The lawyer smiled and answered her, "That is something, but not enough.

We must have a will or some document. He might have been your mother's

father. I think he was; and still, she may not be--be--"

He hesitated, for Eloise's eyes were fixed upon him, and the hot blood

of shame was crimsoning her face. After a moment he continued, "A will

can set things right; or, if we can prove a marriage, all will be fair

sailing for your mother and you."

"I was not thinking of myself," Eloise returned. "I am thinking of

mother. I know all the dreadful gossip and everything. Mrs. Biggs has

told me, and I am going to find out. Somebody knows, and I shall find

them."

She looked very fearless as she left the room, and Howard felt that she

would be no weak antagonist if he wanted to contest his right to the

estate. But he didn't, he told himself, and Mr. Ferris, too. He was

willing to abide by the law. If there was a will he'd like to find it;

and, in any case, should be generous to Amy and--Eloise!

"No doubt of it," the lawyer said, looking at him now over his

spectacles, and taking a second pinch of snuff preparatory to the search

among the dead man's papers, which Howard suggested that he make.

Every place Howard had gone through was gone through again,--every paper

unfolded and every envelope looked into. There was no will or scrap of

writing bearing upon Amy. There were some receipts from Tom Hardy, of

Palatka, for money received from the Colonel and paid over to Eudora

Harris, and at these the lawyer looked curiously.

"Harris was the name Amy sometimes went by before her marriage, I

believe," he said. "Eudora was probably her mother. Now, if we can find

Tom Hardy we may learn something. Shall I write to Palatka and inquire?"

"Certainly," Howard replied, with a choke in his throat which he managed

to hide from the lawyer.

He didn't mean to be a scoundrel. He only wanted his own, and he meant

to do right if chance made him master of Crompton, he said to himself,

as he went to the drawing-room, where Jack and Eloise were sitting with

a few friends who seemed to be waiting for something. Ruby and Mrs.

Biggs, who, on the strength of their intimacy with Eloise, had remained

in the house while the family was at the grave, were there, evidently

expectant. It was not Howard's idea to broach the subject at once. He

wanted to talk it over with Jack and Eloise, and make himself right with

them. The lawyer had no such scruples. He had read wills after many

funerals, and now that there was none to read, he spoke up:

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'm sorry I can't oblige you, but there ain't any

will as we can find, and nothing to show who Mrs. Amy is, and matters

must rest for a spell as they are. Meanwhile, Mr. Howard Crompton, as

the Colonel's nephew and only known heir, must take charge of things."

Eloise's face flushed, and Jack, who stole a look at her, saw that her

hands trembled a little. No one spoke until Mrs. Biggs rose and said,

"'Squire Ferris, if no will ain't found, and nothin' is proved for Mrs.

Amy,--adoption nor nothin',--you know what I mean,--can't she inherit?"

"Not a cent!" was the reply.

"You mean she'll have nothin'?"

"Legally nothing!"

"And Mr. Howard will have everything?"

"Yes, everything, as he is sole heir and next of kin."

"Get out with your 'sole heir and next of kin' and law!" Mrs. Biggs

exclaimed vehemently. "There ain't no justice in law. Look a-here,

Squire; when women vote we'll have things different. Here is Amy, been

used to them elegancies all her life." She swept her arm around the

room, and, still keeping it poised, continued: "And now she's to be

turned out because there ain't no will and you can't prove nothin'! And

that's law! It makes me so mad! Who is goin' to take care of her, I'd

like to know?"

"I am!" and Eloise sprang to her feet, the central figure now in the

room. "I shall take care of my mother! I don't care for the will, nor

anything, except to prove that she is Col. Crompton's legitimate

daughter, and that I will do. I am going where she was born, if I can

find the place, and take her with me. I am not very lame now, and I

would start to-morrow if--"

She stopped, remembering that in her purse were only two and one half

dollars, and this she owed to Mrs. Biggs for board; then her eyes fell

upon Ruby, the friend who had stood by her in her need, and who had been

the first to congratulate her on finding her mother. Ruby had offered

her money for the journey to California, and something in Ruby's face

told her it was still ready for her, and she went on: "I was foolish

enough to think Crompton Place was her rightful home, and be glad for

her, but if it is not, I shall take her away at once. No one need worry

about mother! I shall care for her."

"Bravo!" Mrs. Biggs rejoined, as Eloise sank back in her chair. "That's

what I call pluck! Law, indeed! It makes me so mad! You can fetch her to

my house any minit. Your old room is ready for you, and I won't charge a

cent till you find something to do and can pay. Maybe Ruby'll give up

the school. Won't you, Ruby Ann?"

"Certainly, if she wishes it," Ruby answered, and going over to Eloise,

she said, "You are a brave little girl, and the money is still waiting

for you if you want it."

As for Jack, he was ready to lay himself at her feet, but all he could

do then was to say to Ruby, "Perhaps Miss Smith had better go to her

room; she seems tired," and taking her arm, he went with her to the

door, which Howard opened for her. That young man did not feel very

comfortable, and as soon as Eloise was gone he said to the inmates of

the room, "If any of you think me such a cad as to turn Mrs. Amy and her

daughter from the house, or to allow them to go, you are mistaken. If it

should prove that I am master here, they will share with me. I can do no

more."

"Good for you!" Jack said, wringing Howard's hand, while the party began

to break up, as it was time for those who lived at a distance to take

the train.

Among those who arose to go was the Rev. Arthur Mason, whom Howard had

asked to lunch after the burial. As he left the house he said to Jack,

who stood for a moment with him on the piazza, "Please say to Miss Smith

that I can direct her to her mother's birthplace in Florida. My father

is preaching there."

"Thanks! I will tell her," Jack replied, in some surprise, and then went

in to where Howard was standing, with an expression on his face not

quite such as one ought to have when he has just come into possession of

a fortune.

"I congratulate you, old boy," Jack said cheerily, as he went up to him.

"Don't!" Howard answered impetuously. "Nothing is sure. A will may be

found, or my uncle's marriage proved; in either case, I sink back into

the cipher I was before. I cannot say I'm not glad to have money, but I

don't want people blaming me. I can't help it if my uncle made no will

and did not marry Amy's mother, and I don't believe he did, or why was

he silent so many years?"

Jack could not answer him and left the room, taking his way, he hardly

knew why, to the village, where he fell in again with the rector. To

talk of the recent events at the Crompton House was natural, and before

they parted Jack knew the contents of the Rev. Charles's letter to his

son, and in his mind there was no doubt of a secret marriage and Amy's

legitimacy.

"It will be hard on Howard," he thought, "but Amy ought to have her

rights,--and,--Eloise! And she shall!" he added, as he retraced his

steps to the Crompton House.

Chancing to be alone with her, he told her in part what he had heard

from the rector, keeping back everything pertaining to the poverty of

the surroundings, and speaking mostly of Jakey and Mandy Ann, whom Amy

might remember.

"She does," Eloise replied, "and at every mention of them her brain

seems to get clearer. Peter has brought me a copy of a letter which Col.

