The spot where our tents were pitched commands a view, I think

one of the loveliest in the world. Perhaps with me association

has something to do with the feeling. That broad sweep of the

plains of Jericho, bright with their groves of Zizyphus trees;

the lake waters coming in at the south; the great line of the

Moab horizon, and the heights of the western shore; and then

the constant changes which the light makes in revealing all

these; I found it a study of beauty, from the morning till the

night. From the time when the sun rose over the Moab mountains

and brightened our dôm trees and kissed our spring, to the

evening when the shadow of Quarantania stretched over all our

neighbourhood, as it stretched over Jericho of old, and the

distant hills and waters and thickets glowed in colours and

lights of their own.

The next morning after my walk I was up early, and going a

little way from my tent door, I sat down to enjoy it. The

servants were but just stirring; my father and Mr. Dinwiddie

safe within their canvas curtains. It was very nice to be

alone, for I wanted to think. The air was deliciously balmy

and soft; another fair day had risen upon us in that region of

tropical summer; the breath of the air was peace. Or was it

the speech of the past? It is difficult to disentangle things

sometimes. I had troublesome matters to think about, yet

somehow I was not troubled. I did not lay hold of trouble, all

the while I was in Palestine. Mr. Dinwiddie's words had

revealed to me that it might be my duty to tell my father all

that was in my heart. Suspicions of the fact, only, had

crossed my thought before; but "as iron sharpeneth iron, so a

man sharpeneth the countenance of his friend." I saw more

clearly. And the longer I sat there on my stone looking over

to the line of the Jordan and to the hills through which the

armies of Israel had once come down to cross it, the clearer

it grew to my mind, that the difficulty before me was one to

be faced, not evaded. I saw that papa had a right to know my

affairs, and that he would think it became me as a Christian

not to make a mystery of them. I saw I must tell papa about

myself. And yet, it did not appal me, as the idea had often

appalled me. I was hardly afraid. At any rate, there before me

the hosts of the Israelites had passed over dry shod; though

the river was swift and strong; and the appeal of Elisha, -

"Where is the Lord God of Elijah?" - came home to my ear like

a blast of the priests' silver trumpets. I felt two hands on

my shoulders.

"Studying it all, Daisy?"

"Papa, I am never tired of studying."

"This is a wonderful place."

"Papa, you know little about it yet. Old Jericho was up

there."

"You speak as if I had gone to school in 'old Jericho,' " said

my father, laughing. "I have the vaguest idea, Daisy, that

such a city existed. That is all."

"Sit down, papa, while breakfast is getting ready, and let me

mend your knowledge."

So we read the story there, on the stone by the spring. Mr.

Dinwiddie joined us; and it was presently decided that we

should spend the morning in examining the ground in our

neighbourhood and the old sites of what had passed away. So

after breakfast we sat out upon a walk over the territory of

old Jericho.

"But it is strange," said papa, "if the city was here, that

there are no architectural remains to testify as much."

"We rarely find them, sir, but in connection with Roman or

Saracenic work. Shapeless mounds, and broken pottery, as you

have it here, are all that generally mark our Palestine

ruins."

"But Herod?" said papa. "He was a builder."

"Herod's Jericho was a mile and a half away, to the east. And

moreover, if anything had been remaining here that could be

made of use, the Saracens or Crusaders would have pulled it to

pieces to help make their sugar mills up yonder, or their

aqueducts."

"There is no sugar cane here now?"

"Not a trace of it. Nor a palm tree; though Jericho was a city

of palms; nor a root of the balsam, though great gain was

derived to Judea in ancient times from the balsam gardens

here."

We mounted our horses and rode down to the site of Herod's

Jericho, on the banks of the little stream that issues from

the gorge of the Wady Kelt. How lovely, and how desolate, it

was. The stream overhung with trees and bordered with

oleanders and shrubs of which I have forgotten the names, and

crossed by old arches still; and around, the desolate tokens

of what once was. Foundation lines, and ruined aqueducts. Mr.

Dinwiddie made us remark the pavement of the road leading up

to the Kelt, the old road to Jerusalem, the road by which

Jesus went when the blind men called him, and over which,

somewhere on its way, stretched the sycamore tree into which

Zaccheus climbed. Ah how barren and empty the way looked now!

- with Him no longer here. For a moment, so looked my own path

before me, - the dusty, hot road; the desolate pass; the

barren mountain top. It was only a freak of fancy; I do not

know what brought it. I had not felt so a moment before, and I

did not a moment after.

"Where His feet lead now, the green pastures are not wanting,

-" Mr. Dinwiddie said; I suppose reading my look.

"Never, Mr. Dinwiddie?"

"Never!"

"But it _seems_, often, to people, that they are wanting."

"Their eyes are so blinded by tears that they cannot see them,

sometimes. Even then, they can lie down and feel them, - feel

that they are in them."

"Are there any sycamore trees here now?" my father asked.

"Two or three poor old specimens; just enough to show for the

story. Those sycamore figs belong to the low and warm

situations; this is the proper place for them."

Papa felt so well that we determined to push on to the Jordan.

It was a hot, long ride, over a shadeless and barren plain;

and when we came to the river papa declared himself very much

disappointed. But I was not. Narrow and muddy as the stream

was, it was also powerful in its rapid flood; no one could

venture to bathe in it. The river was much swollen and had

been yet more so; the tracks of wild animals which the floods

had disturbed were everywhere to be seen. Papa and Mr.

Dinwiddie reasoned and argued, while I sat and meditated; in a

deep delight that I should see the Jordan at all. We took a

long rest there, on its banks. The jungle was a delicious

study to me, and when the deep talk of the gentlemen subsided

enough to give me a chance, I got Mr. Dinwiddie to enlighten

me as to the names and qualities of the various trees and

plants. They were of fine luxuriant growth. Poplars and

sycamores and other trees, willows, I think, and exquisite

tamarisks in blossom; and what I specially admired, the canes.

I understood then how people might go into the plain to see "a

reed shaken with the wind." Growing twelve to fifteen feet

high, with graceful tufts of feathery bloom which they bow and

sway to the breeze in a manner lovely to see.

Another day we rode down to the shore of the Dead Sea; papa

being none the worse for his Jordan excursion. Then the rain

visited us, and for two or three days we were kept in our

tents. With some difficulty I then persuaded papa to go

further south, to the shore of the Dead Sea, to some pleasant

camping ground by one of its western springs; there rain falls

almost never. So, first at Ain Feshkah and then at Ain Jidi,

we spent another couple of weeks; without Mr. Dinwiddie it

would have been impossible, but his society kept papa from

wearying and made everything as enjoyable as could be to both

of us. It was the middle of February when we returned to

Jerusalem.

The rainy season was not of course at an end yet; but a change

of beauty had come over the land. We found fruit trees in

blossom, almond and peach; and apricots just ready to bloom.

Corn up and green; and flowers coming and come. I had my own

plans, made up from the experience and counsels of my English

friends; but papa wanted to see Jerusalem, and I waited. Of

course I wanted to see Jerusalem too; and here again Mr.

Dinwiddie was our excellent friend and guide and instructor.

Papa was quite in earnest now; and went about the city

examining walls and churches and rock-tombs and all the

environs, with a diligent intentness almost equal to mine; and

he and Mr. Dinwiddie had endless talks and discussions, while

I mused. The words, "Constantine," "Byzantine," "Crusaders,"

"Helena", "Saracenic," "Herod," "Josephus;" with modern names

almost as well known; echoed and re-echoed in my ears.

"Daisy!" said papa suddenly in one of these talks, - "Daisy!

you are not interested in this."

"Papa, it is so uncertain."

Mr. Dinwiddie laughed.

"But the question, child; don't you care about the question?

how is it ever to be made certain? I thought this question

would engage all your attention."

"How can it ever be made certain, papa? After those hundred

and fifty years when there were no Jews allowed here, who was

to remember the spot of the Sepulchre? Few but Christians knew

it, in the first place."

"Oh, you _have_ thought about it!" said papa. "But are you not

interested in a _probable_ site, Daisy?"

"No, papa."

"All these old churches and relics then do not concern you?"

"Papa, I only go to see them for your sake."

"Well," said papa, "now I will go to the Mount of Olives for

your sake."

That was my plan; following the advice of the English party,

who said they had enjoyed it. We hired for a time a little

stone dwelling on the Mount of Olives, from which we had a

fine view of the city; and to this new home papa and I moved,

and took up our quarters in it. Of all my days in the Holy

Land, excepting perhaps the time spent at Jericho and Engedi,

these days were the best. They are like a jewel of treasure in

my memory.

The little dwelling to which we had come was rougher in

accommodation than our tents; but the season was still early,

and it gave better shelter to papa. It was a rude stone house,

with a few small rooms at our service; which I soon made

comfortable with carpets and cushions. The flat roof above

gave us a delightful view of the country and abundant chance

to examine and watch all its points and aspects. I spent the

hours up here or at the window of our little sitting-room;

using my eyes all the time, to take in and feast upon what was

before them. Only when papa would go out with me, I left my

post; to take up the survey from some new point of view. I had

a great deal to think of, those days; a certain crisis in my

life had come, or was coming; I was facing it and getting

ready for it; and thinking and looking seemed to help and

stimulate each other. It was wonderful to watch the lights

change on Jerusalem; from the first sunbeam that came over the

hills of Moab and touched the city, to the full glare of the

midday, and then the sunset colours on land and rock and

building, transforming the dull greys and whites with a flush

of rosy beauty and purple splendour. The tints that hovered

then upon the red hills of Moab were never to be forgotten. I

watched it, this change of light and shade and colour, from

day to day. I learned to know Jerusalem and her surrounding

hills and her enclosing valleys; and the barrier wall of Moab

became a familiar line to me. All this while, as I said, I had

a great deal to think of, and was thinking. Past, present and

future chased each other in and out of my head; or rather, it

seems to me, dwelt there together.

"Daisy!" - papa called to me when I was on the roof one day. I

ran down.

"What are you doing up there?"

"I was looking, papa. I was studying topography."

"Let us go out and study it a little by actual survey. I think

a walk would do me good."

We went down first to the valley of the Kedron, and wandered

about there; sometimes sitting down under the shade of the

olive trees to rest; speculating upon localities, recalling

scenes of history; wondering at the path which descends into

the valley from St. Stephen's gate and goes on over the Mount

of Olives to Bethany. Above all things, that path held my

eyes. No doubt the real path that was travelled eighteen

centuries ago lay deep beneath many feet of piled-up rubbish;

but the rubbish itself told a tale; and the path was there.

After a long stay in the valley, we mounted the hill again,

where our temporary home was; and passing that, went on to the

height of the hill. There we sat down. The westering sun was

casting lines of light all over the landscape, which would be

soon floods of colour. Papa and I sat down to look and wait.

"It certainly is worth coming for," said papa. "Our journey

realises more than all I had hoped from it, Daisy."

"I am so glad, papa!"

"But you, Daisy, how is it with you? You seem to me a little,

and not a little, _distraite_."

"I have so much to think of, papa."

"More than I have?"

"Why, yes, papa," I said, half laughing. "I think so."

"You must have fields of speculation unknown to me, Daisy."

"Yes, papa. Some time I want to talk to you about them."

"Isn't now a good time?" said papa, carelessly.

I was silent a while, thinking how to begin. It was a good

time, I knew, and I dared not let it pass. I had been waiting

till Mr. Dinwiddie should have left us and papa and I be quite

alone; and he was to join us again as soon as we started on

our northward journey. Now was my best opportunity. All the

more, for knowing that, my heart beat.

"Papa," I began, "may I ask you a few questions, the better to

come at what I want?"

"Certainly. Your questions, Daisy, I have always found

stimulating."

"Then first, what is it you think of most, in looking over

from this place to Jerusalem?"

"Of course," said papa, rousing himself, "the prominent

thought must be the wonderful scene that was acted there

eighteen hundred years ago; not the course of history before

or after. Is that what you mean?"

"I mean that, papa. I mean the death of Christ. Papa, what was

that for?"

"Why, as I understand it, Daisy, it was a satisfaction to the

justice of God for the sins of the world. Are you going to put

me through a course of theology, Daisy?"

"No, papa. But do you think it was for all the world, or only

for a part of them?"

"For all, of course. The Bible words I take to be quite clear

on that point, even if it were possible that it should have

been otherwise."

"Then it was for you and me, papa?"

"Yes."

"And for those ignorant Moslems that live in the city now?"

"Yes, of course it was; though I think they will not have much

good of it, Daisy."

"Never mind that, papa. Then it was for my old June, and for

Maria and Darry and Pete and Margaret, and all the rest of our

people at Magnolia?"

