. They were

however very disagreeable and troublesome to Elizabeth's ears

and thoughts; she had half a mind to ask Karen to stop them;

but the next sighing "That's true!" -- checked her; if it was

such a comfort to the old woman to hold counsel with herself,

and Elizabeth could offer nothing better, the least she could

do was to let her alone. And then Elizabeth grew accustomed to

it; and at last thoughts wandered a little by turns to take up

their new trade of wondering at herself and at the new,

unwonted life she seemed beginning to lead. There was a

singular pleasantness in what she was doing; she found a grave

sweet consciousness of being about the right work; but

presently to her roving spirit the question arose whether

_this_, -- this new and certainly very substantial pleasure, --

were perhaps the chief kind she was hereafter to look forward

to, or find in this life; -- and Elizabeth's heart confessed to

a longing desire for something else. And then her attention

suddenly came back to poor Karen at her side saying, softly,

"Bless the Lord, O my soul!" -- Elizabeth stopped short; she

was choked.

At this juncture Clam noiselessly presented herself.

"He's come, Miss 'Lizabeth."

The start that Miss Haye's inward spirits gave at this, was

not to be seen at all on the outside. She looked at Clam, but

she gave no sign that her words had been understood. Yet

Elizabeth had understood them so well, that she did not even

think at first to ask the question, and when she did, it was

for form's sake, _who_ had come? Probably Clam knew as much, for

she only repeated her words.

"He's come. What'll I do with him, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"Where is he?"

"He ain't come yet -- he's comin'."

"Coming when? And what do you mean by saying he is come?"

"I don't mean nothin' bad," said Clam. "He's just a comin' up

the walk from the boat -- I see him by the moon."

"See who it is, first, before you do anything with him; and

then you can bring me word."

Elizabeth closed her book however, in some little doubt what

she should do with herself. She knew, -- it darted into her

mind, -- that it would please Winthrop to find her there; that

it would meet his approbation; and then with the stern

determination that motives of self-praise, if they came into

her head should not come into her life, she hurried out and

across the kitchen and hid her book in her own room. Then came

out into the kitchen and stood waiting for the steps outside

and for the opening of the door.

"You are come in good time," she said, as she met and answered

Winthrop's offered hand.

"I am glad I am in time," he said.

"Karen has been wishing for you particularly to-night -- but I

don't know that that is any sign, except to the superstitious,

that she is in particular danger."

"I shall be all the more welcome, at any rate."

"I don't know whether that is possible, in Karen's case. But

did you know she wanted you? -- did you know she was ill?"

"Do you suppose nothing but an errand of mercy could bring

me?" he answered slightly, though with a little opening of the

eyes which Elizabeth afterwards remembered and speculated

upon. But for the present she was content with the pleasant

implication of his words. Clam was ordered to bring

refreshments. These Winthrop declined; he had had all he

wanted. Then Elizabeth asked if he would like to see Karen.

She opened the door, which she had taken care to shut, and

went in with him.

"Karen -- here is the Governor, that you were wishing for."

The old woman turned her face towards them; then stretched out

her hand, and spoke with an accent of satisfied longing that

went at least to one heart.

"I thought he'd come," she said. "Governor! --"

Winthrop leaned over to speak to her and take her hand.

Elizabeth longed to hear what he would say, but she had no

business there; she went out, softly closing the door.

She was alone then; and she stood on the hearth before the

fire in a little tumult of pleasure, thinking how she should

dispose of her guest and what she might do for him.

"Once more I have a chance," she thought; "and I may never in

the world have another -- He will not come here again before I

go back to Mannahatta, he cannot stay in my house there, -- and

another summer is very far off, and very uncertain. He'll not

be very likely to come here -- he may be married -- and I am

very sure I shall not want to see his wife here -- I shall not

do it. -- Though I might ask her for his sake -- No! I should

better break with him at once and have no more to do with him;

it would be only misery." "And what is it now?" said something

else. And "Not misery" -- was the answer.

"Where will I put him, Miss 'Lizabeth?" said the voice of Clam

softly at her elbow. Elizabeth started.

"You must take my room. I will sleep with Mrs. Haye. Clam --

what have we got in the house? and what can you do in the way

of cooking?"

"I can do some things -- for some folks," said Clam. "Wa'n't my

cream gravy good the other day?"

"Cream gravy! -- with what?"

"Fresh lamb, -- mutton, I would say."

"But you have got no fresh mutton now, have you?"

"Maybe Mr. Underhill has," said Clam with a twinkle of her

bright eye.

"Mr. Underhill's fresh mutton is on the other side of the

river. What have we got on this side?"

"Pretty much of nothing," said Clam, "this side o' Mountain

Spring. Anderese ain't no good but to make the fire -- it takes

mor'n him to find somethin' to put over it."

"Then you'll have to go to Mountain Spring before breakfast,

Clam."

"Well, m'm. Who'll take care of the house while I'm gone, Miss

'Lizabeth?"

"Mrs. Cives -- can't she?"

"Mis' Cives is gone off home."

"Gone home! -- what, to Mountain Spring?"

"That's where her home is, she says."

"What for? and without asking?"

"She wanted to spend to-night at home, she said; and she asked

no questions and went."

"To night of all nights! when Karen seems so much worse!"

"It's good we've got the Governor," said Clam.

"But he can't sit up all night with her."

"Guess he will," said Clam. "Pretty much like him. You can

sleep in your bed, Miss 'Lizabeth."

"You go and get the room ready -- he must not sit up all night

-- and we'll see in the morning about Mountain Spring. Somebody

must go."

"He'll go if you ask him," said Clam. "He'd do the marketing

best, now, of all of us. He knows just where everything is.

'Fact is, we want him in the family pretty much all the time."

"Let him know when his room is ready, and offer him

refreshments, -- and call me if I am wanted."

Clam departed; but Elizabeth, instead of doing the same, took

a chair on the kitchen hearth and sat down to await any

possible demands upon her. She could hear a quiet sound of

talking in Karen's room; now and then the old woman's less

regulated voice, more low or more shrill, broke in upon the

subdued tones of the other. Elizabeth thought she would have

given _anything_ to be a hearer of what was said and listened to

there; but the door was shut; it was all for Karen and not for

her; and she gave up at last in despair and retreated to her

cousin's room.

"So he's come?" said Rose.

"Yes! -- he's come. Did you know he was coming?"

"I! -- No, -- I didn't know he was coming. How should I?"

"Did you _think_ he was coming, Rose?"

"I didn't know but he'd come," said Rose a little awkwardly,

"I didn't know anything about it."