Crompton received from Jake just before he went for my mother, and which

he has kept all these years. It may help me to find whatever there is to

be found, good or bad." She handed him the copy, and continued, "The

letter was mailed in Palatka, but from what you tell me, Jakey is

farther up the river. Shall I have any trouble in finding him, do you

think?"

"None whatever," Jack replied, a plan rapidly maturing in his mind as

to what he would do if Eloise persisted in going to Florida. "Better

leave your mother here," he said, when she told him of her determination

to unravel the mystery.

"No," she answered. "Mother must go. I expect much from a sight of her

old home and Jakey."

Jack shivered as he recalled the Rev. Charles Mason's picture of that

home, but he would not enlighten her. She must guess something from

Jakey's note to the Colonel, he thought. Evidently she did, for she

asked him what a Cracker was.

"I ought to know, of course, and have some idea," she said. "I asked

mother, and she said she was one. What did she mean?"

"If you go to Florida you will probably learn what a Cracker is," Jack

replied, as he bade her good-night, pitying her for what he knew was in

store for her.

The next day a telegram from New York called him to the city. But before

he went he had an interview with Ruby with regard to the journey which

Eloise was designing to take as soon as her mother should have recovered

from the shock of the Colonel's death.

For a few days after his departure matters moved on quietly at the

Crompton House, where Howard assumed the head unostentatiously, and

without giving offence to any of the servants. The Crompton estate, as

reported to him by Lawyer Ferris, was larger than he had supposed, and

if it were his he would be a richer man than he had ever hoped to be. He

liked money, and what it would bring him, and if he had been sure of his

foothold he would have been very happy. And he was nearly sure. There

was no will in the house, he was certain, for he had gone a second and

third time through every place where one could possibly have been put,

and found nothing. He was safe there, and as he did not know all which

Mr. Mason had written to his son, he did not greatly fear the result of

Eloise's trip to the South, which he thought a foolish undertaking. But

she was bent upon going and the day was fixed. Grandmother Smith had

returned home to await developments. Amy was ready. Eloise's lameness

was nearly gone, "And to-morrow we start," she said to him one evening,

when, after dinner, she joined him in the library, where he spent most

of his time.

Every day since his uncle's death, and he had seen so much of Eloise,

Howard's interest in her had increased, until it amounted to a passion,

if not positive love. Jack was a formidable rival, he knew, but now that

he was probably master of Crompton Place, where her mother would be

happier than elsewhere, she might think favorably of him. At all events

he'd take the chance, and now was his time. Looking up quickly as she

came in, and drawing a chair close to him for her, he said, "Sit down a

moment while I talk to you." She sat down, and he continued, "I wish you

would give up this journey, which can only end in disappointment. I have

no idea there was a marriage, or that you could prove it if there was.

My uncle was not a brute. He loved Amy, and would not have kept silent

till he died if she had been his legitimate daughter. Give up the

project. I will gladly share the fortune with you, and be a son to your

mother. Will you, Eloise? I must call you that, and I ask you to be my

wife. It is not so sudden as you may think," he continued, as he saw her

look of surprise. "I do not show all I feel. I admired you from the

first, but Jack seemed to be ahead, and I gave way to him, not

understanding until within the last few days how much you were to me. I

love you, and ask you again to be my wife."

He had one of her hands in his, but it was cold and pulseless, and it

seemed to him it told her answer before she said, very kindly, as if

sorry to give him pain:

"I believe you are my cousin, or, rather, my mother's, and I can esteem

you as such, but I cannot be your wife."

"Because you love Jack Harcourt, I suppose," Howard said, a little

bitterly, and Eloise replied, "I do not think we should bring Mr.

Harcourt into the discussion. When he asks me to be his wife it will be

time to know whether I love him or not. I cannot marry you."

She arose to go, while Howard tried to detain her, feeling every moment

how his love was growing for this girl who had so recently come into his

life, and was crossing his path, as he had felt she would when he first

heard of her from his uncle, and had promised to sound her as to her

fitness for a teacher. There had been no need for that; his uncle was

dead, and she was going from him, perhaps to return as a usurper.

"Eloise," he said again, with more feeling in his voice than when he

first spoke, "you must listen to me. I cannot give you up. I would

rather lose Crompton, if it is mine, than to lose you."

Rising to his feet, he took her face between his hands and kissed it

passionately.

"How dare you!" she said, wresting herself from him.

"Because I dare! Jack may have the second kiss, but I have had the

first," he replied. Then his manner changed, and he said, entreatingly,

"Forgive me, Eloise, I was beside myself for a moment. Don't give me an

answer now. Think of what I have said while you are gone, if you will

go; and if you fail, remember this is your home and your mother's, just

as much as it will be if you succeed. Promise me you will come back here

whatever happens. You will come?"

"For a time, yes; till I know what to do if I fail," she replied.

Then she went out and left him alone, to go again through the

pigeon-holes and drawers and shelves he had been through so often and

found nothing.

CHAPTER VI

IN FLORIDA

The Boston train was steaming into the Central Station in New York, and

Eloise was gathering up her satchels and wraps, and looking anxiously

out into the deepening twilight, wondering if the cars would be gone

from the Jersey side, and what she should do if they were. She had

intended taking a train which reached New York earlier, but there was

some mistake in her reading of the time-table, and now it was growing

dark, and for a moment her courage began to fail her, and she half

wished herself back in Crompton, where every one had been so kind to

her, and where every one had looked upon the journey as useless, except

the rector and Ruby. These had encouraged her to go, and Ruby had

furnished the money and had been very hopeful, and told her there was

nothing to fear even in New York, which Eloise dreaded the most. Howard

had seen her to the train and got her seats in the parlor car, and said

to her, as he had once before:

"I'd like to offer you money, but you say you have enough."

"Oh, yes," Eloise answered; "more than enough. Ruby has been so kind."

Then he said good-by, and went back to the house, which seemed empty and

desolate.

"I ought at least to have gone to New York with them, but that little

girl is so proud and independent, I dare say she would not have let me,"

he said to himself, and all day his thoughts followed them, until by

some clairvoyant process he seemed to see them at the station alone and

afraid, just as for a short time Eloise was afraid and wished she had

not come.

Then, rallying, she said to herself, "This won't do. I must keep up,"

and she helped her mother from the car, and began to walk through the

long station toward the street. Only half the distance had been gone

over when a hand was laid upon her shoulder, and a voice which made her

heart bound with delight, said to her, "Here you are! I was afraid I had

missed you in the crowd."

"Oh, Mr. Harcourt, I am so glad! How did you know we were coming?"

Eloise exclaimed, her gladness showing in her eyes and sounding in her

voice.

"Oh, I knew," Jack answered, taking her satchel and wraps and umbrella

from her, and giving his disengaged arm to her mother. "I have a friend

at court who lets me know what is going to happen. It is Ruby. She

telegraphed."

Calling a carriage, which was evidently waiting for him, Jack put the

ladies into it, attended to the baggage, and then sprang in himself.

With him opposite her, Eloise felt no further responsibility. Everything

would be right, she was sure, and it was. They were in time for the

south-bound train, and after a word with the porter, were ushered into a

drawing-room compartment, which Jack said was to be theirs during the

long journey.