"Yes," said papa, rousing up a little. I did not look at him.

"Papa, don't you think the Lord Jesus loves the people for

whom He died?"

"Certainly. It is inconceivable that He should have died for

them if He did not love them. Though that is also a great

mystery to me, Daisy."

"Papa, don't you think that, having died for them, He holds

them precious?"

"I suppose so," said papa slowly.

"Every one?"

"Yes."

"Do you think He loves one man less than another because his

skin is darker?"

"Certainly not, Daisy."

"Then papa - should we?"

"I do not know that we do," papa said, after a pause.

"Papa, think. What would you say to our, or anybody's, holding

white men in slavery - making them work without wages - and

forcing them to obey under the lash?"

"They are an inferior race, Daisy," papa answered again after

a pause. His voice showed he did not enjoy the conversation;

but it was needful for me to go on.

"Papa, they have been kept down. But suppose they were

inferior, - since Christ died for them, does He not love

them?"

"I have no doubt of it."

"Then, papa, what will He say to us, for keeping those whom He

loves and died for, at arms' length or under our feet? and

what will He say to us for keeping them out of the good He

died to give them?"

"We do not, Daisy! They have their religious privileges."

"Papa, I have lived among them as you never did. They may not

meet together to pray, on pain of the lash. They cannot have

Bibles, for they are not allowed to read. They have no family

life; for husbands and wives and parents and children are

parted and torn from each other at the will or for the

interest of their owners. They live like the animals."

"Not on my estates!" said papa, rousing himself again. "There

is no selling and buying of the people there."

"Pete's wife was forcibly taken from him, papa, and then sent

South."

"By whom?"

"By Edwards. And the rest of the hands were in mortal fear of

him; utterly cowed. They dared not move without his pleasure."

"Abuses," papa muttered; - "nothing to do with the system."

"What must the system be where such things are possible? where

one such thing is possible? And oh, papa, they suffer! there

is no such thing as real comfort of life; there is no scope or

liberty for the smallest upward tendency. Nothing is their

own, not their own time; they have no chance to be anything

but inferior."

"They have all the essentials of comfortable living, and they

are comfortable," said my father.

"Papa, they do not think so."

"Few people do think so," said papa. "It is a vice of

humanity."

I was silent a little bit, and then I ventured to say, -

"Papa, the Lord Jesus loved them well enough to die for them."

"Well," said papa, rather growlingly, "what then?"

"I am thinking, what will He say to us for handling them so."

"What would you do for them, Daisy?"

"All I could, papa," I said softly.

"How much could you, do you suppose?"

"Papa, I would not stop as long as there was anything more to

be done."

"I suppose you would begin by setting them all free?"

"Wouldn't you wish it, papa, for yourself and me, if we were

two of them? - and for mamma and Ransom, if they were two

more?"

"You are mistaken in thinking it is a parallel case. They do

not wish for liberty as we should."

"Then it only shows how much harm the want of liberty has done

them already. But they wish for it quite enough, papa; quite

enough. It breaks my heart to think how much they do wish for

it."

"My child, you do not know what you are talking about!" papa

answered; half worried, I thought, and half impatient. "In the

first place, they would not be better off if they were set

free; though you think they would; and in the second place, do

you know how it would affect our own condition?"

"Papa," I said low, - "it has nothing to do with the question.

I do not care."

"You would care."

"I care for this other more, papa."

"Daisy, understand. Instead of being well off, you would be

poor; you would be poor. The Southern estates would be worth

nothing without hands to cultivate them; and my Northern

estates will go to your brother."

"I should never be rich in the way you think, papa."

"How so?"

"I would never be rich in that way."

"What would you do?"

"I would be poor."

"It is not so easy to do as to talk about," said my father.

"At the present time, Daisy, - I suppose, if you had your

will, you would set at liberty at once all the people on the

Magnolia plantations?"

"Indeed I would, papa."

"Then we should be reduced to a present nothing. The Melbourne

property brings in very little, nothing, in fact, without a

master on the spot to manage it. I dare say some trifling rent

might be obtained for it; and the sale of Magnolia and its

corresponding estates would fetch something if the times

admitted of sale. You know it is impossible now. We should

have scarce anything to live upon, my child, to satisfy your

philanthropy."

"Papa, there was a poor woman once, who was reduced to a

handful of meal and a little oil as her whole household store.

Yet at the command of the prophet of the Lord, she took some

of it to make bread for him, before she fed herself and her

child - both of them starving. And the Lord never let her want

either meal or oil all the time the famine lasted."

"Miracles do not come for people's help, now-a-days, Daisy."

"Papa, yes! God's ways may change, His ways of doing the same

thing; but He does not change. He takes care of His people now

without miracles, all the same."

"All the same!" repeated papa. "That is an English

expression, that you have caught from your friends."

We were both silent for a while.

"Daisy, my child, your views of all these things will alter by

and by. You are young, and have slight experience of the

things of life. By and by, you will find it a much more

serious thing than you imagine to be without wealth. You would

find a great difference between the heiress and the penniless

girl; a difference you would not like."

"Papa," I said slowly, - "I hope you will not be displeased or

hurt, - but I want it to be known, and I wanted you should

know, that I never shall be an heiress. I never will be rich

in that way. I will take what God gives me."

"First throwing away what He has given you," said papa.

"I do not think He has given it, papa."

"What then? have we stolen it?"

"Not we; but those who have been before us, papa; they stole

it. All we are doing, is keeping that which is not ours."

"Enough too, I should think!" said papa. "You will alter your

mind, Daisy, about all this, if you wait a while. What do you

think your mother would say to it?"

"I know, papa," I said softly. "But I cannot help thinking of

what will be said somewhere else. I would like that you and I,

and she too, might have that 'Well done' - which the Lord

Jesus will give to some. And when they enter into the joy of

their Lord, will they care what His service has cost them?"

My eyes were full of tears, and I could scarcely speak; for I

felt that I had gained very little ground, or better no ground

at all. What indeed could I have expected to gain? Papa sat

still, and I looked over at Jerusalem, where the westing sun

was making a bath of sunbeams for the old domes and walls. A

sort of promise of glory, which yet touched me exceedingly

from its contrast with present condition. Even so of other

things, and other places besides Jerusalem. But Melbourne

seemed to be in shadow. And Magnolia? -

I wondered what papa would say next, or whether our talk had

come to a deadlock then and there. I had a great deal more

myself to say; but the present opportunity seemed to be

questionable. And then it was gone; for Mr. Dinwiddie mounted

the hill and came to take a seat beside us.

"Any news, Mr. Dinwiddie?" was papa's question, as usual.

"From America."

"What sort of news?"

"Confused sort - as the custom is. Skirmishes which amount to

nothing, and tell nothing. However, there is a little more

this time. Fort Henry has been taken, on the Tennessee river,

by Commander Foote and his gunboats."

"Successes cannot always be on one side, of course," remarked

my father.

"Roanoke Island has been taken, by the sea and land forces

under Burnside and Goldsborough."

"Has it!" - said papa. "Well, - what good will that do them?"

"Strengthen their hearts for continuing the struggle," said

Mr. Dinwiddie. "It will do that."

"The struggle cannot last very long," said my father. "They

must see sooner or later how hopeless it is."

"Not in the light of these last events," said Mr. Dinwiddie.

"What does my other friend here think about it?"

"About what, Mr. Dinwiddie?"

"The length of the struggle."

"Do you think Daisy has some special means of knowledge?"

asked my father, carelessly.

"Well - yes," said Mr Dinwiddie. "She has been among Northern

friends a good while; perhaps she can judge better of their

tone and temper than I can, - or you, sir."

"I cannot hold just the view that you do, Mr. Dinwiddie, - or

that papa does."

"So I supposed. You think there are some good soldiers in the

Northern army."

"It would be absurd to suppose there are not," said my father;

"but what they do want, is a right understanding of the spirit

of the South. It is more persistent and obstinate, as well as

strong, than the North takes any account of. It will not

yield. It will do and endure anything first."

I thought I had heard papa intimate a doubt on that issue;

however I said nothing.

"If _spirit_ would save a people," Mr. Dinwiddie rejoined,

"those walls over against us would not bear the testimony they

do. No people ever fought with more spirit than this people.

Yet Jerusalem is a heap of ruins."

"You do not mean that such a fate can overtake the whole

South?" said my father.

"I mean, that the race is not always to the swift. The South

have right on their side, however."

"Right?" said I.

"I thought that would bring you out," Mr. Dinwiddie said, with

a kindly look at me.

"Daisy is an abolitionist," said papa. "Where she got it, is

out of my knowledge. But I think, Mr. Dinwiddie, there are

minds so constituted that they take of choice that view of

things which is practically the most adverse to their own

interest."

"Tell papa, Mr. Dinwiddie, that that cannot be."

"What cannot be, if you please?"

"I mean, that which is the _right_ cannot be the wrong in any

sense; cannot be even the wrong view for anybody's interest

that adopts it."

"Fair theories -" said papa.

"Something else, it must be, papa. There is a promise - 'With

what measure ye measure, it shall be measured to you again.'

'Give, and it shall be given unto you; full measure, pressed

down, heaped up, and running over, shall men give into your

bosom.' "

"Why into my bosom?" said papa. "I would rather it were into

my hands, or a basket, or anything."

We went off into a laugh upon that, and Mr. Dinwiddie

explained, and the conversation turned. We went into the house

to have tea; and there we discussed the subject of our further

journey and when we should set off. Mr. Dinwiddie was engaged

to go with us to Lebanon. But it was concluded that we would

wait yet a little for the season to be further advanced. For

me, I was in no hurry to leave the Mount of Olives and

Jerusalem.

We sat on the roof that evening and watched the lights kindle

in Jerusalem, and talked of the old-time scenes and changes;

till I supposed the question of home troubles and our poor

Magnolia people was pretty well driven from papa's mind. But

when Mr. Dinwiddie was gone, and I was bidding him good-night,

he held me fast in his arms, looking down into my face.

"Little Daisy!" - he said.

"Not just now, papa."

"The very same!" he said. "My little Daisy! - who was always

forgetting herself in favour of any poor creature that came in

her way."

"Papa - what did our Lord do?"

"Daisy, do you expect to conform yourself and everybody to

that pattern?"

"Myself, papa. Not everybody."

"Me? -"

I could not answer papa. I hid my face on his breast; - for he

still held me. And now he kissed me fondly.

"We must not do what mamma would never agree to," he said very

kindly. Again I could make no answer. I knew all about mamma.

"Daisy," said papa presently, we had not changed our position,

- "is Mr. Dinwiddie your friend, or mine?"

"Of us both, papa!" I said in astonishment. "Of me;

particularly, perhaps; because he knows me best and has known

me longest."

"Then he comes here to see you?"

"And you, papa."

"I am afraid he does not come to see me," papa said. "Do you

like to see him very much, Daisy?"

"Certainly, papa; very much; because he is an old, old, very

good friend. That is all."

"You are sure?"

"Quite sure, papa."

"I believe that _is_ all," said papa, looking into my face.

"I am afraid, however, that our friend wishes he were not

quite so old a friend."

"No, papa," I said; "you are, mistaken. I am sure Mr.

Dinwiddie does not think so. He knows better."

"How does he know better?"

"I think he understands, papa."

"What?"

"Me."

"What about you?"

"I think he thinks only that, - what I said, papa."

"And how came you to think he thinks anything about it?"

"Papa -"

"Has he ever told you his thoughts?"

"No, sir; certainly."

"Then what do you mean, Daisy."

"Papa - we have talked."

"But not about that?"

"No, papa; not about Mr. Dinwiddie's feelings, certainly. But

I am sure he understands."

"What, my pet?"

"My feelings, papa."

"Your feeling about himself?"

"Yes."

"How should he understand it, Daisy?"

"I think he does, papa -"

"You say, you 'have talked'? What course did your talk take?"

My heart beat. I saw what was coming now, - what ought to

come. It was my time.

"It was a very general course, papa. It did not touch,

directly, my feeling for Mr. Dinwiddie, or anybody."

"Indirectly?"

"I think - I do not know - I half fancied, Mr. Dinwiddie

thought so."

"Thought what?"

"That it did touch some feeling of mine."

"Not for himself. For some other?"

"Yes -" I whispered.

"For whom?" he said abruptly. And then as I hesitated, -

"For one of those two?"

"What two?"

"De Saussure or Marshall?"

"Oh, no, papa!"

"Your cousin Gary?"

"Oh, no, papa!"

"Have I lost you, Daisy?" he said then in a different tone,

gentle and lingering and full of regret. My breath was gone; I

threw my arms around his neck.