Elizabeth chose to ask no further question. Somewhat mortified

already, she would not give herself any more certain ground of

mortification, not at that time. She would talk no more with

Rose. She went to bed; and long after her companion was

asleep, she listened for Winthrop's coming out or Clam's

colloquy with him, and for any possible enquiry after herself.

She heard Clam tap at the door -- she heard the undistinguished

sound of words, and only gathered that Winthrop probably was

declining all proffered comforts and luxuries and choosing to

spend the night by Karen's pillow. And weary and sorry and

sick of everything in the world, Elizabeth went to sleep.

She waked up in the morning to hear the twittering of the

birds around the house. They were singing busily of the coming

day, but the day had not come yet; at least it was some time

before sunrise. Elizabeth softly got up, softly dressed

herself, and went out into the kitchen. That messenger must be

despatched for something for breakfast.

She was met by Clam coming in from another door.

"Well, Clam," said her mistress, "where is everybody this

morning?"

"I don't know where I am yet," said Clam. "Everybody's abed

and asleep, I 'spose. Where be you, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"Did Mr. Landholm sit up all night?"

"'Most. He said 'twas near upon two o'clock."

"When?"

"When he had done sittin' up, and went to bed."

"How was Karen?"

"I 'spose she was _goin'_, but she ain't in no hurry -- she ain't

gone yet."

"Then she was no worse?"

"She was better. She was slicked up wonderful after seein' the

Governor, she telled me. I wonder who ain't."

"He has not come out of his room yet, I suppose?"

"I hope he haint," said Clam, "or I don' know when we'll get

breakfast -- 'less he turns to and helps us."

"He will want a good one, after last night, and yesterday's

journey. Where's Anderese?"

"He took some bread and milk," said Clam.

"Well -- where's Anderese? we must send him to Mountain

Spring."

"He's got to go after wood, Miss 'Lizabeth -- there ain't three

sticks more 'n 'll set the fire agoing."

"Must he! Then you must go, Clam."

"Very good. Who'll set the table, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"Emma can. Or you can, after you get back."

"And there's the fire to make, and the floor to sweep, and the

knives to clean, and the bread to make --"

"Bread! --" said Miss Haye.

"Or cakes," said Clam. "One or t'other 'll be wanted. I don't

care which."

"Don't Emma know how?"

"She don't know a thing, but how to put Mrs. Haye's curls over

a stick -- when she ain't doin' her own."

"Then give me a basket -- I'll go to Mountain Spring myself."

"Who'll bring the meat and things home?"

"I will; -- or fish, or eggs, -- something, whatever I can get."

"It 'll tire you, Miss 'Lizabeth -- I guess, before you get

back."

"You find me a basket -- while I put on my bonnet," said Clam's

mistress. And the one thing was done as soon as the other.

"I 'spect I'll wake up some morning and find myself playing on

the pianny-forty," said Clam, as she watched her young

mistress walking off with the basket.

CHAPTER XVII.

When was old Sherwood's head more quaintly curled?

Or looked the earth more green upon the world?

Or nature's cradle more enchased and purled?

When did the air so smile, the wind so chime,

As quiristers of season, and the prime?

BEN JONSON.

Miss Haye, however, had never sent her fingers over the keys

with more energy, than now her feet tripped over the dry

leaves and stones in the path to Mountain Spring. She took a

very rough way, through the woods. There was another, much

plainer, round by the wagon road; but Elizabeth chose the more

solitary and prettier way, roundabout and hard to the foot

though it was.

For some little distance there was a rude wagon-track, very

rough, probably made for the convenience of getting wood. It

stood thick with pretty large stones or heads of rock; but it

was softly grass-grown between the stones and gave at least a

clear way through the woods, upon which the morning light if

not the morning sun beamed fairly. A light touch of white

frost lay upon the grass and covered the rocks with bloom, the

promise of a mild day. After a little, the roadway descended

into a bit of smooth meadow, well walled in with trees, and

lost itself there. In the tree-tops the morning sun was

glittering; it could not get to the bottom yet; but up there

among the leaves it gave a bright shimmering prophecy of what

it would do; it was a sparkle of heavenly light touching the

earth. Elizabeth had never seen it before; she had never in

her life been in the woods at so early an hour. She stood

still to look. It was impossible to help feeling the light of

that glittering promise; its play upon the leaves was too

joyous, too pure, too fresh. She felt her heart grow stronger

and her breath come freer. What was the speech of those light-

touched leaves, she might not have told; something her spirit

took knowledge of while her reason did not. Or had not leisure

to do; for if she did not get to Mountain Spring in good

season she would not be home for breakfast. Yet she had plenty

of time, but she did not wish to run short. So she went on her

way.

From the valley meadow for half a mile, it was not much more

or much better than a cow-path, beaten a little by the feet of

the herdsman seeking his cattle or of an occasional foot-

traveller to Mountain Spring. It was very rough indeed. Often

Elizabeth must make quite a circuit among cat-briars and

huckleberry bushes and young underwood, or keep the path at

the expense of stepping up and stepping down again over a

great stone or rock blocking up the whole way. Sometimes the

track was only marked over the grey lichens of an immense head

of granite that refused moss and vegetation of every other

kind; sometimes it wound among thick alder bushes by the edge

of wet ground; and at all times its course was among a

wilderness of uncared-for woodland, overgrown with creepers

and vines tangled with underbrush, and thickly strewn with

larger and smaller fragments and boulders of granite rock. But

how beautiful it was! The alders, reddish and soft-tinted,

looked when the sun struck through them as if they were

exotics out of witch-land; the Cornus family, from beautiful

dogwood a dozen feet high stretching over Elizabeth's head, to

little humble nameless plants at her feet, had edged and

parted their green leaves with most dainty clear hues of

madder lake; white birches and hickories glimmered in the

sunlight like trees of gold, the first with stems of silver;

sear leaves strewed the way; and fresh pines and hemlocks

stretched out their arms amidst the changing foliage, with

their evergreen promise and performance. The morning air and

the morning walk no doubt had something to do with the effect

of the whole; but Elizabeth thought, with all the beauty her

eyes had ever seen they had never been more bewitched than

they were that day.

With such a mood upon her, it was no wonder that on arriving

at Mountain Spring she speedily made out her errand. She found

whom and what she had come for; she filled her basket with no

loss of time or pleasure; and very proud of her success set

out again through the wood-path homeward.