"Yes, I know," Eloise said. "It is large and comfortable, and away from

the people, but I'm afraid it costs too much."

"It's all right," Jack answered, beginning to remove Amy's jacket, with

an air of being at home.

Just then Eloise glanced from the window and saw they were moving.

"Oh, Mr. Harcourt!" she screamed. "We have started! You will be carried

off! Do hurry!"

She put both hands on his arm to force him from the room, while he

laughed and said, "Did you think I would let you go to Florida alone? I

am going with you. I have a section all to myself outside, where you can

sit when you are tired in here. Are you sorry?"

"Sorry!" she repeated. "I was never so glad in my life. But are you sure

you ought to go? Is it right?"

"You mean proper? Perfectly!" he answered. "Your mother is with us. Your

friend Ruby knows I am going, and Mr. Mason, and Mrs. Biggs, and

everybody else by this time. It's all right. Mrs. Grundy will approve."

Eloise was too happy to care for Mrs. Grundy, and her happiness

increased with every hour which brought her nearer to Florida, and she

saw more and more how thoroughly kind and thoughtful Jack was. Sometimes

he sat with her and her mother in the compartment he had engaged for

them, but oftener when Amy was resting she sat with him in his section,

planning what she was to do first when Florida was reached, and how she

was to find Jakey. Jack knew exactly what to do, but he liked to listen

to her and watch the expression of her face, which seemed to him to

grow more beautiful every hour. On the last evening they were to be upon

the road, she was sitting with him just before the car lamps were

lighted, and he said to her, "Suppose you don't succeed? What will you

do?"

For a moment Eloise was silent; then she replied, "I shall take mother

home to my grandmother's. I call her that still, although you know she

is not really mine, but I love her just the same, and shall take care of

her and mother. I can do it. Ruby will let me have the school, I am

sure, if I ask her, but I couldn't take it from her now. I can get

another somewhere, or if not a school, I can find something to do. I am

not afraid of work."

She was trying to be very brave, but there was a pathetic look in her

face which moved Jack strangely. Her hands were lying in her lap, and

taking the one nearest to him, he said, "Eloise, I'll tell you what you

are going to do, whether you succeed or not. You are going to be my

wife! Yes, my wife!"

"Mr. Harcourt!" Eloise exclaimed, trying to withdraw her hand from him.

But he only held it closer, while he said, "Don't Mr. Harcourt me! Call

me Jack, and I shall know you assent. I think I have loved you ever

since I saw you on the rostrum in Mayville,--at any rate, ever since

that stormy night when you came near being killed. I did not mean to

speak here in the car, but I am glad I have settled it."

He was taking her consent for granted, and was squeezing her hand until

she said involuntarily, "Oh, Jack, you hurt me!"

Then he dropped it and, stooping, kissed her, saying, "I am answered.

You have called me Jack. You are mine,--my little wife,--the dearest a

man ever had."

He kissed her again, while she whispered, "Oh, Jack, how can you, with

all the people looking on? and it isn't very dark yet."

"There are not many to look on, and they are in front of us, and I don't

care if the whole world sees me," Jack replied, passing his arm around

her and drawing her close to him.

"You must not, right here in the car; besides that, I haven't told you I

would," she said, making an effort to free herself from him, as the

porter began to light the lamps.

He was satisfied with her answer, and kept his arm around her in the

face of the porter, who was too much accustomed to such scenes to pay

any attention to this particular one. He had spotted them as lovers from

the first and was not surprised, but when eleven o'clock came and every

berth was made up except that of Jack, who still sat with Eloise beside

him, loath to let her go, the negro grew uneasy and anxious to finish

his night's work.

"Sir," he said at last to Jack, "'scuse me, but you might move into the

gentlemen's wash-room whiles I make up the berth; it's gwine on toward

mornin'."

In a flash Eloise sprang up, and without a word went to her mother, who

was sleeping quietly, just as she had left her three hours before. A

lurch of the train awoke her, and, kneeling beside her, Eloise said to

her, "Mr. Harcourt has asked me to be his wife. Are you glad?"

"Yes, daughter, very glad. Are we in Florida?" Amy replied.

"Yes, mother, and before long we shall reach your old home and Jakey,"

was Eloise's answer, as she kissed her mother good-night and sought her

own pillow to think of the great happiness which had come to her in Jack

Harcourt's love, and which would compensate for any disappointment there

might be in store for her.

CHAPTER VII

IN THE PALMETTO CLEARING

There were not many guests at the Brock House as the season had not

fully opened, and Jack had no trouble to find rooms for the ladies and

himself. Amy's was in front, looking upon the St. John's, which here

spreads out into Lake Monroe. She had had glimpses of the river from the

railway car, but had not seen it as distinctly as now, when she stood by

the window with an expression on her face as if she were thinking of the

past, before her reason was clouded.

"Oh, the river!--the beautiful river!" she said. "It brings things

back,--the boat I went in; not like that," and she pointed to a large,

handsome steamboat lying at the wharf. "Not like that. What was its

name?"

Jack, who was in the room, and who had read Mr. Mason's letter to his

son, suggested, "The 'Hatty'?"

"Yes, the 'Hatty'!" Amy said. "Strange, I remember it when I have

forgotten so much. And he was with me,--my father. Wasn't he my father?"

She looked at Eloise, who answered promptly, "Yes, he was your father."

"I thought so. He said I was to call him so," Amy went on, more to

herself than to Eloise. "I didn't always, he was so cold and proud and

hard with me, but he was kind at the last, and he is dead, and this is

Florida, where the oranges and palm trees grow. They are there,--see!"

and she pointed to the right, where a tall palm tree raised its head

above an orange grove below.

She was beginning to remember, and Eloise and Jack kept silent while she

went on: "And we are here to find my mother and Jakey."

She looked again at Eloise, who answered her: "To find Jakey,--yes; and

to-morrow we shall see him. To-night you must rest."

"Yes, rest to-night, and to-morrow go to Jakey," Amy replied, submissive

as a little child to whatever Eloise bade her do.

She was very tired, and slept soundly without once waking, and her first

question in the morning was, "Is it to-morrow, and are we in Florida?"

"Yes, dearest, we are in Florida, and going to find Jakey," was Eloise's

reply, as she kissed her mother's face, and thought how young and fair

it was still, with scarcely a line upon it.

Only the eyes and the droop of the mouth showed signs of past suffering,

and these were passing away with a renewal of old scenes and memories.

Jack had found the Rev. Mr. Mason, who received him cordially.

"I was expecting you," he said. "A telegram from my son told me you were

on the way. I have not seen Jake, as it was only yesterday I had the

despatch. I have one piece of news, however, for which I am sorry. Elder

Covil died in Virginia soon after the war, and nothing can be learned

from him."