"Why did you never tell me before, Daisy?"

"Papa, - I was afraid."

"Are you afraid now?"

"Yes."

"Let us have it over then, Daisy. Who is it that has stolen

you from me?"

"Oh no one, papal" I cried. "No one could. No one can."

"Who has tried, then?"

"A great many people, papa; but not this person."

"How has it come to pass then, my pet? And who is this

person?"

"Papa, it came to pass without anybody's knowing it or meaning

it; and when I knew it, then I could not help it. But not what

you say has come to pass; nobody has stolen or could steal me

from you."

"I have only lost, without any other being the gainer," said

papa a little bitterly.

"No, papa, you have not lost; you cannot; I am not changed,

papa, do you not see that I am not changed? I am yours, just

as I always was, - only more, papa."

Papa kissed me, but it cut me to the heart to feel there was

pain in the kiss. I did what my lips could to clear the pain

away.

"Half is not as much as the whole, Daisy," he said at length.

"It may be, papa. Suppose the whole is twice as large as it

used to be?"

"That is a good specimen of woman's reasoning. But you have

not told me all yet, Daisy. Who is it that holds the other

half?"

There was so much soreness and disappointment shown in papa's

words, rather in the manner of them, that it was extremely

difficult for me to carry on the conversation. Tears are a

help, I suppose, to other women. They do not come to me, not

at such times. I stood still in papa's arms, with a kind of

dry heartache. The pain in his words was a terrible trial to

me. He folded me close again and kissed me over and over, and

then whispered, -

"Who is it, Daisy?"

"Papa, it was at West Point. I never meant it, and never knew

it, until I could not help it."

"At West Point!" said papa.

"Two years ago, when Dr. Sandford took me there."

"It is not Dr. Sandford!"

"Oh, no, papa! He is not to blame. He did everything he could

to take care of me. He knows nothing it all about it."

"Who is it, then?"

"He was a cadet then, papa; he is in the army now."

"Who is he?"

"He is from Vermont; his name is Thorold."

"Not a Southerner?"

"No, papa. Do you care very much for that?"

"Is he in the _Northern_ army, Daisy?"

"He could not help that, papa; being a Vermonter."

Papa let me go; I had been standing in his arms all this

while; and took several turns up and down our little room. I

sat down, for my joints trembled under me. Papa walked and

walked.

"Does your mother know?" he said at last.

"I dared not tell her."

"Who does know?"

"Nobody, papa, but you, and an old friend of mine in New York,

- an aunt of Mr. Thorold's."

"Daisy, what is this young man?"

"Papa, I wish you could know him."

"How comes it that he, as well as you, has kept silence?"

"I don't know, papa. His letter must have miscarried. He was

going to write to you immediately, just before I left

Washington. I was afraid to have him do it, but he insisted

that he must."

"Why were you afraid?"

"Papa, I knew you and mamma would not be I pleased; that it

would not be what you would wish; and I feared mamma, and

perhaps you, would forbid him at once."

"Does he write to you?"

"I would not let him, papa, without your permission; and I was

afraid I could not get that."

"What did you expect to do then, Daisy, if I was never to be

told?"

"I thought to wait only till the war should be over, papa, -

when he might see you himself and you might see him. I thought

that would be the best way."

"_He_ did not?"

"No; he insisted on writing."

"He was right. What is the young man's name, Daisy? you have

not told me yet."

"Christian Thorold."

"Thorold," said papa. "It is an English name. Have you heard

nothing from him, Daisy, since you came to Switzerland?"

"Nothing," - I said.

Papa came over again to where I sat on the divan, bent down

and kissed me.

"Am I such a terror to you, Daisy?"

"Oh, no, papa," I said, bursting into tears at last; - "but

mamma - you know if mamma said a word at first, she would

never go back from it."

"I know," he said. "And I choose, for the present, that this

matter should remain a secret between you and me. You need not

tell your mother until I bid you."

"Yes, papa. Thank you."

"And, Daisy," said he stroking my hair fondly, - "the war is

not ended in America yet, and I am afraid we have a long time

to wait for it. Poor child! - But for the present there are no

storms ahead."

I rose up and kissed papa, with a very tender good-night given

and exchanged; and then I went to my room. The Jerusalem

lights were out. But a peace, deep and wide as the blue arch

of the sky, seemed to have spanned my life and my heart.

CHAPTER XVII.

OUT OF THE SMOKE

There was an immense burden lifted off me. It is difficult to

express the change and the relief in my feelings. The next day

was given to an excursion in the neighbourhood; and I never

can forget how rare the air seemed to be, as if I were

breathing pure life; and how brilliant the sunlight was that

fell on the wonderful Palestine carpet of spring flowers. All

over they were; under foot and everywhere else; flashing from

hidden places, peeping round corners, smiling at us in every

meadow and hillside; a glory upon the land. Papa was in great

delight, as well as I; and as kind as possible to me; also

very good to Mr. Dinwiddie. Mr. Dinwiddie himself seemed to me

transformed. I had gone back now to the free feeling of a

child; and he looked to me again as my childish eyes had seen

him. There was a great amount of fire and vigour and

intellectual life in his countenance; the auburn hair and the

brown eyes glowed together with the hue of a warm temperament;

but that was tempered by a sweet and manly character. I

thought he had grown soberer than the Mr. Dinwiddie of my

remembrance.

That particular day lies in my memory like some far-off lake

that one has seen just under the horizon of a wide landscape,

- a still bit of silvery light. It is not the distance,

though, in this case, that gives it its shining. We were going

that morning to visit Gibeon and Neby Samwil; and the

landscape was full, for me, of the peace which had come into

the relations between me and papa. It was a delicious spring

day; the flowers bursting under our feet with their fresh

smiles; the air perfumed with herby scents and young sweetness

of nature; while associations of old time clustered all about,

like sighs of history. - We went first along the great stony

track which leads from Jerusalem to the north; then turned

aside into the great route from Jaffa to Jerusalem; not the

southern and rougher way which re had taken when we came from

the coast. This was he approach of almost all the armies which

have poured their fury on the devoted city. We went single

file, as one has to go in Palestine; and I liked it. There was

too much to think of to make one want to talk. And the

buoyancy of the air seemed to feed mind as well as body, and

give all the stimulus needed. Mr. Dinwiddie sometimes called

out to me to point my attention to something; and the rest of

the time I kept company with the past and my own musings.

We visited Gibeon first, and stood by the dry pool where Abner

and Joab watched the fight of their twelve picked men; and we

read Solomon's prayer.

"This is a wonderful country," said papa, "for the way its

associations are packed. There is more history here than in

any other region of the world."

"Well, papa, it is the world's history," I said.

"What do you mean, Daisy?"

I hesitated; it was not very easy to tell.

"She is right though," said Mr. Dinwiddie; "it is the very

core of the world's history, round which the other is slowly

gathering and maturing, to the perfected fruit. Or to take it

another way, - ever since God at the first did visit the

Gentiles, to take put of them a people for His name, His

dealings with that people have been an earnest and an image of

His course with His Church at large. We may cut down to the

heart of the world and find the perfect flower here - as we do

in bulbs."

"A blossoming to destruction then, it seems," said my father.

"No!" said Mr. Dinwiddie - "to restoration and glory. The

history of this land is not yet finished."

"And you think _that_ is in store for it yet?"

Mr. Dinwiddie answered, - " 'Thus saith the Lord; If ye can

break my covenant of the day, and my covenant of the night,

and that there should not be day and night in their season;

then may also my covenant be broken with David my servant,

that he should not have a son to reign upon his throne; and

with the Levites the priests, my ministers. As the hosts of

heaven cannot be numbered, neither the sand of the sea

measured: so will I multiply the seed of David my servant, and

the Levites that minister unto me.' "

"Who spoke that?"

"The prophet Jeremiah."

"And when, pray?"

"When Nebuchadnezzar and his army were just upon the point of

completing the destruction of the city - and of the people."

"Then it refers to their return from captivity, does it not?"

"As the type of the other restoration," said Mr. Dinwiddie.

"For 'In those days, and at that time, will I cause the Branch

of righteousness to grow up unto David; and he shall execute

judgment and righteousness in the land. In those days shall

Judah be saved, and Jerusalem shall dwell safely; and this is

the name whereby she shall be called, The Lord our

righteousness.' Moreover, in Ezekiel's vision of a new temple

and city, he gives the dimensions of the temple large enough

to take in all Jerusalem, and the holy city as many times

exceeding its utmost actual limits; and he says, 'The name of

the city from that day shall be, The Lord is there.' Jehovah

shammah. I wish the day were come."

"You take it as entirely figurative!" said papa. "I thought

just now you made it entirely literal."

"What is a figure?" said Mr. Dinwiddie. "And if you take away

the literal, where will the spiritual be?"

"True," said papa. "These are things I have not studied."

And then we mounted to the height of Neby Samwil and sat down

for a good long look. Mr. Dinwiddie was here as elsewhere

invaluable. He told us everything and pointed out everything

to us, that we ought to see or know. The seacoast plain lay

below; - spread out for many a mile, with here a height and

there a cluster of buildings, and the blue sea washing its

western border. We could easily see Jaffa, Ramleh and Lydda;

we picked those spots out first which we knew. Then Mr.

Dinwiddie pointed us to Ashdod, and to Ekron, a little to the

left of Ramleh.

"And that is where Nebuchadnezzar was with his army, before he

went up to Jerusalem," I said.

"The first time," said Mr. Dinwiddie. "Yes; there his hosts of

Chaldeans lay in the plain; and there after the place was

taken he impaled the chiefs of the town; and then flushed with

power, came up to Jerusalem and cast banks against it. So he

says; and we know that so Isaiah prophesied he would do; and

we know that Hezekiah bought him off."

"Did he come up this way of the Beth-horons?" I asked.

"I suppose so. And down this way, Joshua chased the fleeing

kings and their followers and overthrew them as they fled down

the pass - what a rush it must have been! - and down there,

down where the green sweeps into the hills from the plain,

there is Ajalon."

"Papa, do you see?"

"I see; but I do not understand quite so well as you do,

Daisy, what you are talking about."

"It is Miss Randolph's own country," remarked Mr. Dinwiddie.

"She is not a Jewess," said papa.

"Pardon me - we have it on authority that 'he is a Jew which

is one inwardly;' - an Israelite indeed," Mr . Dinwiddie

muttered to himself.

I saw papa was puzzled and half displeased. I hastened to turn

the conversation, and showed him where Bethel lay and the

mountains of Ephraim; and finally ordered our luncheon basket

to be brought forward. But we had to leave our position and

choose a shaded place, the sun was growing so hot.

"How long do you expect to remain here - in Palestine, Mr.

Dinwiddie?" something prompted me to ask. He hesitated a

moment or two and then replied -

"I cannot tell - probably as long as I stay anywhere on this

scene of action."

"You do not mean ever to come home?" I said.

"What is 'home,' Miss Daisy?" he replied, looking at me.

"It is where we were born," said papa.

"Would your daughter say so?"

"No," I answered; for I was born at Magnolia. "But I think

home is where we have lived, - is it not?"

"Melbourne?" Mr. Dinwiddie suggested.

"No," said I; "it is not Melbourne now, to be sure; but

neither could it be possibly any place in Europe, or Asia."

"Are you sure? Not in _any_ circumstances?"

I cannot tell what, in his tone or look, drove his meaning

home. But I felt the colour rise in my face and I could not

answer.

"It is where the heart is, after all," Mr. Dinwiddie resumed.

"The Syrian sky does not make much difference. _My_ home is

waiting for me."

"But we speak of home here, and properly."

"Properly, for those who have it."

"I think, Mr. Dinwiddie, that we say 'home' sometimes, when we

speak only of where the heart was."

"Better not," he said. "Let us have a living home, not a dead

one. And that we can, always."

"What do you know of places where the heart _was?_" said papa,

looking at me curiously.

"Not much, papa; but I was thinking; and I think people mean

that sometimes."

"We will both trust she will never come nearer to the

knowledge," said Mr. Dinwiddie, with one of his bright looks

at papa and at me. It was assuming a little more interest in

our affairs than I feared papa would like; but he took it

quietly. More quietly than I could, though my reason for

disquietude was different. Mr. Dinwiddie's words had set

vibrating a chord in my heart which could not just then give a

note of pleasure. I wanted it to lie still. The wide fair

landscape took a look to me instantly, which indeed belonged

to it, of "places where the heart was;" and the echo of broken

hopes came up to my ear from the gray ruins near and far. Yet

the flowers of spring were laughing and shouting under my

feet. Was it hope, or mockery?

"What are you questioning, Miss Daisy ?" said Mr. Dinwiddie,

as he offered me some fruit.