Half way back to the bit of tree-enclosed meadow-ground, the

path and the north shore of Shahweetah approached each other,

where a little bay curve, no other than the _AEgean Sea_, swept

in among the rocks. Through the stems of the trees Elizabeth

could see the blue water with the brightness of the hour upon

it. Its sparkle tempted her. She had plenty of time, or she

resolved that she had, and she wanted to look at the fair

broad view she knew the shore edge would give her. She

hesitated, and turned, A few bounding and plunging steps amid

rocks and huckleberry bushes brought her where she wished to

be. She stood on the border, where no trees came in the way of

the northern view. The mountains were full before her, and the

wide Shatemuc rolled down between them, ruffled with little

waves, every one sparkling cool in the sunlight. Elizabeth

looked at the water a minute, and turned to the west. Wut-a-

qut-o's head had caught more of the frosts than Shahweetah had

felt yet; there were broad belts of buff and yellow along the

mountain, even changing into sear where its sides felt the

north wind. On all that shore the full sunlight lay. The

opposite hills, on the east, were in dainty sunshine and

shadow, every undulation, every ridge and hollow, softly

marked out. With what wonderful sharp outline the mountain

edges rose against the bright sky; how wonderful soft the

changes of shade and colour adown their sloping sides; what

brilliant little ripples of water rolled up to the pebbles at

Elizabeth's feet. She stood and looked at it all, at one thing

and the other, half dazzled with the beauty; until she

recollected herself, and with a deep sighful expression of

thoughts and wishes unknown, turned away to find her path

again.

But she could not find it. Whereabouts it was, she was sure;

but the _where_ was an unfindable thing. And she dared not

strike forward without the track; she might get further and

further from it, and never get home to breakfast at all! --

There was nothing for it but to grope about seeking for

indications; and Miss Haye's eyes were untrained to wood-work.

The woodland was a mazy wilderness now indeed. Points of

stone, beds of moss, cat-briar vines and huckleberry bushes,

in every direction; and between which of them lay that little

invisible track of a footpath? The more she looked the more

she got perplexed. She could remember no waymarks. The way was

all cat-briars, moss, bushes, and rocks; and rocks, bushes,

moss and cat-briars were in every variety all around her. She

turned her face towards the quarter from which she had come

and tried to recognize some tree or waymark she could remember

having passed. One part of the wood looked just like another;

but for the mountains and the river she could not have told

where lay Mountain Spring.

Then a little sound of rustling leaves and crackling twigs

reached her ear from behind her.

"There is a cow!" thought Elizabeth; -- "now I can find the

path by her. But then! -- cows don't always --"

Her eye had been sweeping round the woody skirts of her

position, in search of her expected four-footed guide, when

her thoughts were suddenly brought to a point by seeing a two-

footed creature approaching, and one whom she instantly knew.

"It is Winthrop Landholm! -- he is going to Mountain Spring to

take an early coach, without his breakfast! -- Well, you fool,

what is it to you?" was the next thought. "What does it

signify whether he goes sooner or later, when it would be

better for you not to see him at all, if your heart is going

to start in that fashion at every time. --"

Meanwhile she was making her way as well as she could, over

rocks and briars, towards the new-comer; and did not look up

till she answered his greeting --

"Good morning! --"

It was very cheerfully spoken.

"Good morning," said Elizabeth, entangled in a cat-briar, from

which with a desperate effort she broke free before any help

could be given her.

"Those are naughty things."

"No," said Elizabeth, "they look beautiful now when they are

growing tawny, as a contrast with the other creepers and the

deep green cedars. And they are a beautiful green at other

times."

"Make the best of them. What were you looking at, a minute

ago?"

"Looking for my way. I had lost it."

"You don't know it very well, I guess."

"Yes. -- No, not very well, but I could follow it, and did,

till coming home I thought I had time to look at the view; and

then I couldn't find it again. I got turned about."

"You were completely turned about when I saw you."

"O I was not going that way -- I knew better than that. I was

trying to discover some waymark."

"How did you get out of the way?"

"I went to look at the view -- from the water's edge there."

"Have you a mind to go back to the river edge again? I have

not seen that view in a long while. _I_ shall not lose the

path."

"Then you cannot be intending to go by an early coach,"

thought Elizabeth, as she picked her way back over rocks and

moss to the water's edge. But Winthrop knew the ground, and

brought her a few steps further to a broad standing-place of

rock where the look-out was freer. There was again before her

the sparkling river, the frost-touched mountain, the sharp

outlines, the varying shadows, that she had looked at a few

minutes back. Elizabeth looked at them again, thinking now not

of them but of something different at every turn.

"The rock is too wet," said Winthrop, "or I should propose

your sitting down."

"You certainly must have had your breakfast," thought

Elizabeth, "and not know that I haven't had mine."

"I don't want to sit down," she said quietly. A pang of fear

again came to her heart, that in another minute or two he

would be off to Mountain Spring. But his next movement

negatived that. It was to take her basket, which she had till

then tried to carry so that it would not be noticed. She was

thankful he did not know what was in it.

"Do you often take such early walks as this?"

"No, not often," said Elizabeth guiltily. "I row more."

"So early?"

"No, not generally. Though there is no time more pleasant."

"You are looking well," he said gravely. "Better than I ever

saw you look."

"It's very odd," thought Elizabeth, -- "it must be the flush of

my walk -- I didn't look so this morning in the glass -- nor

last night. --" But she looked up and said boldly, laughing,

"I thought you came here to see the prospect, Mr. Landholm."

"I have been looking at it," he said quietly. "I need not say

anything about that -- it never changes."

"Do you mean that I do?" said Elizabeth.

"Everybody ought to change for the better, always," he said

with a little smile, -- "so I hope you are capable of that."

Elizabeth thought in her heart, though she was no better, yet

that she had truly changed for the better, since former times;

she half wanted to tell him so, the friend who had had most to

do with changing her. But a consciousness of many things and

an honest fear of speaking good of herself, kept her lips

shut; though her heart beat with the wish and the doubt.

Winthrop's next words in a few minutes decided it.

"What is the fact, Miss Elizabeth?"

Elizabeth hesitated, -- and hesitated. He looked at her.

"I hope I am changed, a little, Mr. Landholm; but there is a

great deal more to change!"

Her face was very ingenuous and somewhat sorrowful, as she

turned it towards him; but his looked so much brighter than

she had ever seen it, that the meeting of the two tides was

just more than her spirits could bear. The power of commanding

herself, which for the last few minutes had been growing less

and less, gave way. Her look shrank from his. Winthrop had

come nearer to her, and had clasped the hand that was nearest

him and held it in his own. It was a further expression of the

pleasure she had seen in his smile. Elizabeth was glad that

her own face was hidden by her sunbonnet. She would not have

either its pain or its pleasure to be seen. Both were sharp

enough just then. But strong necessity made her keep outwardly

quiet.