Jack was greatly disappointed. His hope had been to find Elder Covil,

if living, or some trace of him, and that was swept away; but he would

not tell Eloise. She was all eagerness and excitement, and was ready

soon after breakfast for the drive to the palmetto clearing, and Amy

seemed almost as excited and eager. Born amid palms and orange trees,

and magnolias and negroes, the sight of them brought back the past in a

misty kind of way, which was constantly clearing as Eloise helped her to

remember. Of Mr. Mason she of course had no recollection, and shrank

from him when presented to him. He did not tell her he had buried her

mother. He only said he knew Jakey, and was going to take her to him,

and they were soon on their way. The road was very different from the

one over which he had been driven behind the white mule, and there were

marks of improvement everywhere,--gardens and fields and cabins with

little negroes swarming around the doors, and these, with the palm trees

and the orange trees, helped to revive Amy's memories of the time when

she played with the little darkys among the dwarf palmettos and ate

oranges in the groves.

In the doorway of one of the small houses a colored woman was standing,

looking at the carriage as it passed. Recognizing Mr. Mason, she gave

him a hearty "How d'ye, Mas'r Mason?" to which he responded without

telling his companions that it was Mandy Ann. He wished Amy to see Jake

first.

"Here we are," he said at last. "This is the clearing; this is the

house, and there is Jake himself."

He pointed to a negro in the distance, and to a small house,--half log

and half frame, for Jake had added to and improved it within a few

years.

"I'se gwine to make it 'spectable, so she won't be 'shamed if she ever

comes back to see whar she was bawn," he had thought, and to him it

seemed almost palatial, with its addition, which he called a "linter,"

and which consisted of a large room furnished with a most heterogeneous

mass of articles gathered here and there as he could afford them.

Conspicuous in one corner was "lil Dory's cradle," which had been

painted red, with a lettering in white on one side of it, "In memory of

lil chile Dory." This he had placed in what he called the parlor that

morning, after dusting it carefully and putting a fresh pillow case on

the scanty pillow where Amy's head had lain. He was thinking of her and

wondering he did not hear from the Colonel, when the sound of carriage

wheels made him look up and start for his house. Mr. Mason was the first

to alight; then Jack; then Eloise; and then Amy, whose senses for a

moment left her entirely.

"What is it? Where are we?" she said, pressing her hands to her

forehead.

Evidently the place did not impress her, except as something strange.

"Let's go!" she whispered to Eloise. "We've nothing to do here; let's go

back to the oranges and palmettos."

"But, mother, Jakey is here!" Eloise replied, her eyes fixed upon the

old man to whom Mr. Mason had been explaining, and whose "Bress de Lawd.

I feels like havin' de pow', ef I b'lieved in it," she heard distinctly.

Then he came rapidly toward them, and she could see the tears on his

black face, which was working nervously.

"Miss Dory! Miss Dory! 'Tain't you! Oh, de Lawd,--so growed,--so

changed! Is it you for shu'?" he said, stretching his hands toward Amy,

who drew closer to Eloise.

"Go gently, Jake; gently! Remember her mind is weak," Mr. Mason said.

"Yes, sar. I 'members de Harris's mind mostly was weak. Ole Miss didn't

know nuffin', an' Miss Dory was a little quar, an' dis po' chile is like

'em," was Jake's reply, which brought a deep flush to Eloise's face.

She had felt her cheeks burning all the time she had been looking round

on her mother's home, wondering what Jack would think of it. At Jake's

mention of the Harrises she glanced at him so appealingly, that for

answer he put his arm around her and whispered, "Keep up, darling, I see

your mother is waking up."

Jake had taken one of her hands, and was looking in her face as if he

would find some trace of the "lil chile Dory" who left him years ago.

And she was scanning him, not quite as if she knew him, but with a

puzzled, uncertain manner, in which there was now no fear.

"Doan' you know me, Miss Dory? I'm Shaky,--ole Shaky,--what use' to play

b'ar wid you, an' tote you on his back," he said to her.

"I think I do. Yes. Where's Mandy Ann?" Amy asked.

"She 'members,--she does!" Jake cried, excitedly. "Mandy Ann was de nuss

girl what looked after her an' ole Miss." Then to Amy he said, "Mandy

Ann's done grow'd like you, an' got chillen as big as you. Twins, four

on 'em, as was christened in your gown. Come into de house. You'll

member then. Come inter de gret room, but fust wait a minit. I seen a

boy out dar,--Aaron,--one of Mandy Ann's twins, an' I'se gwine to sen'

for Mandy Ann.

"Hello, you flat-footed chap!" he called. "Make tracks home the fastest

you ever did, an' tell yer mother to come quick, 'case lil Miss Dory's

hyar. Run, I say."

The boy Aaron started, and Jake led the way to the door of the "gret

room," which he threw open with an air of pride.

"Walk in, gemmen an' ladies, walk in," he said, holding Amy's hand.

They walked in, and he led Amy to a lounge and sat down beside her,

close to the red cradle, to which he called her attention.

"Doan' you 'member it, Miss Dory?" he said, giving it a jog. "I use' ter

rock yer to sleep wid you kickin' yer heels an' doublin' yer fists, an'

callin' me ole fool, an' I singin':

"'Lil chile Dory, Shaky's lil lam',

Mudder's gone to heaven,

Shaky leff behime

To care for lil chile Dory, Shaky's lil lam'.'

Doan' you 'member it, honey,--an' doan' you member me? I'm Shaky,--I

is."

There was a touching pathos in Jakey's voice as he sang, and it was

intensified when he asked, "Doan' you 'member me, honey?"

Both Mr. Mason and Jack turned their heads aside to hide the moisture in

their eyes, while Eloise's tears fell fast as she watched the strange

pair,--the wrinkled old negro and the white-faced woman, in whom a

wonderful transformation seemed to be taking place. With the first sound

of the weird melody and the words "Lil chile Dory, Shaky's lil lam',"

she leaned forward and seemed to be either listening intently or trying

to recall something which came and went, and which she threw out her

hands to retain. As the singing went on the expression of her face

changed from one of painful thought to one of perfect peace and quiet,

and when it ceased and Jakey appealed lo her memory, she answered him,

"Yes, Shaky, I remember." Then to Eloise she said, "The lullaby of my

childhood, which has rung in my ears for years. He used to want me to

sing a negro melody to the people, and said it made them cry. That's

because I wanted to cry, as I do now, and can't. I believe I must have

sung it that last night in Los Angeles before everything grew dark."

Moving closer to Jakey she laid her head upon his arm and whispered to

him, "Sing it again, Shaky. The tightness across the top of my head is

giving way. It has ached so long."

Jake began the song again, his voice more tremulous than before, while

Amy's hands tightened on his arm, and her head sank lower on his breast.

As he sang he jogged the cradle with one foot, and kept time with the

other and a swaying motion of his body, which brought Amy almost across

his lap. When she lifted up her head there were tears in her eyes, and

they ran at last like rivers down her cheeks, while a storm of

hysterical sobs shook her frame and brought Eloise to her.

"Don't cry so," she said. "You frighten me."

Amy put her aside, and answered, "I must cry; it cools my brain. There

are oceans yet to come,--all the pent-up tears of the years--since he

told me you were dead. I am so glad to cry."

For some moments she wept on, until Jakey began to soothe her with his

"Doan' cry no mo', honey. Summat has done happened you bad, but it's

done gone now, an' we're all here,--me an' I do' know her name, but

she's you uns, an' Mas'r Mason an' de oder gemman. We're all here, an'

de light is breakin'. Doan' you feel it, honey?"