"I seemed to hear two voices in nature, Mr. Dinwiddie; - I

wanted to find out which was the true."

"What were the voices? - and I will tell you."

"One came from the old heap of Ekron yonder, and the ruins of

Ramleh, and Jerusalem, and Gibeon, and Bethel; - the other

voice came from the flowers."

"Trust the flowers."

"Why, more than the ruins?"

"Remember," - said he. "One is God's truth; the other is man's

falsehood."

"But the ruins tell truth too, Mr. Dinwiddie."

"What truth? They tell of man's faithlessness, perversity,

wrongheadedness, disobedience; persisted in, till there was no

remedy. And now, to be sure, they are a desolation. But that

is not what God willed for the land."

"Yet surely, Mr. Dinwiddie, there come desolations into

people's lives too."

"By the same reason."

"Surely without it sometimes."

"Nay," he said. " 'The Lord redeemeth the soul of His servants;

and none of them that trust in Him shall be desolate.' "

"But their lives are empty sometimes?"

"That they may be more full, then. Depend on it, the promise

is sure, - they shall not want any good I thing."

"One must let the Lord judge then," I said somewhat

sorrowfully, "what are the good things."

"Will we not?" said Mr. Dinwiddie. "Do we know? We must agree

to his judgment, too; and then we shall find there is no want

to them that fear him. The Lord is my Shepherd! - I shall not

want. But the sheep follow the shepherd, and never dream of

choosing out their own pasture, Miss Daisy."

My voice choked a little and I could not answer. And all the

rest of the day I could not get back my quiet. The talk of

leaving the choice of my life out of my own hands, had roused

my hands to cling to their choice with a terrible grasp lest

it should be taken away from them. The idea that Thorold and I

might be parted from each other, made my heart leap out with

inexpressible longing to be with him. It was not till we got

home to the Mount of Olives again, and I was watching the

glory of the sunset, turning Jerusalem to gold and bringing

out rosy and purple and amethyst hues from the Moab mountains,

that my heart leapt back to its rest and I heard the voice of

nature and God again above the din of my own heart.

As soon as the season was far enough advanced, and Mr.

Dinwiddie could make his arrangements to be with us, we left

Jerusalem and its surroundings and set off northwards. It was

hard to go. Where many a sorrowful traveller has left his

little mound of farewell stones on Scopus, I stood and looked

back; as long as papa would wait for me. Jerusalem looked so

fair, and the thought and prospect of another Jerusalem lay

before me, fairer indeed, but so distant. And I fancied storms

and some rough travelling between. And here, in the actual

Jerusalem, my life had been very sweet; peaceful with a whole

flood tide of peacefulness. I resolved I would not lose nor

forget this ungratefully; but as long as I could I would be

happy. So I turned my face at last to enjoy every foot of the

way to Nablous.

During our stay at Jerusalem and on the Mount of Olives, of

course letters and papers had been received regularly; and

sometimes a bit of news from America had made all our hearts

stir. Mine, with a new throb of hope and possible exultation;

for what we heard was on the side of Northern successes.

Still, papa and Mr. Dinwiddie agreed these were but the

fortune of war, and could not - in the nature of things last.

The South could not be overcome. So they said, and I feared.

But a thrill of possible doubt came over me when I heard of

Fort Donelson, and the battle of Pea Ridge, and the prowess of

the little iron-clad _Monitor_. And a great throb of another

kind heaved my heart, when we got the news of President

Lincoln's Message, recommending that assistance should be

given by Congress to every Southern State which would abolish

slavery. A light broke in upon the whole struggle; and from

that time the war was a different thing to me. Papa and Mr.

Dinwiddie talked a great deal about it, discussing the subject

in almost all its bearings. I sat by and said nothing.

I would not read the papers myself, all this time. In America

I had studied them, and in Switzerland and in Florence I had

devoured them. Here in the Holy Land, I had made an agreement

with myself to be happy; to leave the care of things which I

could not manage, and not to concern myself with the

fluctuations on the face of affairs which I could not trace

out to their consequences, do what I would. So. I heard the

principal points of news from papa's talk and Mr. Dinwiddie's;

I let the papers alone. Only with one exception. I could not

help it. I could not withhold myself from looking at the lists

of wounded and killed. I looked at nothing more; but the

thought that one name might be there would have incessantly

haunted me, if I had not made sure that it was not there. I

dreaded every arrival from the steamers of a new mail budget.

From Mr. Thorold I got no letter. Nor from Miss Cardigan. From

Mrs. Sandford one; which told me nothing I wanted to know. To

mamma papa had writ- ten, describing to her the pleasure we

were enjoying and the benefit his health was deriving from our

journey, and asking her to join us at Beyrout and spend the

summer on Lebanon.

Towards Beyrout we now journeyed gently on; stopping and

lingering by the way as our custom was. At Nablous, at

Nazareth, at Tiberias, at Safed, at Banias; then across the

country to Sidon, down to Khaiffa and Carmel; finally we went

up to Beyrout. Papa enjoyed every bit of the way; to me it was

a journey scarcely of this earth, the happiness of it was so

great. Mr. Dinwiddie everywhere our kind and skilful guide,

counsellor, helper; knowing all the ground, and teaching us to

use our time to the very best advantage. He made papa more at

ease about me, and me about papa.

At Beyrout, for the first time since we left Jerusalem, we

found ourselves again in a hotel. Mr. Dinwiddie went to find

our despatches that were awaiting us. Papa lay down on the

cushions of a divan. I sat at the window, wondering at what I

saw. I wonder now at the remembrance.

It was afternoon, and the shades and colours on the mountains

and the sea were a labyrinth of delight. Yes, the eye and the

mind lost themselves again and again, to start back again to

the consciousness of an enchanted existence. The mountains

rising from the coast were in full view of my window, shaded

with all sorts of green from the different woods and

cultivation which clothed their sides. The eye followed their

growing heights and ridges, till it rested on the snow summit

of Sunnin; then swept round the range to the southward; but

ever came back again to the lofty, reposeful majesty of that

white mountain top in the blue ether. Little streams I could

see dashing down the rocks; a white thread amongst the green;

castles or buildings of some stately sort were upon every

crag; I found afterwards they were monasteries. The sea waves

breaking on the rocks of the shore gave other touches of

white, and the sea was taking a deep hue, and the town

stretching back from it looked gay and bright, with pretty

houses and palm trees and palaces, and, bright-coloured

dresses flitting here and there in the streets; and white

sails were on the sea. I had never seen, I have never seen,

anything more lovely than Beyrout. I had come to the city

rather anxious; for we expected there to meet a great budget

of news, which I always dreaded; wandering about from place to

place, we had been blissfully separated for some time from all

disturbing intelligence. Now we must meet it, perhaps; but the

glory of the beauty before me wrapped my heart round as with

an unearthly shield. Peace, peace, and good will, - it spoke,

from Him who made the beauty and owned the glory; softly it

reminded me that my Father in heaven could not fail in love

nor in resources. I leaned my head against the frame of the

open window, and rested and was glad.

Mr. Dinwiddie came back with a business step. I looked up, but

I would not fear. He laid a pile of letters and papers before

papa, and then sat down to the consideration of some of his

own.

"What is doing at home, Dinwiddie?" papa asked.

"A good deal, since our last advices."

"What? I am tired of reading about it."

"Yes," said Mr. Dinwiddie. "You want me to save you the

trouble?"

"If it is no trouble to you."

"The news is of several advantages gained by the Yankees."

"That won't last," said papa. "But there are always

fluctuations in these things."

"Back in March," Mr. Dinwiddie went on, "there are reported

two engagements in which our troops came off second best - at

Newhern and at Winchester. It is difficult perhaps to know the

exact truth - the papers on the two sides hold such different

language. But the sixth of April there was a furious battle at

Pittsburg Landing, our men headed by Beauregard, Polk and

Sidney Johnston, when our men got the better very decidedly;

the next day came up a sweeping reinforcement of the enemy

under Grant and others, and took back the fortune of war into

their own hands, it seems."

"Perhaps that is doubtful too," observed my father.

"I see Beauregard asked permission to bury his dead."

"Many killed?" asked my father.

"Terribly many. There were large numbers engaged, and fierce

fighting."

So they _can_ do it, I said to myself, amid all my heart-

beating.

"There will be of course, some variation of success," said my

father.

"The pendulum is swung all to one side, in these last news,"

said Mr. Dinwiddie.

"What next?"

"Fort Pulaski is taken."

"Pulaski!" my father exclaimed.

"Handsomely done, after a bombardment of thirty hours."

"I am surprised, I confess," said papa.

"The House of Representatives has passed a bill for the

abolition of slavery in the District."

"Oh, I am glad!" I exclaimed. "_That_ is good."

"Is that _all_ you think good in the news?" said Mr. Dinwiddie a

little pointedly.

"Daisy is a rebel," said papa.

"No, papa; not _I_ surely. I stand by the President and the

Country."

"Then _we_ are rebels, Dinwiddie," said papa, half wearily.

"Half the country is playing the fool, that is clear; and the

whole must suffer."

"But the half where the seat of war is, suffers the most."

"That will not last," said papa. "I know the South."

"I wonder if we know the North," said Mr. Dinwiddie. "Farragut

has run the gauntlet of the forts at the mouth of the

Mississippi and taken New Orleans."

"Taken New Orleans!" my father exclaimed again, rising half up

as he lay on the cushions of the divan.

"It was done in style," said Mr. Dinwiddie, looking along the

columns of his paper. "Let me read you this, Mr. Randolph."

Papa assented, and he read; while I turned my face to the

window again, and listened to Farragut's guns and looked at

Lebanon. What a strange hour it was! There was hope at work

and rejoicing; but it shook me. And the calmness of the

everlasting hills and the mingled sweetnesses of the air, came

in upon the fever of my heart with cooling and quieting power.

The sea grew a deeper blue as I listened and looked; the

mountains - what words can tell the mantle of their own purple

that enfolded them as the evening came on; and the snowy

heights of Sunnin and Kunisyeh grew rosy. I looked and I drank

it in; and I could not fear for the future.

I believe I had fallen into a great reverie, during which Mr.

Dinwiddie ended his reading and left the room. It was papa's

touch on my shoulder that roused me. He had come to my side.

"Are you happy, Daisy?" was his question.

"Papa? -" I said in bewilderment.

"Your face was as calm as if you had nothing to think about."

"I had been thinking, papa. I was thinking, I believe."

"Does this strange news make you happy?"

"Oh, no, papa; not that."

"What then?"

"Something that is no news, and that never can grow old, papa.

The mountains and the sea were just reminding me of it."

"You mean - what? You speak riddles, Daisy."

"Papa, you would give me everything good for me, if you

could."

He kissed me fondly.

"I would, my child. Whether I can, or no, that troubles me by

its uncertainty."

"Papa, my Father in heaven can, and will. There is no doubt

about His power. And so there is no uncertainty."

"Daisy! -" said papa, looking at me in a strange way.

"Yes, papa, I mean it. Papa, you know it is true."

"I know you deserve all I can give you," he said, taking my

face in his two hands and looking into it. "Daisy - is there

anybody in the world that loves you as well as I do?"

That was a little too much, to bring up my heart in words in

that manner. In spite of my composure, which I thought so

strong, I was very near bursting into tears. I believe my face

flushed and then grew pale with the struggle. Papa took me in

his arms.

"You shall have no trouble that I can shield you from," he

said tenderly. "I will put nothing between you and this young

man if he is worthy of you, Daisy. I will pat nothing. But

others may. My power reaches only a certain distance."

"Papa -" I began, but I could not say what I would.

"Well?3 - said he tenderly, stroking my hair, "what is it? I

would keep all trouble from you, my pet, if I could."

"Papa," I whispered, "that may not be best. We must leave

that. But papa, if you only knew what I know and were glad as

I am glad, - I think I could bear all the rest!"

"How shall I be glad as you are glad, Daisy?" he said, half

sadly.

"Papa, let Jesus make you happy!"

"You are talking Hebrew, my child."

"No, papa; for if you seek Him, He _will_ make you happy."

"Come! we will seek him from to-day," my father said.

And that was my summer on Lebanon. My mother wrote that she

would not join us in Syria; she preferred to remain in Paris,

where she had my aunt Gary's company and could receive the

American news regularly. Her words were bitter and scornful

about the successes of the Northern army and McClellan's

fruitless siege of Yorktown; so bitter, that papa and I passed

them over without a word of comment, knowing how they bore on

my possible future.