"What does the change date from?"

"As to time, do you mean?" said Elizabeth struggling.

"As to time, and motive."

"The time is but lately," she said with a tremulous voice, --

"though I have thought about it, more or less, for a good

while."

"Thought what?"

"Felt that you were right and I was wrong, Mr. Landholm."

"What made you think you were wrong?"

"I felt that I was -- I knew it."

"What makes you think you are changed now?"

"I hardly dare speak of it -- it is so little."

"You may, I hope, -- to me."

"It is hardly _I_ that am changed, so much as my motives and

views."

"And they -- how?" he said after waiting a moment.

"It seems to me," she said slowly, "lately, that I am willing

to go by a new rule of life from that I used to follow."

"What is the new rule?"

"Well -- Not my own will, Mr. Landholm."

He stood silent a little while. Her hand was still held in

his. Elizabeth would have thought he had forgotten it, but

that it was held in a free clasp which did not seem to imply

forgetfulness. It was enough to forbid it on her part.

"How does the new rule work?" was his next question.

"It works hard, Mr. Landholm!" said Elizabeth, turning her

face suddenly upon him for an instant. His look was bright,

but she felt that her own eyes were swimming.

"Do you know that I am very glad to hear all this?" he said

after another little pause.

"Yes," said Elizabeth under breath, -- "I supposed you would

be. -- I knew you would."

"I hope you like being catechized," he said in a lighter tone.

"Yes -- I do -- by anybody that has a right to do it."

"I have taken the right."

"Certainly! -- You have the best in the world."

"I am glad you think so, though I don't exactly see how you

make it out."

"Why! -- it's not necessary to explain how I make it out," said

Elizabeth.

"No, -- especially as I am going to ask you to give it to me

for the future."

"What?" -- said she looking at him.

He became grave.

"Miss Haye, I have a great boon to ask of you."

"Well?" -- said Elizabeth eagerly. "I am very glad you have!"

"Why?"

"Why? -- why, because it's pleasant."

"You don't know what it is, yet."

"No," said Elizabeth, -- "but my words are safe."

"I want you to give me something."

"You preface it as if it were some great thing, and you look

as if it was nothing," thought Elizabeth a little in

wonderment. But she said only,

"You may have it. What is it?"

"Guess."

"I can't possibly."

"You are incautious. You don't know what you are giving away."

"What is it?" said Elizabeth a little impatiently.

"Yourself."

Elizabeth looked quick away, not to see anything, with the

mind's eye or any other, for a blur came over both. She was no

fainter; she was strong of mind and body; but the one and the

other were shaken; and for that bit of time, and it was

several minutes, her senses performed no office at all. And

when consciousness of distinct things began to come back,

there came among all her other feelings an odd perverse fear

of shewing the uppermost one or two, and a sort of mortified

unreadiness to strike her colours and yield at once without

having made a bit of fight for it. Yet these were not the

uppermost feelings, but they were there, among them and

struggling with them. She stood quite still, her face hidden

by her sunbonnet, and her companion was quite still too, with

her hand still in his, held in the same free light clasp; and

she had a vexed consciousness of his being far the cooler of

the two. While she was thus silent, however, Elizabeth's head,

and her very figure, was bowed lower and lower with intensity

of feeling.

"What is the matter?" Winthrop said; and the tone of those

words conquered her. The proud Miss Haye made a very humble

answer.

"I am very glad, Mr. Landholm -- but I am not good enough."

"For what?"

But Elizabeth did not answer.

"I will take my risk of that," said he kindly. "Besides, you

have confessed the power of changing."

The risk, or something else, seemed to lie upon Elizabeth's

mind, from the efforts she was making to overcome emotion.

Winthrop observed her for a moment.

"But you have not spoken, yet," said he. "I want a

confirmation of my grant."

She knew from his tone that his mood was the very reverse of

hers; and it roused the struggle again. "Provoking man!" she

thought, "why couldn't he ask me in any other way! -- And why

need he smile when I am crying! --" She commanded herself to

raise her head, however, though she did not dare look.

"Am I to have it?"

"To have what?"

"An answer."

"I don't know what it's to be, Mr. Landholm," Elizabeth

stammered. "What do you want?"

"Will you give me what I asked you for?"

"I thought you knew you had it already," she said, not a

little vexed to have the words drawn from her.

"It is mine, then?"

"Yes --"

"Then," said he, coming in full view of her blushing face and

taking the other hand, -- "what are you troubled for?"

Elizabeth could not have borne it one instant, to meet his

eye, without breaking into a flood of tears she had no hands

to cover. As her only way of escape, she sprang to one side

freeing one of her hands on the sudden, and jumped down the

rock, muttering something very unintelligibly about

'breakfast.' But her other hand was fast still, and so was she

at the foot of the rock.

"Stop," said Winthrop, -- "we must take this basket along. -- I

don't know if there is anything very precious in it." --

He reached after it as he spoke, and then they went on; and by

the help of his hand her backward journey over rocks, stones,

and trunks of trees in the path, was easily and lightly made;

till they reached the little bit of meadow. Which backward

journey Elizabeth accomplished in about two minutes and a

quarter. There Winthrop transferred to his arm the hand that

had rested in his, and walked more leisurely.

"Are you in such a hurry for your breakfast?" said he. "I have

had mine."

"Had it! -- before you came out?"

"No," -- said he smiling, -- "since."

"Are you laughing at me? -- or have you had it?" said Elizabeth

looking puzzled.

"Both," said Winthrop. "What are you trembling so for?"

It hushed Elizabeth again, till they got quit of the meadow,

and began more slowly still, the ascent of the rough half-made

wheel-road.

"Miss Haye --" said Winthrop gently.

She paused in her walk, looking at him.

"What are you thinking of?"

"Thinking of! --"

"Yes. You don't look as happy as I feel."

"I am," -- she said.

"How do you know?"

What a colour spread over Elizabeth's face! But she laughed

too, so perhaps his end was gained.

"I was thinking," she said, with the desperate need of saying

something, -- "a little while ago, when you were helping me

through the woods, -- how a very few minutes before, I had been

so quite alone in the world."

"Don't forget there is one arm that never can fail you," he

replied gravely. "Mine may."

Elizabeth looked at him rather timidly, and his face changed.

"There was no harm in that," he said, with so bright an

expression as she had never before seen given to her. "What

will you say, if I tell you that I myself at that same time

was thinking over in my mind very much the same thing -- with

relation to myself, I mean."