"Yes, I feel it," she said, lifting up her head and wiping away her

tears. "The light is breaking; my head is better. This is the old home.

How did we get here?"

Her mind was misty still, but Eloise felt a crisis was past, and that in

time the films which had clouded her mother's brain would clear away,

not wholly, perhaps, for she was a Harris, and "all the Harrises," Jake

said, "were quar." She was very quiet now, and listened as they talked,

but could recall nothing of her mother or the funeral, which Mr. Mason

had attended. She seemed very tired, and at Eloise's suggestion lay

clown upon the lounge and soon fell asleep, while Jack put question

after question to Jake, hoping some light would be thrown upon the

mystery they had come to unravel.

CHAPTER VIII

THE LITTLE HAIR TRUNK

Jake could tell them but little more than he had told Mr. Mason on a

former visit. This he repeated with some additions, while Eloise

listened, sometimes with indignation at Col. Crompton, and sometimes

with shame and a thought as to what Jack would think of it. Her mother's

family history was being unrolled before her, and she did not like it.

There was proud blood in her veins, and she felt it coming to the

surface and rebelling against the family tree of which she was a

branch,--the Harrises, the Crackers, and, more than all, the uncertainty

as to her mother's legitimacy, which she began to fear must remain an

uncertainty. It was not a very desirable ancestry, and she glanced

timidly at Jack to see how he was taking it. His face was very placid

and unmoved as he questioned Jake of the relatives in Georgia, whom

Amy's mother had visited.

"We must find them," he said. "Do you know anything of them? Were they

Harrises, or what?"

Jake said they were "Browns an' Crackers; not the real no 'counts.

Thar's a difference, an' I'm shu' ole Miss Lucy was fust class, 'case

Miss Dory was a lady bawn."

"Are there no papers anywhere to tell us who they were?" Jack asked, and

Jake replied, "Thar's papers in de little har trunk whar I keeps de

writin' book Miss Dory used, an' de book she read in to learn, but dem's

no 'count. Some receipts an' bills an' some letters ole Mas'r Harris

writ to Miss Lucy 'fo' they was married,--love letters, in course, which

I seen Miss Dory tie up wid a white ribbon. I've never opened dem, 'case

it didn't seem fittin' like to read what a boy writ to a gal."

"Why, Jake," Jack exclaimed, "don't you see those letters may tell us

where Miss Lucy lived in Georgia? and that is probably where Miss Dory

visited. Bring us the trunk."

"'Clar for't. I never thought of that," Jake said, rising with alacrity

and going into the room where he slept.

Mr. Mason, too, stepped out for a few moments, leaving Eloise alone with

Jack. Now was her time, and, going up to him, she said, "Jack, I want to

tell you now, you mustn't marry me!"

"Mustn't marry you!" Jack repeated. "Are you crazy?"

"Not yet," Eloise answered with a sob, "but I may be in time, or queer,

like all the Harrises,--mother and her mother and 'old Miss.' We are all

Harrises, and,--and,--oh, Jack, I know what a Cracker is now; mother is

one; I am one, and it is all so dreadful; and mother nobody, perhaps. I

can't bear it, and you must not marry me."

"I shall marry you," Jack said, folding her in his arms. "Do you think I

care who your family are, or how queer they are? You'll never be queer.

I'll shield you so carefully from every care that you can't even spell

the word."

He took her hands and made her look at him, while he kissed her lips

and said, "It is you I want, with all the Harrises and Crackers in

Christendom thrown in, if necessary. Are you satisfied?"

He knew she was, and was kissing her again when Jake appeared with the

trunk, which he said had held Miss Dory's clothes when she went to

Georgia. There was a musty odor about it when he opened it, and the few

papers inside were yellow with age.

"Dis yer is de reader Miss Dory use' to go over so much," Jake said,

handing the book to Eloise, who turned its worn pages reverently, as if

touching the hands of the dead girl, who, Jake said, "had rassled with

the big words an' de no 'count pieces. She liked de po'try, an' got by

heart 'bout de boy on de burnin' deck, but de breakin' waves floo'd her,

'case 'twan't no story like Cassy-by-anker."

He pointed the latter poem out to Eloise, who said, "Will you give me

this book?"

Jake hesitated before he replied, "He wanted it, the Colonel, an' I tole

him no, but you're different. I'll think about it."

Mr. Mason had returned by this time, and with Jack was looking at the

bundle of letters tied with a satin ribbon which Jake said Miss Dory had

taken from her white dress, the one he believed she was married in, as

it was her bestest. There were four letters and a paper which did not

seem to be a letter, and which slipped to the floor at Eloise's feet as

Jack untied the ribbon. There was also a small envelope containing a

card with "James Crompton" upon it, the one Mandy Ann had carried her

mistress on a china plate, and which poor Dora had kept as a souvenir of

that visit. With the card were the remains of what must have been a

beautiful rose. The petals were brown and crumbling to dust, but still

gave out a faint perfume, which Eloise detected. While she was looking

at these mementos of a past, Jack was running his eyes over the almost

illegible directions on the letters, making out "Miss Lucy Brown,

Atlanta, Ga."

"That doesn't help us much," he said to Mr. Mason. "Brown is a common

name, and the Atlanta before the war was not like the Atlanta of

to-day."

"Perhaps something inside will give a cue," Mr. Mason suggested, and

Jack opened one of the letters carefully, for it was nearly torn apart.

The spelling was bad and the writing was bad, but it rang true with a

young man's love for the girl of his choice, and it seemed to Jack like

sacrilege to read it. Very hurriedly he went through the four letters,

finding nothing to guide him but "Atlanta," and a few names of people

who must have been living in the vicinity.

"Here's another," Eloise said, passing him the paper which she had

picked from the floor.

Jack took it, and opening it, glanced at the contents. Then, with a cry

of "Eureka!" he began a sort of pirouette, while Eloise and Mr. Mason

wondered if he, too, had gone quar, like the Harrises.

"It's the marriage certificate," he said, sobering down at last, and

reading aloud that at the Hardy Plantation, Fulton County, Georgia, on

December--, 18--, the Rev. John Covil united in marriage James Crompton,

of Troutburg, Massachusetts, and Miss Eudora Harris, of Volucia County,

Florida.

Upon no one did the finding of this certificate produce so miraculous an

effect as upon Jake.

"Fo' de Lawd!" he exclaimed, "I feels as if I mus' have de pow',--what

I hain't had since I jined de 'Piscopals. To think dat ar was lyin' in

thar all dis time, an' I not know it. I 'members now dat Elder Covil

comed hyar oncet after the lil chile was bawn, to see Miss Dory, an' I

seen him write a paper an' give it to her, an' she put it in her bosom.

I axed no questions, but I know now 'twas this. The Cunnel tole her not

to tell, an' if she said she wouldn't, she wouldn't. Dat's like de

Harrises,--dey's mighty quar, stickin' to dar word till they die like

that Cassy-by-anker on de burnin' ship. Glory to God, glory! I mus'

shout, I mus' hurrah. Glory!"

He went careering round the room like one mad, knocking over a chair,

waking up Amy, and bringing her to the scene of action.