But we, we studied the Bible, and we lived on Lebanon. And

when I have said that, I have said all. From one village to

another, higher and higher up, we went; pitching our tents

under the grand old walnut trees, within sight or hearing of

mountain torrents that made witcheries of beauty in the deep

ravines; studying sunrisings, when the light came over the

mountain's brow and lit our broken hillside by degrees, our

walnut tree tops and the thread of the rushing stream; and

sunsets, when the sun looked at us from the far-off

Mediterranean and touched no spot of Lebanon but to make a

glorified place of it. With Mr. Dinwiddie we took rides to

different scenes of wonder and beauty; made excursions

sometimes of a week or two long; we dreamed at Baalbec and

rejoiced under the Cedars. Everywhere papa and I read the

Bible. Mr. Dinwiddie left us for some time during the summer,

and returned again a few days before we left Lebanon and

Syria.

"So you are going to-morrow" - he said the last evening, as he

and I were watching the sunset from the edge of the ravine

which bordered our camping-ground. I made no answer, for my

heart was too full.

"It has been a good summer," he said. I bowed my head in

assent.

"And now," he said, "you push out into the world again. I feel

about you as I did when I saw your little craft just starting

forth, and knew there were breakers ahead."

"You do not know that now, Mr. Dinwiddie?" I said.

"I know there are rocks. If the sea should let you pass them

in quiet, it would be a wonder."

That was too true, I knew. I could only be silent.

"How do you feel?" he next asked.

"I know it is as you say, Mr. Dinwiddie."

"And in view of it? -"

"What can I do, - Mr. Dinwiddie?"

"Nothing to avoid the rocks. The helm is not in your hand."

"But I know in whose hand it is."

"And are willing to have it there?"

"More than willing," I said, meeting his eye.

"Then the boat will go right," he said, with a sort of accent

of relief. "It is the cross pulls with the oar, striving to

undo the work of the rudder, that draw the vessel out of her

course. The Pilot knows, - if you can only leave it to the

Pilot."

There was a pause again.

"But He sometimes takes the boat into the breakers," Mr.

Dinwiddie said.

"Yes," I said. "I know it."

"What then, Daisy, my friend?"

"What then, Mr. Dinwiddie?" I said, looking up at him. "Then

she must be broken to pieces."

"And what then? Can you trust the Pilot still?"

His great eyes were flashing and glittering as he looked at

me. No careless nor aimless thought had caused such an

interrogatory, I knew. I met the eyes which seemed to be

blazing and melting at once, but I answered only by the look.

"You may," he went on, without taking his eyes from mine. "You

may trust safely. Even if the vessel is shaken and broken,

trust even then, when all seems gone. There shall be smooth

waters yet; and a better voyage than if you had gone a less

wearisome way."

"Why do you say all this to me, Mr. Dinwiddie?"

"Not because I am a prophet," he said, looking away now, -

"for I am none. And if I saw such trials ahead for you, I

should have hardly courage to utter them. I asked, to comfort

myself; that I might know of a certainty that you are safe,

whatever comes."

"Thank you," I said, rather faintly.

"I shall stay here," he went on presently, "in the land of my

work; and you will be gone to-morrow for other scenes. It

isn't likely you will ever see me again. But if ever you need

a friend, on the other side of the globe, if you call me, I

will come. It is folly to say that, though," he said plucking

hastily at a spear of grass; - "you will not need nor think of

me. But I suppose you know, Daisy, by this time, that all

those who come near you, love you. I am no exception. You must

have charity for me."

"Dear Mr. Dinwiddie," I said reaching out my hand, - "if I

were in trouble and wanted a friend, there is no one in the

world that I would sooner, or - rather, or as soon or as lief,

ask to help me. Except -" I added, and could not finish my

sentence. For I had remembered there was an exception which

ought to be implied somewhere.

"I know," he said, wringing my hand. "I wish I could heap

blessings on the head of the exception. Now let us go in."

The next day we rode down to Beyrout, and took the steamer

that same evening.

CHAPTER XVIII.

A MASKED BATTERY

My Palestine holiday lasted, in some measure, all the way of

our journey home; and left me at the very moment when we

entered our Parisian hotel and met mamma. It left me then. All

the air of the place, much more all the style of mamma's dress

and manner, said at once that we had come into another world.

She was exquisitely dressed; that was usual; it could not have

been only that, nor the dainty appointments around her; - it

was something in her bearing, an indescribable something even

as she greeted us, which said, You have played your play - now

you will play mine. And it said, I cannot tell how, The cards

are in my hands.

Company engaged her that evening. I saw little of her till the

next day. At our late breakfast then we discussed many things.

Not much of Palestine; mamma did not want to hear much of

that. She had had it in our letters, she said. American

affairs were gone into largely; with great eagerness and

bitterness by both mamma and Aunt Gary; with triumphs over the

disasters of the Union army before Richmond, and other lesser

affairs in which the North had gained no advantage; invectives

against the President's July proclamation, his impudence and

his cowardice; and prophecies of ruin to him and his cause.

Papa listened and said little. I heard and was silent; with

throbbing forebodings of trouble.

"Daisy is handsomer than ever," my aunt remarked, when even

politics had exhausted themselves. But I wondered what she was

thinking of when she said it. Mamma lifted her eyes and

glanced me over.

"Daisy has a rival, newly appeared," she said. "She must do

her best."

"There cannot be rivalry, mamma, where there is no

competition," I said.

"Cannot there?" said mamma. "You never told us, Daisy, of _your_

successes in the North."

I do not think I flushed at all in answer to this remark; the

blood seemed to me to go all to my heart.

"Who has been Daisy's trumpeter?" papa asked.

"There is a friend of hers here," mamma said, slowly sipping

her coffee. I do not know how I sat at the table; things

seemed to swim in a maze before my eyes; then mamma went on, -

"What have you done with your victim, Daisy?"

"Mamma," I said, "I do not at all know of whom you are

speaking."

"Left him for dead, I suppose," she said. "He has met with a

good Samaritan, I understand, who carried oil and wine."

Papa's eye met mine for a moment.

"Felicia," he said, "you are speaking very unintelligibly. I

beg you will use clearer language, for all our sakes."

"Daisy understands," she said.

"Indeed I do not, mamma."

"Not the good Samaritan's part, of course. That has come since

you were away. But you knew once that a Northern Blue-coat had

been pierced by the fire of your eyes?"

"Mamma," I said, - "if you put it so, I have known it of more

than one."

"Imagine it!" said mamma, with an indescribable gesture of

lip, which yet was gracefully slight.

"Imagine what?" said papa.

"One of those canaille venturing to look at Daisy!"

"My dear," said papa, "pray do not fail to remember, that we

have passed a large portion of our life among those whom you

denominate canaille, and who always were permitted the

privilege of looking at us all. I do not recollect that we

felt it any derogation from anything that belonged to us."

"Did you let him look at you, Daisy?" mamma said, lifting her

own eyes up to me. "It was cruel of you."

"Your friend Miss St. Clair, is here, Daisy," my aunt Gary

said.

"My friend!" I repeated.

"She is your friend," said mamma. "She has bound up the wounds

you have made, Daisy, and saved you from being in the full

sense a destroyer of human life."

"When did Faustina come here?" I asked.

"She has been here a month. Are you glad?"

"She was never a particular friend of mine, mamma."

"You will love her now," said mamma; and the conversation

turned. It had only filled me with vague fears. I could not

understand it.

I met Faustina soon in company. She was as brilliant a vision

as I have often seen; her beauty was perfected in her

womanhood, and was of that type which draws all eyes. She was

not changed, however; and she was not changed towards me. She

met me with the old coldness; with a something besides which I

could not fathom. It gave me a secret feeling of uneasiness; I

suppose, because that in it I read a meaning of exultation, a

secret air of triumph, which, I could not tell how or why,

directed itself towards me and gathered about my head. It grew

disagreeable to me to meet her; but I was forced to do this

constantly. We never talked together more than a few words;

but as we passed each other, as our eyes met and hers went

from me, as she smiled at the next opening of her mouth, I

felt always something sinister, or at least something hidden,

which took the shape of an advantage gained. I tried to meet

her with perfect pleasantness, but it grew difficult. In my

circumstances I was very open to influences of discouragement

or apprehension; indeed the trouble was to fight them off.

This intangible evil however presently took shape.

I thought I had observed that for a day or two my father's

eyes had lingered on me frequently with a tender or wistful

expression, more than usual. I did not know what it meant.

Mamma was pushing me into company all this while, and making

no allusion to my own private affairs, if she had any clue to

them. One morning I had excused myself from an engagement

which carried away my aunt and her, that I might have a quiet

time to read with papa. Our readings had been much broken in

upon - lately. With a glad step I went to papa's room; a

study, I might call it, where he spent all of the time he did

not wish to give to society. He was there, expecting me; a

wood-fire was burning on the hearth; the place had the air of

comfort and seclusion and intelligent leisure; books and

engravings and works of art scattered about, and luxurious

easy-chairs standing ready for the accommodation of papa and

me.

"This is nice, papa!" I said, as the cushions of one of them

received me.

"It is not quite the Mount of Olives," said papa.

"No indeed!" I answered; and my eyes filled. The bustle of the

fashionable world was all around me, the storms of the

political world were shaking the very ground where I stood,

the air of our little social world was not as on Lebanon sweet

and pure. When would it be again? Papa sat thinking in his

easy-chair.

"How do you like Paris, my child?"

"Papa, it does not make much difference, Italy or Paris, so

long as I am where you are, and we can have a little time

together."

"Your English friend has followed you from Florence."

"Yes, papa. At least he is here."

"And your German friend."

"He is here, papa."

There was a silence. I wondered what papa was thinking of, but

I did not speak, for I saw he was thinking.

"You have never heard from your American friend?"

"No, papa."

"Daisy," said papa, tenderly, and looking at me now, - "you

are strong?"

"Am I, papa?"

"I think you are. You can bear the truth, cannot you?"

"I hope I can, -any truth that you have to tell me," I said.

One thought of terrible evil chilled my heart for a moment,

and passed away. Papa's tone and manner did not touch anything

like that. Though it was serious enough to awake my

apprehension. I could not guess what to apprehend.

"Did you get any clear understanding of what your mother might

mean, one day at breakfast, when she was alluding to friends

of yours in America? - you remember?"

"I remember. I did not understand in the least, papa."

"It had to do with Miss St. Clair."

"Yes."

"It seems she spent all the last winter in Washington, where

the society was unusually good, it is said, as well as

unusually military. I do not know how that can be true, when

all Southerners were of course out of the city - but that's no

matter. A girl like this St. Clair girl of course knew all the

epaulettes there were."

"Yes, papa - she is always very much admired. She must be that

everywhere."

"I suppose so, though I don't like her," said papa. "Well,

Daisy, - I do not know how to tell you. She knew your friend."

"Yes, papa."

"And he admired her."

I was silent, wondering what all this was coming to.

"Do you understand me, Daisy? - She has won him from you."

A feeling of sickness passed over me; it did not last. One

vision of my beautiful enemy, one image of her as Mr.

Thorold's friend, - it made me sick for that instant; then, I

believe I looked up and smiled.

"Papa, it is not true, I think."

"It is well attested, Daisy."

"By whom?"

"By a friend of Miss St. Clair, who was with her in Washington

and knew the whole progress of the affair, and testifies to

their being engaged."

"To whose being engaged, papa?"

"Miss St. Clair and your friend, - Colonel Somebody. I forget

his name, Daisy, though you told me, I believe."

"He was not a colonel, papa; not at all; not near it."

"No. He has been promoted, I understand. Promotions are rapid

in the Northern army now-a-days; a lieutenant in the regulars

is transformed easily into a colonel of volunteers. They want

more officers than they have got, I suppose."

I remained silent, thinking.

"Who told you all this, papa?"

"Your mother. She has it direct from the friend of your

rival."

"But, papa, nobody knew about me. It was kept entirely

private."

"Not after you came away, I suppose. How else should this

story be told as of the gentleman _you were engaged to?_"

I waited a little while, to get my voice steady, and then I

went on with my reading to papa. Once he interrupted me to

say, "Daisy, how do you take this that I have been telling

you?" - and at the close of our reading he asked again in a

perplexed manner, "You do not let it trouble you, Daisy?" -

and each time I answered him, "I do not believe it, papa."

Neither did I; but at the same time a dreadful shadow of

possibility came over my spirit. I could not get from under

it, and my soul fainted, as those were said to do who lay down

for shelter under the upas tree. A poison as of death seemed

to distil upon me from that shadow. Not let it trouble me? It

was a man's question, I suppose, put with a man's

powerlessness to read a woman's mind; even though the man was

my father.