Elizabeth's heart beat and her breath came short. That was

what she had never thought of. Like many another woman, what

_he_ was to her, she knew well; what _she_ might be to him, it had

never entered her head to think. It seemed almost a new and

superfluous addition to her joy, yet not superfluous from that

time forth for ever. Once known, it was too precious a thought

to be again untasted. She hung her head over it; she stepped

all unwittingly on rocks and short grass and wet places and

dry, wherever she was led. It made her heart beat thick to

think she could be so valued. How was it possible! How she

wished -- how keenly -- that she could have been of the solid

purity of silver or gold, to answer the value put upon her.

But instead of that -- what a far-off difference! Winthrop

could not know how great, or he would never have said that, or

felt it; nor could he. What about her could possibly have

attracted it?

She had not much leisure to ponder the question, for her

attention was called off to answer present demands. And there

was another subject for pondering -- Winthrop did not seem like

the same person she had known under the same name, he was so

much more free and pleasant and bright to talk than he had

ever been to her before, or in her observation, to anybody. He

talked to a very silent listener, albeit she lost never a word

nor a tone. She wondered at him and at everything, and stepped

along wondering, with a heart too full to speak, almost too

full to hide its agitation.

They were nearing home, they had got quit of the woodway road,

and were in a cleared field, grown with tall cedars, which

skirted the river. Half way across it, Elizabeth's foot

paused, and came to a full stop. What was the matter?

Elizabeth faced round a little, as if addressing her judge,

though she spoke without lifting her eyes.

"Mr. Landholm -- do you know that I am _full_ of faults?"

"Yes."

"And aren't you afraid of them?"

"No, -- not at all," he said, smiling, Elizabeth knew. But she

answered very gravely,

"I am."

"Which is the best reason in the world why I should not be. It

is written 'Blessed is the man that feareth always.'"

"I am afraid -- you don't know me."

"I don't know," said he smiling. "You haven't told me anything

new yet."

"I am afraid you think of me, somehow, better than I deserve."

"What is the remedy for that?"

Elizabeth hesitated, with an instant's vexed consciousness of

his provoking coolness; then looking up met his eye for a

second, laughed, and went on perfectly contented. But she

wondered with a little secret mortification, that Winthrop was

as perfectly at home and at his ease in the newly established

relations between them as if they had subsisted for six

months. "Is it nothing new to him?" she said to herself. "Did

he know that it only depended on him to speak? -- or is it his

way with all the world?" It was not that she was undervalued,

or slightly regarded, but valued and regarded with such

unchanged self-possession. Meanwhile they reached the edge of

the woodland, from which the house and garden were to be seen

close at hand.

"Stay here," said Winthrop; -- "I will carry this basket in and

let them know you may be expected to breakfast."

"But if you do that, --" said Elizabeth colouring --

"What then?"

"I don't know what they will think."

"They may think what they have a mind," said he with a little

bit of a smile again. "I want to speak to you."

Elizabeth winced a bit. He was gone, and she stood thinking,

among other things, that he might have asked what _she_ would

like. And how did he know but breakfast was ready then? Or did

he know everything? And how quietly and unqualifiedly, to be

sure, he had taken her consignment that morning. She did not

know whether to like it or not like it, -- till she saw him

coming again from the house.

"After all," said he, "I think we had better go in and take

breakfast, and talk afterwards. It seems to be in a good state

of forwardness."

CHAPTER XVIII.

From eastern quarters now

The sun's up-wandering,

His rays on the rock's brow

And hill-side squandering;

Be glad my soul! and sing amidst thy pleasure,

Fly from the house of dust,

Up with thy thanks and trust

To heaven's azure!

THOMAS KINGO.

It was sufficiently proven at that breakfast, to Elizabeth's

satisfaction, that it is possible for one to be at the same

time both very happy and a little uncomfortable. She had a

degree of consciousness upon her that amounted to that, more

especially as she had a vexed knowledge that it was shared by

at least one person in the room. The line of Clam's white

teeth had never glimmered more mischievously. Elizabeth dared

not look at her. And she dared not look at Winthrop, and she

dared not look at Rose. But Rose, to do her justice, seemed to

be troubled with no consciousness beyond what was usual with

her, and which generally concerned only herself; and she and

Winthrop kept up the spirit of talk with great ease all

breakfast time.

"Now how in the world are we going to get away?" thought

Elizabeth when breakfast was finishing; -- "without saying flat

and bald why we do it. Rose will want to go too, for she likes

Winthrop quite well enough for that." --

And with the consciousness that she could not make the

slightest manoeuvre, Elizabeth rose from table.

"How soon must you go, Mr. Landholm?" said Rose winningly.

"Presently, ma'am."

"I am sorry you must go so soon! But we haven't a room to ask

you to sit down in, if you were to stay."

"I am afraid I shouldn't wait to be asked, if I stayed," said

Winthrop. "But as I am not to sit down again -- Miss Haye -- if

you will put on your bonnet and give me your company a little

part of my way, I will keep my promise."

"What promise?" said Rose.

"I will do better than my promise, for I mean to shew Miss

Haye a point of her property which perhaps she has not looked

at lately."

"Oh will you shew it to me too?" said Rose.

"I will if there is time enough after I have brought Miss Haye

back -- I can't take both at once."

Rose looked mystified, and Elizabeth very glad to put on her

bonnet, was the first out of the house; half laughing, and

half trembling with the excitement of getting off.

"There is no need to be in such a hurry," said Winthrop as he

came up, -- "now that breakfast is over."

Elizabeth was silent, troubled with that consciousness still,

though now alone with the subject of it. He turned off from

the road, and led her back into the woods a little way, in the

same path by which she had once gone hunting for a tree to cut

down.

"It isn't as pretty a time of day as when I went out this

morning," she said, forcing herself to say something.

But Winthrop seemed in a state of pre-occupation too; till

they reached a boulder capped with green ferns.

"Now give me your hand," said he. "Can you climb?"

They turned short by the boulder and began to mount the steep

rugged hill-path, down which he had once carried his little

sister. Elizabeth could make better footing than poor

Winifred; and very soon they stood on the old height from

which they could see the fair Shatemuc coming down between the

hills and sweeping round their own little woody Shahweetah and

off to the South Bend. The sun was bright on all the land now,

though the cedars shielded the bit of hill-top well; and Wut-

a-qut-o looked down upon them in all his gay Autumn attire.

The sun was bright, but the air was clear and soft and free

from mist and cloud and obscurity, as no sky is but October's.

"Sit down," said Winthrop, throwing himself on the bank which

was carpeted with very short green grass.

"I would just as lieve stand," said Elizabeth.