"Bress de Lawd!" he said, taking her by the arm and giving her a whirl,

"we've done foun' your mudder's stifficut in de letters whar she put it

an' tied 'em wid her weddin' ribbon. Glory hollerluyer!"

Amy looked frightened, and when Eloise explained to her she did not seem

as much impressed as the others. Her mind had grasped Jake and the old

home, and could not then take in much more. Still, in a way she

understood, and when Eloise said to her, "Col. Crompton was really your

father,--married to your mother,--and you were Amy Crompton, and not

Harris," she said, "I am glad, and wish he knew. He used to taunt me

with my low birth and call me a Cracker. When are we going home?"

Her mind had reverted at once to Crompton Place, now hers in reality,

although she probably did not think of that.

"I am very glad, and congratulate you that Crompton Place is your home

without a doubt," Jack said to her. Then, turning to Eloise, he

continued, in a low tone, "I can't tell you how glad I am for you,

provided you don't feel so high and mighty that you want to cast me

off."

"Oh, Jack," Eloise replied, "don't talk such nonsense. I am still of the

Harris blood and part Cracker, and maybe quar. If you can stand that I

think I can stand you."

At this point there was the sound of hurrying feet outside, and a

woman's voice was heard saying, "Now, mind your manners, or you'll cotch

it." Then four woolly heads were thrust in at the door and with them was

Mandy Ann.

"Hyar she comes wid de fo' twins," Jake said, going forward to meet her.

"Mandy Ann," he began, "hyar's de lil chile Dory. Miss Amy they done

call her. Would you know'd her?"

"Know'd her? I reckon so,--anywhar in de dark. Praise de Lawd, an' now

let His servant 'part in peace, 'case my eyes has seen de lil chile

oncet mo'," Mandy Ann exclaimed, going up to Amy and putting her hands

on her shoulders.

"She's 'peatin' some o' de chant in de Pra'r Book. Mandy Ann is mighty

pious, she is," Jake said in a low tone, while Amy drew back a little,

and looked timidly at the tall negress calling her lil chile Dory.

"Mandy Ann wasn't so big," she said, turning to the twins, Alex and

Aaron, Judy and Dory, who brought the past back more vividly when Mandy

Ann was about their size.

A look of inquiry passed from Mandy Ann to Jake, who touched his

forehead, while Mandy whispered, "Quar, like ole Miss an' all of 'em.

Oh, de pity of it! What happened her?" Then to Amy she said, with all

the motherhood of her ten children in her voice, "Doan' you 'member me,

Mandy Ann, what use' to dress you in de mornin', an' comb yer har, an'

wass yer face?"

"Up, instead of down," Amy said quickly, while everybody laughed instead

of herself.

"To be shu'," Mandy Ann rejoined. "I reckon I did sometimes wass up

'sted of down. I couldn't help it, 'case you's gen'rally pullin' an'

haulin' an' kickin' me to git away, but you 'members me, an' Judy, wid

dis kind of face?"

She touched her eyes and nose and mouth to show where Judy's features

were marked with ink, and then Amy laughed, and as if the mention of

Judy took her back to the vernacular of her childhood, she said, "Oh,

yes, I done 'members Judy. Whar is she?"

This lapse of her mother into negro dialect was more dreadful to Eloise

than anything which had gone before, but Mr. Mason, who read her concern

in her face, said to her, "It's all right, and shows she is taking up

the tangled threads."

No one present knew of Judy's sale at the Rummage, and no one could

reply to the question, "Whar is she?" Amy forgot it in a moment in her

interest in the twins, whom Mandy presented one after another, saying,

"I've six mo' grow'd up, some on 'em, an' one is married, 'case I'se

old,--I'se fifty-three, an' you's about forty."

To this Amy paid no attention. She was still absorbed with the twins,

who, Mandy Ann told her, had worn her white frock at their christening.

Mandy Ann had not yet heard of the finding of the marriage certificate,

and when Jake told her she did not seem greatly surprised.

"I allus knew she was married, without a stifficut," she said. "I

b'lieved it the fust time he come befo' lil Miss Dory was bawn."

"Tell me about his coming," Eloise said, and Mandy Ann, who liked

nothing better than to talk, began at the beginning, and told every

particular of the first visit, when Miss Dora wore the white gown she

was married in and buried in, and the rose on her bosom. "And you think

this is it?" Eloise asked, holding carefully in a bit of paper the ashes

of what had once been a rose.

"I 'clar for't, yes," Mandy said, "I seen her put it somewhar with the

card he done gin me. You'se found it?"

Eloise nodded and held fast to the relics of a past which in this way

was linking itself to the present. "Tell us of the second time, when he

took mother," Eloise suggested, and here Mandy Ann was very eloquent,

describing everything in detail, repeating much which Jake had told,

telling of the ring,--a real stone, sent her from Savannah, and which

she had given her daughter as it was too small for her now. From a

drawer in the chamber above she brought a little white dress, stiff with

starch and yellow and tender with time, which she said "lil Miss Dory

wore when she first saw her father."

This Eloise seized at once, saying, "You will let me have it as

something which belonged to mother far back."

Mandy Ann looked doubtful. There would probably be grandchildren, and

Jake's scruples might be overcome and the white gown do duty again as a

christening robe. But Jake spoke up promptly.

"In course it's your'n, an' de book, too, if you wants it, though it's

like takin' a piece of de ole times. Strange Miss Dora don't pay no

'tention, but is so wropp'd up in dem twins. 'Specs it seems like when

de little darkys use' to play wid her," he continued, looking at Amy,

who, if she heard what Mandy Ann was saying, gave no sign, but seemed,

as Jake said, "wropp'd up" in the twins.

There was not much more for Mandy Ann to tell of the Colonel, except to

speak of the money he had sent to her and Jake, proving that he was not

"the wustest man in the world, if she did cuss him kneeling on Miss

Dory's grave the night after the burial." She spoke of that and of "ole

Miss Thomas, who was the last to _gin in_," and wouldn't have done it

then but for the ring on her finger. At this point Jake, who thought she

had told enough, said to her, "Hole on a spell. Your tongue is like a

mill wheel when it starts. Thar's some things you or'to keep to your

self. Ole man Crompton is dead, an' God is takin' keer of him. He knows

all the good thar was at the last, an' I 'specs thar was a heap."

By this time Amy had tired of the twins, who had fingered her rings and

buttons, and stroked her dress and hair, and called her a pretty lady,

and asked her on the sly for a nickel. She was getting restless, when

Jakey said, "If you'd like to see your mudder's grave, come wid me."

From the house to the enclosure where the Harrises were buried he had

made a narrow road, beside which eucalyptus trees and oleanders were

growing, and along this walk the party followed him to Eudora's grave.

"I can have 'Crompton' put hyar now that I am shu'," Jake said, pointing

to the vacant space after Eudora. "I wish dar was room for 'belobed wife

of Cunnel Crompton.' I reckons, though, she wasn't 'belobed,' or why was

he so dogon mean to her?" he added, kneeling by the grave and picking a

dead leaf and bud which his quick eye had detected amid the bloom.

"Couldn't you done drap a tear 'case your mother is lyin' here?" he said

to Amy, who shook her head.