I noticed from that time more than ever his tender lingering

looks upon me, wistful, and doubtful. It was hard to bear

them, and I would not confess to them. I would not and did not

show by look or word that I put faith in the story my father

had brought me, or that I had lost faith in any one who had

ever commanded it. Indeed I did not believe the story. I did

trust Mr. Thorold. Nevertheless the cold chill of a "What if?"

- fell upon me sometimes. Could I say that it was an

impossibility, that he should have turned from me, from one

whom such a thorn hedge of difficulties encompassed, to

another woman so much, - I was going to say, so much more

beautiful; but I do not mean that, for I do not think it. No,

but to one whose beauty was so brilliant and whose hand was so

attainable? It would not be an impossibility in the case of

many men. Yes, I trusted Mr. Thorold; but so had other women

trusted. A woman's trust is not a guarantee for the worthiness

of its object. I had only my trust and my knowledge. Could I

say that both might not be mistaken? And trust as I would,

these thoughts would rise.

Now it was very hard for me to meet Faustina St. Clair, and

bear the supercilious air of confident triumph with which she

regarded me. I think nobody could have observed this or read

it but myself only; its tokens were too exceedingly slight

and inappreciable for anything but the tension of my own heart

to feel. I always felt it, whenever we were in company

together; and though I always said at such times, "Christian

cannot love her," - when I was at home and alone, the shadow

of doubt and jealousy came over me again. Everything withers

in that shadow. A woman must either put it out of her heart,

somehow, or grow a diseased and sickly thing, mentally and

morally. I found that I was coming to this in my own mind and

character; and that brought me to a stand.

I shut myself up one or two nights - I could not command my

days - and spent the whole night in thinking and praying. Two

things were before me. The story might be somehow untrue. Time

would show. In the meanwhile, nothing but trust would have

done honour to Mr. Thorold or to myself. I thought it was

untrue. But suppose it were not, - suppose that the joy of my

life were gone, passed over to another; who had done it? By

whose will was my life stripped? The false faith or the

weakness of friend or enemy could not have wrought thus, if it

had not been the will of God that His child should be so

tried; that she should go through just this sorrow, for some

great end or reason known only to Himself. Could I not trust

Him -?

If there is a vulture whose claws are hard to unloose from the

vitals of the spirit, I think it is jealousy. I found it had

got hold of me, and was tearing the life out of me. I knew it

in time. O sing praise to our King, you who know Him! he is

mightier than our enemies; we need not be the prey of any. But

I struggled and prayed, more than one night through, before

faith could gain the victory. Then it did. I gave the matter

into my Lord's hands. If he had decreed that I was to lose Mr.

Thorold, and in this way, - why, I was my Lord's, to do with

as He pleased; it would all be wise and glorious, and kind

too, whatever He did. I would just leave that. But in the mean

time, till I knew that He had taken my joy from me, I would

not believe it; but would go on trusting the friend I had

believed so deserving of trust. I would believe in Mr. Thorold

still and be quiet, till I knew my confidence was misplaced.

It was thoroughly done at last. I gave up myself to God again

and my affairs; and the rest that is unknown anywhere else,

came to me at His feet. I gave up being jealous of Faustina.

If the Lord pleased that she should have what had been so

precious to me, why, well! I gave it up. But not till I was

sure I had cause.

What a lull came upon my harassed and tossed spirit, which had

been like a stormy sea under cross winds. Now it lay still,

and could catch the reflection of the sun again and the blue

of heaven. I could go into society now and please mamma, and

read at home to papa and give him the wonted gratification;

and I could meet Faustina with an open brow and a free hand.

"Daisy, you are better this day or two," papa said to me,

wistfully. "You are like yourself. What is it, my child?"

"It is Christ, my Lord, papa."

"I do not know what you can mean by that, Daisy," said papa,

looking grave. "You are not an enthusiast or a fanatic."

"It is not enthusiasm, papa, to believe God's promises. It

can't be fanaticism, to be glad of them."

"Promises?" said papa. "What are you talking of?"

"Papa, I am a servant of Christ," I said; I remember I was

arranging the sticks of wood on the fire as I spoke, and it

made pauses between my words; - "and He has promised to take

care of His servants and to let no harm come to them, - no

real harm; - how can I be afraid, papa? My Lord knows, - He

knows all about it and all about me; I am safe; I have nothing

to do to be afraid."

"Safe from what?"

"Not from trouble, papa; I do not mean that. He may see that

it is best that trouble should come to me. But it will not

come unless He sees that it is best; and I can trust Him."

"My dear child, is there not a little fanaticism there?"

"How, papa?"

"It seems to me to sound like it."

"It is nothing but believing God, papa."

"I wish I understood you," said papa, thoughtfully.

So I knelt down beside him and put my arms about him, and told

him what I wanted him to understand; much more than I had ever

been able to do before. The pain and sorrow of the past few

weeks had set me free, and the rest of heart of the last few

days too. I told papa all about it. I think, as Philip did to

Queen Candace's servant, I "preached to him Jesus."

"So that is what you mean by being a Christian," said papa at

last. "It is not living a good moral life and keeping all

one's engagements."

" 'By the deeds of the law there shall no flesh be justified.'

Even you, papa, are not good enough for that. God's law calls

for perfection."

"Nobody is perfect."

"No, papa; and so all have come short of the glory of God."

"Well, then, I don't see what you are going to do, Daisy."

"Christ has paid our debt, papa."

"Then nobody need do anything."

"Oh, no, papa; for the free pardon that is made out for you

and me - the white robe that Christ counsels us to buy of Him

- waits for our acceptance and is given only on conditions. It

is ready for every one who will trust Christ and obey Him; a

free pardon, papa; a white robe that will hide all our

ugliness. But we must be willing to have it on the

conditions."

"And how then, Daisy?"

"Why, this way, papa. See, - I am dead - with Christ; it is as

if I myself had died under the law, instead of my substitute;

the penalty is paid, and the law has nothing to say to a dead

malefactor, you know, papa. And now, I am dead to the law, and

my life is Christ's. I live because He lives, and by His

Spirit living in me; all I am and have belongs to Christ; the

life that I live, I live by the faith of the Son of God, who

loved me and gave Himself for me. I am not trying to keep the

law, to buy my life; but I am _keeping_ the law, because Christ

has given me life - do you see, papa? and all my life is love

to Him."

"It seems to me, Daisy," said papa, "that if faith is all,

people may lead what lives they choose."

"Papa, the faith that believes in Christ, loves and obeys Him;

or it is just no faith. It is nothing. It is dead."

"And faith makes such a change in people's feelings and

lives?"

"Why, yes, papa, for then they live by Christ's strength and

not their own; and in the love of Him, and not in the love of

themselves any longer."

"Daisy," said papa, "it is something I do not know, and I see

that you do know; and I would like to be like you anyhow. Pray

for me, my child, that I may have that faith."

I had never done it in his presence before, but now I knelt

down by the table and uttered all my heart to the One who

could hear us both. I could not have done it, I think, a few

weeks earlier; but this last storm had seemed to shake me free

from everything. What mattered, if I could only help to show

papa the way? He was weeping, I think, while I was praying; I

thought he sought to hide the traces of it when I rose up; and

I went from the room with a gladness in my heart that said,

"What if, even if Thorold is lost to me! There is something

better beyond."

Papa and I seemed to walk on a new plane from that day. There

was a hidden sympathy between us, which had its root in the

deepest ground of our nature. We never had been one before, as

we were one from that time.

It was but a few days, and another thing happened. The mail

bag had come in as usual, and I had gathered up my little

parcel of letters and gone with it to my room, before I

examined what they were. A letter evidently from Mr. Dinwiddie

had just made my heart leap with pleasure, when glancing at

the addresses of the rest before I broke the seal of this, I

saw what made my heart stand still. It was the handwriting of

Mr. Thorold. I think my eyes grew dim and dazed for a minute;

then I saw clearly enough to open the envelope, which showed

signs of having been a traveller. There was a letter for me,

such a letter as I had wanted; such as I had thirsted for; it

was not long, for it was written by a busy man, but it was

long enough, for it satisfied my thirst. Enclosed with it was

another envelope directed to papa.

I waited to get calm again; for the joy which shot through all

my veins was a kind of elixir of life; it produced too much

exhilaration for me to dare to see anybody. Yet I think I was

weeping; but at any rate, I waited till my nerves were quiet

and under control, and then I went with the letter to papa. I

knew mamma was just gone out and there was no fear of

interruption. Papa read the letter, and read it, and looked up

at me.

"Do you know what this is, Daisy?"

"Papa, I guess. I know what it was meant to be."

"It is a cool demand of you," said papa.

I was glad, and proud; that was what it ought to be; that was

what I knew it suited papa that it should be. I stood by the

mantelpiece, waiting.

"So you knew about it?"

"Mr. Thorold said he would write to you, papa. I had been

afraid, and asked him not. I wanted him to wait till he could

see you."

"One sees a good deal of a man in his letters," said papa;

"and this is a man's letter. He thinks enough of himself,

Daisy."

"Papa, - not too much."

"I did not say too much; but enough; and a man who does not

think enough of himself is a poor creature. I would not have a

man ask me for you, Daisy, who did not in his heart think he

was worthy of you."

"Papa, you draw nice distinctions," I said half laughing.

"That would be simple presumption, not modesty; this is

manliness."

We were both silent upon this; papa considering the letter, or

its proposal; I thinking of Mr. Thorold's manliness, and

feeling very much pleased that he had shown it and papa had

discerned it so readily. The silence lasted till I began to be

curious.

"What shall we do now, Daisy?" papa said at last. I left him

to answer his own question.

"Hey? What do you wish me to do?"

"Papa, - I hope you will give him a kind answer."

"How can I get it to him?"

"I can enclose it to an aunt of his, whom I know. She can get

it to him. She lives in New York."

"His aunt? So you know his family?

"No one of them, papa, but this one; his mother's sister."

"What sort of a person is she?"

So I sat down and told papa about Miss Cardigan. He listened

with a very grave, thoughtful face; asking few questions, but

kissing me. And then, without more ado, he turned to the table

and wrote a letter, writing very fast, and handed it to me. It

was all I could have asked that it might be. My heart filled

with grateful rest.

"Will that do?" said papa as I gave it back.

"Papa, only one thing more, - if you are willing, that we

should sometimes write to each other?"

"Hm - that sounds moderate," said papa. "By the way, why was

not this letter written and sent sooner? What is the date? -

why, Daisy! -"

"What, papa?"

"My child, this letter, - it is a good year old, and more;

written in the beginning of last winter."

It took me a little while to get the full bearings of this;

then I saw that it dated back to a time quite anterior to the

circumstances of Faustina St. Clair's story, whatever that

amounted to. Papa was all thrown back.

"This is good for nothing, now, you see, Daisy."

"Oh, no, papa."

"For the purposes of action."

"Papa, it does not matter, the date."

"Yes, Daisy, it does; for it speaks of a man of last year, and

my answer would go to a man of this year."

"They are not different men, papa."

"I must be assured of that." He was folding up his letter, his

own, and I saw the next thing would be to throw it into the

fire. I laid my hand over his.

"Papa, don't do that. Let me have it."

"I cannot send it."

"Papa, let me have it. I will send it to Miss Cardigan - she

loves me almost as well as you do - I will tell her; and if

there is any truth in mamma's story, Miss Cardigan will know

and she will burn the letter, just as well as you. And so you

would escape doing a great wrong."

"You may be mistaken, my child."

"Then Miss Cardigan will burn the letter, papa. I can trust

her."

"Can _I_ trust her?"

"Yes, papa, through me. Please let me have it. There shall

come no harm from this, papa."

"Daisy, your mother says he is engaged to this girl."

"It is a mistake, papa."

"You cannot prove it, my child."

"Time will."

"Then will be soon enough for my action."

"But papa, in the mean time? - think of the months he has been

waiting already for an answer -"

I suppose the tears were in my eyes, as I pleaded, with my

hand still upon papa's hand, covering the papers. He slowly

drew his hand away, leaving the letter under mine.

"Well!" - said he, - "do as you will."

"You are not unwilling, papa?"

"I am a little unwilling, Daisy; but I cannot deny you, child.

I hope you are right."

"Then, papa, add that one word about letters, will you?"

"And if it is all undeserved?"

"It is not, papa."

Papa set his teeth for a moment, with a look which, however,

wonted perhaps in his youthful days, I had very rarely seen

called up in him. It passed then, and he wrote the brief word

I had asked for, of addition to his letter, and gave it to me;

and then took me in his arms and kissed me again.

"You are not very wise in the world, my Daisy," he said; "and

men would say I am not. But I cannot deny you. Guard your

letter to Miss Cardigan. And for the present all this matter

shall sleep in our own bosoms."