"I wouldn't as lieve have you. You've been on your feet long

enough to-day. Come! --"

She yielded to the gentle pulling of her hand, and sat down on

the grass; half amused and half fretted; wondering what he was

going to say next. Winthrop was silent for a little space; and

Elizabeth sat looking straight before her, or rather with her

head a little turned to the right, from her companion, towards

Wut-a-qut-o; the deep sides of her sun-bonnet shutting out all

but a little framed picture of the gay woody foreground, a bit

of the blue river, and the mountain's yellow side.

"How beautiful it was all down there, three or four hours

ago," said Elizabeth.

"I didn't know you had so much romance in your disposition --

to go there this morning to meet me."

"I didn't go there to meet you."

"Yes you did."

"I didn't!" said Elizabeth. "I never thought of such a thing

as meeting you."

"Nevertheless, in the regular chain and sequence of events,

you went there to meet me -- if you hadn't gone you wouldn't

have met me."

"O, if you put it in that way," said Elizabeth, -- "there's no

harm in that."

"There is no harm in it at all. Quite the contrary."

"I think it was the prettiest walk I ever took in my life,"

said Elizabeth, -- "before that, I mean," she added blushing.

"My experience would say, after it," said Winthrop, in an

amused tone.

"It was rather a confused walk after that," said Elizabeth. "I

never was quite so much surprised."

"You see I had not that disadvantage. I was only -- gratified."

"Why," said Elizabeth, her jealous fear instantly starting

again, "you didn't know what my answer would be before you

asked me?"

She waited for Winthrop's answer, but none came. Elizabeth

could not bear it.

"Did you?" she said, looking round in her eagerness.

He hesitated an instant, and then answered,

"Did _you?_"

Elizabeth had no words. Her face sought the shelter of her

sunbonnet again, and she almost felt as if she would have

liked to seek the shelter of the earth bodily, by diving down

into it. Her brain was swimming. There was a rush of thoughts

and ideas, a train of scattered causes and consequences, which

then she had no power to set in order; but the rush almost

overwhelmed her, and what was wanting, shame added. She was

vexed with herself for her jealousy in divining and her

impatience in asking foolish questions; and in her vexation

was ready to be vexed with Winthrop, -- if she only knew how.

She longed to lay her head down in her hands, but pride kept

it up. She rested her chin on one hand and wondered when

Winthrop would speak again, -- she could not, -- and what he

would say; gazing at the blue bit of water and gay mountain-

side, and thinking that she was not giving him a particularly

favourable specimen of herself that morning, and vexed out of

measure to think it.

Then upon this, a very quietly spoken "Elizabeth!" -- came to

her ear. It was the first time Winthrop had called her so; but

that was not all. Quietly spoken as it was, there was not only

a little inquiry, there was a little amusement and a little

admonition, in the tone. It stirred Elizabeth to her spirit's

depths, but with several feelings; and for the life of her she

could not have spoken.

"What is the reason you should hide your face so carefully

from me?" he went on presently, much in the same tone. "Mine

is open to you -- it isn't fair play."

Elizabeth could have laughed if she had not been afraid of

crying. She kept herself hid in her sunbonnet and made no

reply.

"Suppose you take that thing off, and let me look at you."

"It shades my face from the sun."

"The cedar trees will do that for you."

"No -- they wouldn't."

And she kept her face steadily fixed upon the opposite shore,

only brought straight before her now; thinking to herself that

she would carry this point at any rate. But in another minute

she was somewhat astounded to find Winthrop's left hand, he

was supporting himself carelessly on his right, quietly, very

quietly, untying her sunbonnet strings; and then rousing

himself, with the other hand he lifted the bonnet from her

head. It gave a full view then of hair in very nice order and

a face not quite so; for the colour had now flushed to her

very temples with more feelings than one, and her eye was

downcast, not caring to shew its revelations. She knew that

Winthrop took an observation of all, to his heart's content;

but she could not look at him for an instant. Then without

saying anything, he got up and went off to a little distance

where he made himself busy among some of the bushes and vines

which were gay with the fall colouring Elizabeth sat drooping

her head on her knees, for she could not absolutely hold it

up. She looked at her sunbonnet lying on the bank beside her;

but it is not an improper use of language to say that she

dared not put it on.

"I have met my master now," she thought, and her eyes

sparkled, -- "once for all -- if I never did before. -- What a

fool I am!"

For she knew, she acknowledged to herself at the same moment,

that she did not like him the less for it -- she liked him

exceedingly the more; in spite of a twinge of deep

mortification about it, and though there was bitter shame that

he should know or guess any of her feeling. If her eyes

sparkled, they sparkled through tears.

The tears were got rid of, for Winthrop came back and threw

himself down again. Then with that he began to put wreaths of

the orange and red winterberries and sprays of wych hazel and

bits of exquisite ivy, one after the other, into her hands.

Her hands took them mechanically, one after the other. Her

eyes buried themselves in them. She wished for her sunbonnet

shield again.

"What do you bring these to me for?" she said rather abruptly.

"Don't you like to have them?" said he, putting into her

fingers another magnificent piece of Virginia creeper.

"Yes indeed -- very much -- but --"

"It will be some time before I see you again," said he as he

added the last piece of his bunch. "These will be all gone."

"Some time!" said Elizabeth.

"Yes. There is work on my hands down yonder that admits of no

delay. I could but just snatch time enough to come up here."

"I am very much obliged to you for these!" said Elizabeth,

returning to her bunch of brilliant vine branches.

"You can pay me for them in any way you please."

The colour started again, but it was a very gentle, humble,

and frank look which she turned round upon him. His was bright

enough.

"How soon do you think of coming to Mannahatta?"

"I don't know, --" said Elizabeth, not choosing to say exactly

the words that came to her tongue.

"If I could be here too, I should say this is the best place."

"Can't you come often enough?"

"How often would be often _enough?_" said he with an amused

look.

"Leave definitions on one side, and please answer me."

"Willingly. I leave the definition on your side. I don't like

to speak in the dark."

"Well, can't you come _tolerably_ often?" said Elizabeth

colouring.

He smiled.

"Not for some time. My hands are very full just now."

"You contrive to have them so always, don't you?"

"I like to have them so. It is not always my contrivance."

"What has become of that suit -- I don't know the names now --

in which you were engaged two or three years ago -- in which

you took so many objections, and the Chancellor allowed them

all, against Mr. Brick?"

"Ryle?"

"Yes! -- I believe that's the name."

"For a man called Jean Lessing?"

"I don't know anything about Lessing -- I think Ryle was the

other name --You were against Ryle."

"Lessing was Mr. Herder's brother-in-law."

"I don't remember Mr. Herder's brother-in-law -- though I

believe Mr. Herder _did_ have something to do with the case, or

some interest in it."