The dead mother was not as real to her as the living Jake, to whom she

said, "As you talk to me I remember something of her, and people making

a noise. But it is long ago, and much has happened since. I can't cry.

Is it wrong?"

She looked at Eloise, who replied, "No, darling; you have cried enough

for one day. Some time we will come here again, and you'll remember

more. Let us go."

"What is your plan now?" Mr. Mason asked Jack when, after a half hour

spent with Jake, they were driving back to the Brock House.

"I have been thinking," Jack replied, "that I will leave the ladies for

a few days at the hotel, while I go to Palatka and Atlanta, and see if

anything can be learned of the Browns, or Harrises, or the Hardy

plantation, where the marriage took place. I wish to get all the facts I

can, although the certificate should be sufficient to establish Mrs.

Amy's right to the estate. I don't think she realizes her position, as

heir to the finest property in Crompton."

She didn't realize it at all, but was very willing to stay at the Brock

House with Eloise, while Jack went to Palatka and Atlanta to see what he

could find. It was not much. Tom Hardy had been killed in the war, and

had left no family. This he was told in Palatka. In Atlanta he learned

that before the war there had been a plantation near the city owned by a

Hardy family, all of whom were dead or had disappeared. There were

Browns in plenty in the Directory, and Jack saw them all, but none had

any connection with the Harrises. At last he struck an old negress, who

had belonged to the Hardys, and who remembered a double wedding at the

plantation years before, and who said that an Andrew Jackson Brown, who

must have been present, as he was a son of the house, was living in

Boston, and was a conductor of a street car. With this information as

the result of his search Jack went back to Enterprise, where he found

Amy greatly improved in mind and body. Every day Jake and Mandy Ann had

been to see her, or with Eloise she had driven to the clearing, where

her dormant faculties continued to awaken with the familiar objects of

her childhood. Many people and much talking still bewildered her, and

her memory was treacherous on many points, but to a stranger who knew

nothing of her history she seemed a quiet, sane woman, "not a bit quar,"

Eloise said to Jack as she welcomed him back. "And I believe she will

continue to improve when we get her home, away from the people who talk

to her so much and confuse her. When can we go?"

"To-morrow, if you like," Jack said, and the next day they left

Enterprise, after bidding an affectionate good-by to Mandy Ann, with

whom they left a substantial remembrance of their visit.

Amy would have liked to take the twins with her, but Eloise said, "Not

yet, mother; wait and see, and perhaps they will all come later."

It was sure that Jakey was to follow them soon and spend as much time

with them as he pleased.

"Stay always, if you will. We owe you everything," Eloise said to him,

when at parting he stood on the platform with his "God bress you, Mas'r

Harcourt an' Miss Amy, an' Miss t'other one," until the train was out of

sight.

They made the journey by easy stages, for Amy was worn with excitement,

and it was a week after leaving Florida when a telegram was received at

the Crompton House saying they would arrive that evening.

CHAPTER IX

WHAT HOWARD FOUND

Jack had sent Howard a postal on the road to Florida, and a few lines

from Enterprise on the day of their arrival. Since that time he had been

so busy that he had failed to write, thinking he could tell the news so

much better, and Howard argued from his silence that the errand had been

unsuccessful. Crompton Place was undoubtedly his, and still he had not

been altogether happy in his rôle as heir. The servants had been very

respectful; people had treated him with deference; trades-people had

sought his patronage; subscription papers had poured in upon him from

all quarters, and in many ways he was made to feel that he was really

Crompton of Crompton, with a prospective income of many thousands. He

had gone over his uncle's papers, and knew exactly what he was worth,

and when his dividends and rents were due. He was a rich man, unless

they found something unexpected in Florida, and he did not believe they

would. It seemed impossible that if there were a marriage it should have

been kept secret so long. "My uncle would certainly have told it at the

last and not left a stain on Amy," he said to himself again and again,

and nearly succeeded in making himself believe that he had a right to be

where he was,--his uncle's heir and head of the house. Why no provision

was made for Amy he could not imagine. "But it will make no difference,"

he said; "I shall provide for her and Eloise."

At the thought of her his heart gave a great throb, for she was dearer

to him than he had supposed. "I believe I'd give up Crompton if I could

win her," he thought, "but that cannot be; Jack is the lucky fellow,"

and then he began to calculate how much he would give Amy out and out.

"She can live here, of course, if she will, but she must have something

of her own. Will twenty thousand be enough, or too much?" he said, and

from the sum total of the estate he subtracted twenty thousand dollars,

with so large a remainder that he decided to give her that amount in

bonds and mortgages, which would cause her as little trouble as

possible. There were some government bonds in a private drawer, through

which he had searched for a will. He would have a look at them and see

which were the more desirable for Amy. He had been through that drawer

three or four times, and there was no thought of the will now as he

opened it, wondering that it came so hard, as if something were binding

on the top or side. It shut harder, or, rather, it didn't shut at all,

and with a jerk he pulled it out to see what was the matter. As he did

so a folded sheet of foolscap, which had been lodged between the drawer

and the side of the desk, fell to the floor. With a presentiment of the

truth Howard took it up and read, "THE LAST WILL AND CONFESSION OF JAMES

CROMPTON!"

It had come at last, and, unfolding the sheet, Howard began to read,

glancing first at the date, which was a few weeks after Amy came from

California.

"KNOW ALL MEN BY THESE PRESENTS," it began, "that I, JAMES CROMPTON, am

a coward and a sneak and a villain, and have lived a lie for forty

years, hiding a secret I was too proud to divulge at first, and which

grew harder and harder to tell as time went on and people held me so

high as the soul of honor and rectitude. Honor! There isn't a hair of it

on my head! I broke the heart of an innocent girl, and left her to die

alone. AMY EUDORA SMITH is my own daughter, the lawful child of my

marriage with EUDORA HARRIS, which took place December--, 18--, on the

Hardy Plantation, Fulton County, in Georgia, several miles from

Atlanta."

Up to this point Howard had been standing, but now the floor seemed to

rise up and strike him in the face. Sitting down in the nearest chair,

he breathed hard for a moment, and then went on with what the Colonel

called his CONFESSION, which he had not had courage to make verbally

while living.

When in college he had for his room-mate Tom Hardy from Atlanta. The two

were fast friends, and when the Colonel was invited to visit Georgia he

did so gladly. Some miles from the town was the plantation owned by the

Hardys. This the Colonel visited in company with his friend. A small

log-house on a part of the farm was rented to a Mr. Brown, a perfectly

respectable man, but ignorant and coarse. His family consisted of

himself and wife and son, and daughter Mary, a pretty girl of twenty,

and a cousin from Florida, Eudora Harris, a beautiful girl of sixteen,

wholly uneducated and shy as a bird. There was about her a wonderful

fascination for the Colonel, who went with his friend several times to

the Brown's, and mixed with them familiarly for the sake of the girl

whose eyes welcomed him so gladly, and in which he at last read

unmistakable signs of love for himself, while the broad jokes of her

friends warned him of his danger. Then his calls ceased, for nothing was

further from his thought than marriage with Eudora. At last there came

to him and Tom a badly written and spelled invitation to Mary's wedding,

which was to take place on the afternoon of the nineteenth day of

December, 18--.