"Papa," I asked, "how much did mamma know - I mean - how much

did she hear about me that was true?"

"It was reported that you had been engaged."

"She heard that."

"Yes."

"She has never spoken about it."

"She thinks it not necessary."

I was silent a moment, pondering, as well I might; but then I

kissed papa and thanked him, and went off and wrote and posted

my letter with its enclosure. Sufficient to the day is the

evil thereof.

CHAPTER XIX.

ONE FALLEN

I sent my letter, and waited. I got no answer. The weeks

rolled on, and the months. It was palpable, that delays which

had kept back one letter for a year might affect the delivery

of another letter in the same way; but it is hard, the

straining one's eyes into thick darkness with the vain

endeavour to see something.

The months were outwardly gay; very full of society life,

though not of the kind that I cared for. I went into it to

please mamma; and succeeded but partially; for she insisted I

was too sober and did not half take the French tone of easy,

light, graceful skimming over the surface of things. But mamma

could be deep and earnest too on her own subjects of interest.

The news of President Lincoln's proclamation, setting free the

slaves of the rebel States, roused her as much as she could be

roused. There were no terms to her speech or my aunt Gary's;

violent and angry against not only the President, but

everything and everybody that shared Northern growth and

extraction. - How bitterly they sneered at "Massachusetts

codfish;" - I think nothing would have induced either of them

to touch it; and whatsoever belonged to the East or the North,

not only meats and drinks, but Yankee spirit and manners and

courage, were all, figuratively, put under foot and well

trampled on. I listened and trembled, sometimes; sometimes I

listened and rejoiced. For, after all, my own affairs were not

the whole world; and a thrill of inexpressible joy went

through me when I remembered that my old Maria, and Pete, and

the Jems, and Darry, were all, by law, freed for ever from the

oppression of Mr. Edwards and any like him; and that the day

of their actual emancipation would come, so soon as the rights

of the Government should be established over the South. And of

this issue I began to be a little hopeful, beginning to

believe that it might be possible. Antietam and Corinth, and

Fredricksburg and New Orleans, with varying fortune, had at

least proclaimed to my ear that Yankees could fight; there was

no doubt of that now; and Southern prowess could not always

prevail against theirs. Papa ceased to question it, I noticed;

though mamma's sneers grew more intense as the occasion for

them grew less and less obvious.

The winter passed, and the spring came; and moved on with its

sweet step of peace, as it does even when men's hearts are all

at war. The echo of the battlefields of Virginias wept through

the Boulevards with met often; and it thundered at home. Mamma

had burst into new triumph at the news of Chancellorsville;

and uttered with great earnestness her wish that Jefferson

Davis might be able to execute the threat of his proclamation

and hang General Butler. But for me, I got no letter; and

these echoes began to sound in my ear like the distant outside

rumblings of the storm to one whose hearthstone it has already

swept and laid desolate. I was not desolate; yet I began to

listen as one whose ears were dim with listening. I met

Faustina St. Clair again with uneasiness. Not the torment of

my former jealousy; but a stir of doubt and pain which I could

not repress at the sight of her.

When the summer drew on, to my great pleasure we went to

Switzerland again. We established ourselves quietly at

Lucerne, which papa was very fond of. There we were much more

quiet than we had been the fall before; Ransom having gone

home now to take his share in the struggle, and our two

Southern friends who had also gone, having no successors like

them in our little home circle. We made not so many and not so

long excursions. But papa and I had good time for our

readings; and I had always a friend with whom I could take

counsel, in the grand old Mont Pilatte. What a friend that

mountain was to me, to be sure! When I was downhearted, and

when anything made me glad; when I was weary and when I was

most full of life; its grand head in the skies told me of

truth and righteousness and strength; the light and colours

that played and rested there, as it held, the sun's beams and

gave them back to earth, were a sort of promise to me of

beauty and life above and beyond this earth; yes, and of its

substantial existence now, even when we do not see it. They

were a little hint of what we do not see. I do not exactly

know what was the language of the wreaths of vapour that robed

and shrouded and then revealed the mountain, with the

exquisite shiftings and changings of their gracefulness; I

believe it was like, to me, the floating veil that hides God's

purposes from us, yet now and then parting enough to let us

see the eternal truth and unchangeableness behind it. I told

all my moods to Mont Pilatte, and I think it told all its

moods to me. After a human friend, there is nothing like a big

mountain. And when the news of Gettysburg and Vicksburg came;

and mamma grew furious; and I saw for the first time that

success was truly looming up on the horizon of the North, and

that my dear coloured people might indeed soon be free; that

night Mont Pilatte and I shouted together.

There came no particular light on my own affairs all this

time. Indeed mamma began to reproach me for what she called my

disloyal and treacherous sentiments. And then, hints began to

break out, very hard to bear, that I had indulged in

traitorous alliances and was an unworthy child of my house. It

rankled in mamma's mind, that I had not only refused the

connection with one of the two powerful Southern families

which had sought me the preceding year; but that I had also

discouraged and repelled during the past winter several

addresses which might have been made very profitable to my

country as well as my own interests. For what had I rejected

them all? mamma began to ask discontentedly. Papa shielded me

a little; but I felt that the sky was growing dark around me

with the coming storm.

One never knows, after all, where the first bolt will come

from. Mine struck me all unawares, while I was looking in an

opposite quarter. It is hard to write it. A day came, that I

had a father in the morning, and at night, none.

It was very sudden. He had been feeble, to be sure, more than

usual, for several days, but nobody apprehended anything.

Towards evening he failed - suddenly; sent for me, and died in

my arms, blessing me. Yes, we had been walking the same road

together for some time. I was only left to go on awhile longer

alone.

But Mont Pilatte said to me that night, "There remaineth a

rest for the people of God." And while the moon went down and

the stars slowly trooped over the head of the mountain, I

heard that utterance, and those words of the hymn -

"God liveth ever:

"Wherefore, soul, despair thou never."

I could go no farther. I could think no more. Kneeling at my

window-sill, under the starry night, my soul held to those two

things and did not loose its moorings. It is a great deal, to

hold fast. It was all then I could do. And even in the

remembrance now of the loneliness and desolate feeling that

came upon me at that time, there is also a strong sense of the

deep sweetness which I was conscious of, rather than able to

taste, coming from those words and resting at the bottom of my

heart.

I was in some measure drawn out of myself, almost immediately,

by the illness of my mother. She fell into a nervous

disordered condition, which it taxed all my powers to tend and

soothe. I think it was mental rather than bodily, in the

origin of it; but body and mind shared in the result, as

usual. And when she got better and was able to sit up and even

to go about again, she remained under the utmost despondency.

Affairs were not looking well for the Southern struggle in

America; and besides the mortification of her political

affections, mamma was very sure that if the South could not

succeed in establishing its independence, we should as a

family be ruined.

"We are ruined now, Daisy," she said. "There can be nothing

coming from our Magnolia estates - and our Virginia property

is a mere battle ground, you know; and what have we to live

upon?"

"Mamma, there will be some way," I said. "I have not thought

about it."

"No, you do not think but of your own favourite speculations.

I wish with all my heart you had never taken to fanatical

ways. I have no comfort in you."

"What do you mean by fanaticism, mamma?"

"I will tell you!" replied mamma with energy. "The essence of

fanaticism is to have your own way."

"I do not think, mamma, that I want to have my own way."

"Of course, when you have it. That is what such people always

say. They don't want to have their own, way. I do not want to

have mine, either."

"Is not Dr. Sandford attending to our affairs for us, mamma?"

"I do not know. Your father trusted him, unaccountably. I do

not know what he is doing."

"He will certainly do anything that can be done for us, mamma;

I am persuaded of that. And he knows how."

"Is it for your sake, Daisy?" mamma said suddenly, and with a

glitter in her eye which boded confusion to the doctor.

"I do not know, mamma," I said quietly. "He was always very

good and very kind to me."

"I suppose you are not quite a fool," she said, calming down a

little. "And a Yankee doctor would hardly lose his senses

enough to fall in love with you. Though I believe the Yankees

are the most impudent nation upon the earth. I wish Butler

could be hanged! I should like to know that was done before I

die."

I fled from this turn of the talk always.

It was true, however brought about I do not know, that Dr.

Sandford had been for some time kindly bestirring himself to

look after our interests at home, which the distressed state

of the country had of course greatly imperilled. I was not

aware that papa had been at any time seriously concerned about

them; however, it soon appeared that mamma had reason enough

now for being ill at ease. In the South, war and war

preparations had so far superseded the usual employments of

men, that next to nothing could be looked for in place of the

ordinary large crops and ample revenues. And Melbourne had

been let, indeed, for a good rent; but there was some trouble

about collecting the rent; and if collected, it belonged to

Ransom. Ransom was in the Southern army, fighting no doubt his

best, and mamma would not have scrupled to use his money; but

Dr. Sandford scrupled to send it without authority. He urged

mamma to come home, where he said she could be better taken

care of than alone in distant Switzerland. He proposed that

she should reoccupy Melbourne, and let him farm the ground for

her until Ransom should be able to look after it. Mamma and

Aunt Gary had many talks on the subject. I said as little as I

could.

"It is almost as bad with me," said my aunt Gary, one of these

times. "Only I do not want much."

"I _do_," said mamma. "And if one must live as one has not been

accustomed to live, I would rather it should be where I am

unknown."

"You are not unknown here, my dear sister!"

"Personally and socially. Not exactly. But I am historically

unknown."

"Historically!" echoed my aunt.

"And living is cheaper here too."

"But one must have _some_ money, even here, Felicia."

"I have jewels," said mamma.

"Your jewels! - Daisy might have prevented all this," said

Aunt Gary, looking at me.

"Daisy is one of those whose religion it is to please

themselves."

"But, my dear, you must be married some time," my aunt went

on, appealingly.

"I do not think that is certain, Aunt Gary."

"You are not waiting for Preston, are you? I hope not; for he

is likely to be as poor as you are; if he gets through the

battles, poor boy!" And my aunt put her handkerchief to her

eyes.

"I am not waiting for Preston," I said, "any more than he is

waiting for me."

"I don't know how that is," said my aunt. "Preston was very

dependent on you, Daisy; but I don't know - since he has heard

these stories of you" -

"Daisy is nothing to Preston!" my mother broke in with some

sharpness. "Tell him so, if he ever broaches the question to

you. Cut that matter short. I have other views for Daisy, when

she returns to her duty. I believe in a religion of obedience

- not in a religion of independent self-will. I wish Daisy had

been brought up in a convent. She would, if I had had my way.

These popular religions throw over all law and order. I hate

them!"

"You see, Daisy my dear, how pleasant it would be, if you

could see things as your mother does," my aunt remarked.

"I am indifferent whether Daisy has my eyes or not," said

mamma; "what I desire is, that she should have my will."

The talks came to nothing, ended in nothing, did nothing. My

aunt Gary at the beginning of winter went back to America. My

mother did as she had proposed; sold some of her jewels, and

so paid her way in Switzerland for some months longer. But

this could not last. Dr. Sandford urged her return; she wished

also to be nearer to Ransom; and in the spring we once more

embarked for home.

The winter had been exceedingly sad to me. No word from

America ever reached my hands to give me any comfort; and I

was alone with my sorrow. Mamma's state of mind, too, which

was most uncomfortable for her, was extremely trying to me;

because it consisted of regrets that I could not soothe,

anxieties that I was unable to allay, and reproachful wishes

that I could neither meet nor promise to meet. Constant

repinings, ceaseless irritations, purposeless discussions;

they wearied my heart, but I could bring no salve nor remedy

unless I would have agreed to make a marriage for money. I

missed all that had brought so much sweetness into even my

Paris life, with my talks with papa, and readings, and

sympathy, and mutual confidence. It was a weary winter, my

only real earthly friend being Mont Pilatte. Except Mr.

Dinwiddie. I had written to him and got one or two good,

strong, kind, helpful answers. Ah, what a good thing a good

letter is!

So it was great relief to quit Switzerland and find myself on

the deck of the steamer, with every revolution of the paddle

wheels bringing me nearer home. Nearer what had been home; all

was vague and blank in the distance now. I was sure of

nothing. Only, "The Lord is my Shepherd," answers all that. It

cannot always stop the beating of human hearts, though; and

mine beat hard sometimes, on that homeward voyage. Mamma was

very dismal. I sat on deck as much as I could and watched the

sea. It soothed me, with its living image of God's grand

government on earth; its ceaseless majestic flow, of which the

successive billows that raise their heads upon its surface are

not the interruption, but the continuation. So with our little

affairs, so with mine. Not for nothing does any feeblest one's

fortunes rise or fall; but to work somewhat of good either to

himself or to others, and so to the whole. I was pretty quiet

during the voyage, while I knew that no news could reach me; I

expected to keep quiet; but I did not know myself.