"How did you know anything about it?"

"You haven't answered me," said Elizabeth, laughing and

colouring brightly.

"One question is as good as another," said Winthrop smiling.

"But one answer is much better than another," said Elizabeth

in a little confusion.

"The suit against Ryle was very successful. I recovered for

him some ninety thousand dollars."

"Ninety thousand dollars!" -- Her thoughts took somewhat of a

wide circle and came back.

"The amount recovered is hardly a fair criterion of the skill

employed, in every instance. I must correct your judgment."

"I know more about it than that," said Elizabeth. "How far

your education has gone! -- and mine is only just beginning."

"I should be sorry to think mine was much more than beginning.

Now do you know we must go down? -- for I must be at Mountain

Spring to meet the stage-coach."

"How soon?" said Elizabeth springing up.

"There is time enough, but I want not to hurry you down the

hill."

He had put her sunbonnet on her head again and was retying it.

"Mr. Landholm --"

"You must not call me that," he said.

"Let me, till I can get courage to call you something else."

"How much courage does it want?"

"If you don't stop," said Elizabeth, her eyes filling with

tears, "I shall not be able to say one word of what I want to

say."

He stood still, holding the strings of her sunbonnet in either

hand. Elizabeth gathered breath, or courage, and went on.

"A little while ago I was grieving myself to think that you

did not know me -- now, I am very much ashamed to think that

you do." --

He did not move, nor she.

"I know I am not worthy to have you look at me. My only hope

is, that you will make me better."

The bonnet did not hide her face this time. He looked at it a

little, at the simplicity of ingenuous trouble which was

working in it, -- and then pushing the bonnet a little back,

kissed first one cheek and then the lips, which by that time

were bent down almost out of reach. But he reached them; and

Elizabeth was obliged to take her answer, in which there was

as much of gentle forgiveness and promise as of affection.

"You see what you have to expect, if you talk to me in this

strain," said he lightly. "I think I shall not be troubled

with much more of it. I don't like to leave you in this frame

of mind. I would take you to Mountain Spring in the boat -- if

I could bring you back again."

"I could bring myself back," said Elizabeth. They were going

down the hill; in the course of which, it may be remarked,

Winthrop had no reason to suppose that she once saw anything

but the ground.

"I am afraid you are too tired."

"No indeed I am not. I should like it -- if there is time."

"Go in less time that way than the other."

So they presently reached the lower ground.

"Do you want anything from the house?" said Winthrop as they

came near it.

"Only the oars -- If you will get those, I will untie the

boat."

"Then I'll _not_ get the oars. I'll get them on condition that

you stand still here."

So they went down together to the rocks, and Elizabeth put

herself in the stern of the little boat and they pushed off.

To any people who could think of anything but each other,

October offered enough to fill eyes, ears, and understanding;

that is, if ears can be filled with silence, which perhaps is

predicable. Absolute silence on this occasion was wanting, as

there was a good deal of talking; but for eyes and

understanding, perhaps it may safely be said that those of the

two people in the Merry-go-round took the benefit of

_everything_ they passed on their way; with a reduplication of

pleasure which arose from the throwing and catching of that

ball of conversation, in which, like the herb-stuffed ball of

the Arabian physician of old, -- lay perdu certain hidden

virtues, of sympathy. But Shahweetah's low rocky shore never

offered more beauty to any eyes, than to theirs that day, as

they coasted slowly round it. Colours, colours! If October had

been a dyer, he could not have shewn a greater variety of

samples.

There were some locust trees in the open cedar-grown field by

the river; trees that Mr. Landholm had planted long ago. They

were slow to turn, yet they were changing. One soft feathery

head was in yellowish green, another of more neutral colour;

and blending with them were the tints of a few reddish soft-

tinted alders below. That group was not gay. Further on were a

thicket of dull coloured alders at the edge of some flags, and

above them blazed a giant huckleberry bush in bright flame

colour; close by that were the purple red tufts of some common

sumachs -- the one beautifully rich, the other beautifully

striking. A little way from them stood a tulip tree, its green

changing with yellow. Beyond came cedars, in groups, wreathed

with bright tawny grape vines and splendid Virginia creepers,

now in full glory. Above their tops, on the higher ground, was

a rich green belt of pines -- above _them_, the changing trees of

the forest again.

Here shewed an elm its straw-coloured head -- there stood an

ash in beautiful grey-purple; very stately. The cornus family

in rich crimson -- others crimson purple; maples shewing yellow

and flame-colour and red all at once; one beauty still in

green was _orange-tipped_ with rich orange. The birches were a

darker hue of the same colour; hickories bright as gold.

Then came the rocks, and rocky precipitous point of

Shahweetah; and the echo of the row-locks from the wall. Then

the point was turned, and the little boat sought the bottom of

the bay, nearing Mountain Spring all the while. The water was

glassy smooth; the boat went -- too fast.

Down in the bay the character of the woodland was a little

different. It was of fuller growth, and with many fewer

evergreens, and some addition to the variety of the changing

deciduous leaves. When they got quite to the bottom of the bay

and were coasting along close under the shore, there was

perhaps a more striking display of Autumn's glories at their

side, than the rocks of Shahweetah could shew them. They

coasted slowly along, looking and talking. The combinations

were beautiful.

There was the dark fine bright red of some pepperidges shewing

behind the green of an unchanged maple; near by stood another

maple the leaves of which were all seemingly withered, a plain

reddish light wood-colour; while below its withered foliage a

thrifty poison sumach wreathing round its trunk and lower

branches, was in a beautiful confusion of fresh green and the

orange and red changes, yet but just begun. Then another

slight maple with the same dead wood-coloured leaves, into

which to the very top a Virginia creeper had twined itself,

and that was now brilliantly scarlet, magnificent in the last

degree. Another like it a few trees off -- both reflected

gorgeously in the still water. Rock oaks were part green and

part sear; at the edge of the shore below them a quantity of

reddish low shrubbery; the cornus, dark crimson and red brown,

with its white berries shewing underneath, and more

pepperidges in very bright red. One maple stood with its

leaves parti-coloured reddish and green -- another with

beautiful orange-coloured foliage. Ashes in superb very dark

purple; they were all changed. Then alders, oaks, and

chestnuts still green. A kaleidoscope view, on water and land,

as the little boat glided along sending rainbow ripples in

towards the shore.

In the bottom of the bay Winthrop brought the boat to land,

under a great red oak which stood in its fair dark green

beauty yet at the very edge of the water. Mountain Spring was

a little way off, hidden by an outsetting point of woods. As

the boat touched the tree-roots, Winthrop laid in the oars and

came and took a seat by the boat's mistress.

"Are you going to walk to Mountain Spring the rest of the

way?" she said.

"No."

"Will the stage-coach take you up here?"

"If it comes, it will. What are you going to do with yourself

now, till I see you again?"

"There's enough to do," said Elizabeth sighing. "I am going to

try to behave myself. How soon will the coach be here now?"

"I think, not until I have seen you about half way over the

bay on your way home."

"O you will not see me," said Elizabeth. "I am not going

before the coach does."

"Yes you are."

"What makes you think so?"

"Because it will not come till I have seen you at least, I

should judge, half across the bay."

"But I don't _want_ to go."

"You are so unaccustomed to doing things you don't want to do,

that it is good discipline for you."

"Do you mean that seriously?" said Elizabeth, looking a little

disturbed.

"I mean it half seriously," said he laughing, getting up to

push the boat to shore, which had swung a little off.

"But nobody likes, or wants, self-imposed discipline," said

Elizabeth.

"This isn't self-imposed -- I impose it," said he throwing the

rope round a branch of the tree. "I don't mean anything that

need make you look so," he added as he came back to his place.

Elizabeth looked up and her brow cleared.

"I dare say you are right," she said. "I will do just as you

please."

"Stop a minute," said he gently taking her hand -- "What do you

'dare say' I am right about?"

"This -- or anything," Elizabeth said, her eye wavering between

the water and the shore.

"I don't want you to think that."

"But how am I going to help it?"

He smiled a little and looked grave too.

"I am going to give you a lesson to study."

"Well? --" said Elizabeth with quick pleasure; and she watched,

very like a child, while Winthrop sought in his pocket and

brought out an old letter, tore off a piece of the back and

wrote on his knee with a pencil.

Then he gave it to her.

But it was the precept, --

'Little children, keep yourselves from idols.'

Elizabeth's face changed, and her eyes lifted themselves not

up again. The colour rose, and spread, and deepened, and her

head only bent lower down over the paper. That thrust was with

a barbed weapon. And there was a profound hush, and a bended

head and a pained brow, till a hand came gently between her

eyes and the paper and occupied the fingers that held it. It

was the same hand that her fancy had once seen full of

character -- she saw it again now; her thoughts made a spring

hack to that time and then to this. She looked up.

It was a look to see. There was a witching mingling of the

frank, the childlike, and the womanly, in her troubled face;

frankness that would not deny the truth that her monitor

seemed to have read, a childlike simplicity of shame that he

should have divined it, and a womanly self-respect that owned

it had nothing to be ashamed of. These were not all the

feelings that were at work, nor that shewed their working; and

it was a face of brilliant expression that Elizabeth lifted to

her companion. In the cheeks the blood spoke brightly; in the

eyes, fire; there was more than one tear there, too; and the

curve of the lips was unbent with a little tremulous play.

Winthrop must have been a man of self-command to have stood

it; but he looked apparently no more concerned than if old

Karen had lifted up her face at him.

"Do you know," she said, and the moved line of the lips might

plainly be seen, -- "you are making it the more hard for me to

learn your lesson, even in the very giving it me?"

"What shall I do?"

Elizabeth hesitated, and conquered herself.

"I guess you needn't do anything," she said half laughing.

"I'll try and do my part."

There was a little answer of the face then, that sent

Elizabeth's eyes to the ground.

"What do you mean by these words?" she said looking at them

again.

"I don't mean anything. I simply give them to you."

"Yes, and I might see an old musket standing round the house;

but if you take it up and present it at me, it is fair to ask,

what you mean?"

"It is not an old musket, to begin with," said Winthrop

laughing; "and if it goes off, it will shoot you _through the

heart_."

"You have the advantage of me entirely, this morning!" said

Elizabeth. "I give up. I hope the next time you have the

pleasure of seeing me, I shall be myself."

"I hope so. I intend to keep my identity. Now as that stage-

coach will not come till you get half over the bay --"

And a few minutes thereafter, the little boat was skimming

back for the point of Shahweetah, though not quite so swiftly

as it had come. But Elizabeth was not a mean oarsman; and in

good time she got home, and moored the Merry-go-round in its

place.

She was walking up to the house then, in very happy mood, one

hand depending musingly at either string of her sunbonnet,

when she was met by her cousin.

"Well," said Rose, -- "have you been out in the woods all this

while?"

"No."

"I suppose it's all settled between you and Mr. Landholm?"

Elizabeth stood an instant, with hands depending as aforesaid,

and then with a little inclination of her person, somewhat

stately and more graceful, gave Rose to understand, that she

had no contradiction to make to this insinuation.

"Is it!" said Rose. "Did he come up for that?"

"I suppose you know what he came for better than I do."

"Did you know I wrote a letter to him?"

"I guessed it afterwards. Rose!" -- said Elizabeth suddenly,

"there was nothing but about Karen in it?"

"Nothing in the world!" said Rose quickly. "What should there

be?"

"What did you write for?"

"I was frightened to death, and I wanted to see somebody; and

I knew _you_ wouldn't send for him. Wasn't it good I did! --"

Rose clapped her hands. The colour in Elizabeth's face was

gradually getting brilliant. She passed on.

"And now you' ll live in Mannahatta?"

Elizabeth did not answer.

"And will you send for old Mr. Landholm to come back and take

care of this place again?"

"Hush, Rose! -- Mr. Landholm will do what he pleases."

"_You_ don't please about it, I suppose?"

"Yes I do, Rose, -- not to talk at all on the subject!"

THE END.

PRINTED BY BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ.

Typographical errors silently corrected:

volume 1 chapter 1 : =to give you the best ;= silently corrected

as =to give you the best,=

chapter 1 : =Winthrops eyes= silently corrected as =Winthrop's

eyes=

chapter 2 : =we will launch, A vessel= silently corrected as we

=will launch A vessel=

chapter 5 : =William what?"= silently corrected as ="William

what?"=

chapter 7 : =For ought I see= silently corrected as =For aught I

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chapter 8 : =certainly very pretty,= silently corrected as

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chapter 10 : ='It was a soft grey day= silently corrected as =It

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chapter 10 : =It will find out more= silently corrected as =I

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chapter 13 : =repay you; my dear= silently corrected as =repay

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chapter 17 : =of no use to you;= silently corrected as =of no use

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chapter 18 : =they all fight= silently corrected as ="they all

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chapter 26 : ="Winnie's eye keenly= silently corrected as

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volume 2 chapter 4 : =But we'll come= silently corrected as ="But

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chapter 5 : =do you s'pose, Miss 'Lisabeth= silently corrected

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