We had hardly entered the bay of New York, and I had begun to

discern familiar objects and to realise that I was in the same

land with Mr. Thorold again, when a tormenting anxiety took

possession of my heart. Now that I was near him, questions

could be put off no longer. What tidings would greet me? and

how should I get any tidings at all? A fever began to run

along my veins, which I felt was not to be cured by reasoning.

Yes, I was not seeking to dispose my own affairs; I was not

trying to take them into my own hands; but I craved to know

how they stood, and what it was to which I must submit myself.

I was not willing to submit to uncertainty. Yet I remembered I

must do just that.

The vessel came to her moorings, and I sat in my muse, only

conscious of that devouring impatience which possessed me; and

did not see Dr. Sandford till he was close by my side. Then I

was glad; but the deck of that bustling steamer was no place

to show how glad. I stood still, with my hand in the doctor's,

and felt my face growing cold.

"Sit down!" he said, putting me back in the chair from which I

had risen; and still keeping my hand. "How is Mrs. Randolph?"

"I suppose you know how she is, from her letters."

"And you?" he said, with a change of tone.

"I do not know. I shall be better, I hope."

"You will be better, to get ashore. Will you learn your

mother's pleasure about it? and I will attend to the rest."

I thanked him; for the tone of genuine, manly care and

protection, was in my ears for the first time in many a day.

Mamma was very willing to avail herself of it too, and to my

great pleasure received Dr. Sandford and treated him with

perfect courtesy. Rooms were provided for us in one of the

best hotels, and comforts ready. The doctor saw us established

there, and asked what more he could do for us before he left

us to rest. He would not stay to dinner.

"The papers, please," said mamma. "Will you send me all the

papers. What is the news? We have heard nothing for weeks."

"I will send you the papers. You will see the news there,"

said the doctor.

"But what is it?"

"You would not rest if I began upon the subject. It would take

a good while to tell it all."

"But what is the position of affairs?"

"Sherman is in Georgia. Grant is in Virginia. There has been,

and there is, some stout fighting on hand."

"Sherman and Grant," said mamma. "Where are my people,

doctor?"

"Opposed to them. They do not find the way exactly open," the

doctor answered.

"Hard fighting, you said. How did it result?"

"Nothing is decided yet - except that the Yankees can fight,"

said the doctor, with a slight smile. And mamma said no more.

But I took courage, and she took gloom. The papers came, a

bundle of them, reaching back over several dates; giving

details of the battles of the Wilderness and of Sherman's

operations in the South. Mamma studied and studied, and

interrupted her dinner, to study. I took the sheets as they

fell from her hand and looked - for the lists of the wounded.

They were long enough, but they did not hold what I was

looking for. Mamma broke out at last with an earnest

expression of thanksgiving that Sedgwick was killed.

"Why, mamma?" I said in some horror.

"There is one less!" she answered grimly.

"But _one_ less makes very little difference for the cause,

mamma."

"I wish there were a dozen then," said she. "I wish all were

shot, that have the faculty of leading this rabble of numbers

and making them worth something."

But I was getting, I, to have a little pride in Northern

blood. I said nothing, of course.

"You are just a traitor, Daisy, I believe," said mamma. "You

read of all that is going on, and you know that Ransom and

Preston Gary are in it, and you do not care; except you care

on the wrong side. But I tell you this, - nothing that calls

itself Yankee shall ever have anything to do with me or mine

so long as I live. I will see you dead first, Daisy."

There was no answer to be made to this either. It only sank

down into my heart; and I knew I had no help in this world.

The question immediately pressed itself upon our attention,

where would we go? Dr. Sandford proposed Melbourne; and urged

that in the first place we should avail ourselves of the

hospitalities of his sister's house in that neighbourhood,

most generously tendered us, till he could be at leisure to

make arrangements at our old home. Just now he was under the

necessity of returning immediately to Washington, where he had

one or more hospitals in charge; indeed he left us that same

night of our landing; but before he went he earnestly pressed

his sister's invitation upon my mother, and promised that so

soon as the settlement of the country's difficulties should

set him free, he would devote himself to the care of us and

Melbourne till we were satisfactorily established.

"And I am in hopes it will not be very long now," he said

aside to me. "I think the country has got the right man at

last; and that is what we have been waiting for. Grant says he

will fight it out on this line, if it takes all summer; and I

think the end is coming."

Mamma would give no positive answer to the doctor's instances;

she thanked him and talked round the subject, and he was

obliged to go away without any contentment of her giving.

Alone with me, she spoke out: -

"I will take no Yankee civilities, Daisy. I will be under no

obligation to one of them. And I could not endure to be in the

house of one of them, if it were conferring instead of

receiving obligation."

"What will you do, then, mamma."

"I will wait. You do not suppose that the South can be

conquered, Daisy? The idea is absurd!"

"But, mamma? -"

"Well?"

"Why is it absurd?"

"Because they are not a people to give up. Don't you know

that? They would die first, every man and woman of them."

"But mamma, whatever the spirit of the people may be, numbers

and means have to tell upon the question at last."

"Numbers and means!" mamma repeated scornfully. "I tell you,

Daisy, the South _cannot_ yield. And as they cannot yield, they

must sooner or later succeed. Success always comes at last to

those who cannot be conquered."

"What is to become of us in the mean time, mamma?"

"I don't see that it signifies much," she said, relapsing out

of the fire with which the former sentences had been

pronounced. "I would like to live to see the triumph come."

That was all I could get from mamma that evening. She lay down

on a sofa and buried her face in pillows. I sat in the

darkening room and mused. The windows were open; a soft warm

air blew the curtains gently in and out; from the street below

came the murmur of business and voices and clatter of feet and

sound of wheels; not with the earnestness of alarm or the

droop of depression, but ringing, sharp, clear, cheery. The

city did not feel badly. New York had not suffered in its

fortunes or prosperity. There was many a battlefield at the

South where the ravages of war had swept all traces and hopes

of good fortunes away; never one at the North where the corn

had been blasted, or the fruits of the earth untimely ravaged,

or the heart of the husbandman disappointed in his ground.

Mamma's conclusions seemed to me without premise. What of my

own fortunes? I thought the wind of the desert, had blown upon

them and they were dead. I remember, in the trembling of my

heart as I sat and listened and mused, and thoughts trooped in

and out of my head with little order or volition on my part,

one word was a sort of rallying point on which they gathered

and fell back from time to time, though they started out again

on fresh roamings - "Lord, thou hast been our dwelling-place

in all generations"! - I remember, - it seems to me now as if

it had been some time before I was born, - how the muslin

curtains floated in on the evening wind, and the hum and stir

of the street came up to my ear; the bustle and activity,

though it was evening; and how the distant battlefields of

Virginia looked in forlorn contrast in the far distance. Yet

this was really the desert and that the populous place; for

there, somewhere, my world was. I grew very desolate as I

thought, or mused, by the window. If it had not been for those

words of the refuge, my heart would have failed me utterly.

After a long while mamma roused up and we had tea brought.

"Has Dr. Sandford gone?" she asked.

"He bid us good bye, mamma, you know. I suppose he took the

evening train, as he said."

"Then we shall have no more meddling."

"He means us only kindness, I am sure, mamma."

"I do not like kindness. I do not know what right Dr. Sandford

has to offer me kindness. I gave him none."

"Mamma, it seems to me that we are in a condition to receive

kindness, - and be very glad of it."

"You are poor-spirited, Daisy; you always were. You never had

any right pride of blood or of place. I think it makes no

difference to you who people are. If you had done your duty to

me, we should have been in no condition now to 'receive

kindness,' as you express it. I may thank you."

"What do you mean to do, mamma?"

"Nothing."

"Stay here, in this hotel?"

"Yes."

"It will be very expensive, mamma."

"I will meet the expense."

"But, mamma, - without funds?"

"I have a diamond necklace yet, Daisy."

"But, mamma, when that is gone? -"

"Do you think," she broke out with violence, "that this war is

going to last for ever? It _cannot_ last. The Yankees will find

out what they have undertaken. Lee will drive them back. You

do not suppose _he_ can be overcome?"

"Mamma - if the others have more men and more means -"

"They are only Yankees," - mamma said quietly, but with a

concentration of scorn impossible to give in words.

"They know how to fight," - I could not help saying.

"Yes, but _we_ do not know how to be overcome! Do you think it,

Daisy?"

"Mamma - there was New Orleans - and Vicksburg - and

Gettysburg; - and now in Virginia -"

"Yes, now; these battles; you will see how they will turn. Do

you suppose this Yankee Grant is a match for Robert E. Lee?"

It was best to drop the discussion, and I dropped it; but it

had gone too far to be forgotten. Every bit of news from that

time was a point of irritation; if good for the South, mamma

asserted that I did not sympathise with it; if good for the

North, she found that I was glad, though I tried not to show

that I was. She was irritated, and anxious, and unhappy. What

I was, I kept to myself.

CHAPTER XX.

THE WOUNDED

One desire possessed me, pressing before every other; it was

to see Miss Cardigan. I thought I should accomplish this very

soon after my landing. I found that I must wait for days.

It was very hard to wait. Yet mamma needed me; she was nervous

and low-spirited and unwell and lonely; she could not endure

to have me long out of her sight. She never looked with favour

upon any proposal of mine to go out, even for a walk; and I

could hardly get permission. I fancied that some - latent -

suspicion lay beneath all this unwillingness, which did not

make it more easy to bear. But I got leave at last, one

afternoon early in June; and took my way up the gay

thoroughfares of Broadway and the Avenue.

It was June, June all over. Just like the June of four years

ago, when Dr. Sandford took me away from school to go to West

Point; like the June of three years ago, when I had been

finishing my school work, before I went to Washington. I was a

mere girl then; now, I seemed to myself at least twenty years

older. June sweetness was in all the air; June sunlight

through all the streets; roses blossomed in courtyards and

looked out of windows; grass was lush and green; people were

in summer dresses. I hurried along, my breath growing shorter

as I went. The well-known corner of Mme. Ricard's

establishment came into view, and bright school-days with it.

Miss Cardigan's house opposite looked just as I had left it;

and as I drew near I saw that this was literally so. The

flowers were blossoming in the garden plots and putting their

faces out of window, exactly as if I had left them but a day

ago. My knees trembled under me then, as I went up the steps

and rang the bell. A strange servant opened to me. I went in,

to her astonishment I suppose, without asking any questions;

which indeed I could not. What if a second time I should find

Mr. Thorold here? Such a thought crossed me as I trod the

familiar marble floor, after the wild fashion in which our

wishes mock our reason; then it left me the next instant, in

my gladness to see through the opening door the figure of my

dear old friend. Just as I had left her also. Something, in

the wreck of my world, had stood still and suffered no change.

I went in and stood before her. She pulled off her spectacles,

looked at me, changed colour and started up. I can hardly tell

what she said. I think I was in too great a confusion for my

senses to do their office perfectly. But her warm arms were

about me, and my head found a hiding-place on her shoulder.

"Sit down, my lamb, my lamb!" were the first words I remember.

"Janet, shut the door, and tell anybody I am busy. Sit you

down here and rest. My lamb, ye're all shaken. Daisy, my pet,

where have you been?"

I sat down, and she did, but I leaned over to the arms that

still enfolded me and laid my head on her bosom. She was

silent now for a while. And I wished she would speak, but I

could not. Her arms pressed me close in the embrace that had

so comforted my childhood. She had taken off my bonnet and

kissed me and smoothed my hair; and that was all, for what

seemed a long while.

"What is it?" she said at last. "I know you're left, my

darling. I heard of your loss, while you were so far away from

home. One is gone from your world."

"He was happy - he is happy," I whispered.

"Let us praise the Lord for that!" she said in her broadest

Scotch accent, which only came out in moments of feeling.

"But he was nearly all my world, Miss Cardigan."

"Ay," she said. "We have but one father. And yet, no, my bairn.

Ye're not left desolate."

"I have been very near it."

"I am glad ye are come home."

"But I feel as if I had no home anywhere," I said with a burst

of tears which were a great mercy to me at the time. The

stricture upon my heart had like to have taken away my breath.

Miss Cardigan let me weep, saying sympathy with the tender

touch of her soft hand; no otherwise. And then I could lift

myself up and face life again.

"You have not forgotten your Lord, Daisy?" she said at length,

when she saw me quiet. I looked at her and smiled my answer,

though it must have been a sober smile.

"I see," she said; "you have not. But how was it, so far away,

my bairn? Weren't you tempted?"