"Let's go; there'll be no end of fun," Tom said, but when the day came

he was ill in bed with influenza, and the Colonel went without him,

reaching the house just as the family were taking a hasty lunch,

preparatory to the feast which was to follow the wedding.

"I sat down with them," the Colonel wrote, "and made myself one of them,

and drank vile whiskey and home-made wine until my head began to feel as

big as two heads, and I do not think I knew what I was about. As bad

luck would have it, the man who was to stand with Eudora as groomsman

failed to come, and I was asked to take his place.

"'Certainly, I am ready for anything,' I said, and my voice sounded

husky and unnatural, and I wondered what ailed me.

"'Then, s'posin' you and Dory get spliced, and we'll have a double

weddin'. You have sparked it long enough, and we don't stand foolin'

here,' Mr. Brown said to me, in a half-laughing, half-threatening tone.

"I looked at Eudora, and her beautiful eyes were shining upon me with a

look which made my pulses quicken as they never had before. I don't know

what demon possessed me, unless it were the demon of the whiskey punch,

of which I had drank far too much, and which prompted me to say, 'All

right, if Eudora is willing.'

"To do her justice, she hesitated a moment, but when I kissed her she

yielded, and with the touch of her lips there came over me a feeling I

mistook for love, and everything was forgotten except the girl. Elder

Covil performed the double ceremony, and looked questioningly at me, as

if doubtful whether I were in my right mind or not. I thought I was, and

felt extremely happy, until I woke to what I had done, and from which

there was no escape. I was bound to a girl whose sweet disposition and

great beauty were her only attractions, and whose environments made me

shudder. I could not bring her to Crompton Place and introduce her to my

friends, and I did not know what to do.

"Tom was furious when he heard of it, and suggested suicide and divorce,

and everything else that was bad. But Dora's eyes held me for two weeks,

and then I became so disillusionized and so sick of my surroundings,

that I was nearly ready to follow Tom's advice and blow out my brains.

"'If you won't kill yourself,' he said, 'send the girl home to Florida,

and leave her there till you make up your mind what to do. There must be

some way to untie that knot. If not, you are in for it.'

"I sent her home, and after two or three weeks, during which Tom and I

revolved a hundred plans, I decided on one, and went to see her in her

home--and such a home! A log-house in a palmetto clearing, with a

foolish old grandmother who did not know enough to ask or care what I

was to Eudora. I could not endure it, and I told Eudora how impossible

it was for me to take her North until she had some education and

knowledge of the world. I would leave her, I said, until I could decide

upon a school to which I would send her, and, as it would be absurd for

a married woman to be attending school, she was to retain her maiden

name of Harris, and tell no one of our marriage until I gave her

permission to do so. I think she would have jumped into the river at my

bidding, and she promised all that I required.

"'I shall never tell I am your wife until you say I may,' she said to me

when I left her, but there was a look in her eyes like that I once saw

in a pet dog I had shot, and which in dying licked my hands.

"Through Tom Hardy, who left Atlanta for Palatka, I sent her money

regularly and wrote occasionally, while she replied through the same

medium. Loving, pitiful letters they were, and would have moved the

heart of any man who was not a brute and steeped to the dregs in pride

and cowardice. I burned them as soon as I read them, for fear they might

be found. I told her to do the same with mine, and have no doubt she

did. I did mean fair about the school, and was making inquiries, slowly,

it is true, as my heart was not in it, and I had nearly decided upon

Lexington, Kentucky, when the birth of a little girl changed everything,

but did not reconcile me to the situation. I never cared for

children,--disliked them rather than otherwise,--and the fact that I was

a father did not move me a whit.

"There was a letter imploring me to come and see our baby, and I

promised to go, with a vague idea that I might some time keep my word.

But I didn't. I had no love for Eudora, none for the child; and still a

thought of it haunted me continually, and was the cause of my giving the

grounds and the school-house to the town. I wanted to expiate my sin,

and at the same time increase my popularity, for at that time I was

trying to make up my mind to acknowledge my marriage and bring Eudora

home. The poor girl never knew it, for on the day of the lawn party she

was buried. Tom Hardy wrote me she was dead, and that he was about

starting for Europe, and had given Jake, a faithful servant of the

family, my address. God knows my remorse when I heard it, and still I

put off going for the child until Jake wrote me that the grandmother,

too, had died, and added that it was not fitting for the little girl to

be brought up with Crackers and negroes. He did not know that I had

heard of Eudora's death from Tom, and was waiting for--I did not know

what, unless it was to hear from him personally. There was more

manliness in that negro's nature than in mine, and I knew it, and was

ashamed of myself, and went for my daughter and stood by my wife's

grave, and heard from Jake the story of her life, and knew she had kept

her promise and never opened her lips, except to say that 'it was all

right.'

"The people believed her for the most part, and anathematized the

unknown man who had deserted her, but they could not heap upon me all

the odium I deserved. Why the story has never reached here I hardly

know, except that intercourse between the North and the extreme South

was not as easy as it is now, and then the war swept off Tom Hardy and

most likely all who knew of the marriage.

"When I brought Amy home I was too proud to acknowledge her as my

daughter. The Harrises and the palmetto clearing stood in the way, and I

let people think what they chose, hating myself with an added hatred for

allowing a stain to rest on her birth. I was fond of her in a way, and

angry when she married Candida, who died in Rome. Then she married a

Smith, who took her round the country to sing in concerts, until her

mind gave way, when he put her in a private asylum in San Francisco. I

was very proud of her, and loved her more than she ever knew, but could

not confess my relationship to her. When she married Candida I cast her

off. She must have some of my spirit, for she never came begging for

favors. Her rascally second husband wrote once for money, but I shut him

up so that he never wrote again, and the next I heard was a message from

Santa Barbara, where he died, and where, before he died, he had bidden

his physician to write to me that his wife was in an asylum in San

Francisco. I found her and brought her home, shattered in health and in

mind, but I think she will recover. If she does before I die, I have

sworn to tell her the truth, and will do it, so help me God!

"She has at times spoken of a baby who died,--Smith's probably, and I

hated him and did not care for his child. I have thought to make my

will, but would rather write this confession, which will explain things

and put Amy right as my heir. I have, however, one request to make to

her, or those who attend to her affairs. I want my nephew, Howard, to

have twenty thousand dollars,--enough for any young man to start on if

there is any get-up in him, and Howard has considerable.

"Written by me and signed this -- day of July, 18--, the anniversary of

Eudora's funeral and the big picnic on my grounds.

"JAMES M. CROMPTON."

CHAPTER X

HOWARD'S TEMPTATION

Howard did not know how long it took him to read this paper. It seemed

to him an age, and when it was read he felt as if turning into stone.

There was a fire in the grate before which he sat, and something said to

him, "Burn it," so distinctly, that he looked over his shoulder to see

who was there. "It's the devil," he thought, and his hand went toward

the flame, then drew back quickly. He knew now what his uncle had tried

so hard to tell them, and remembered how often his eyes had turned in

the direction of the private drawer. He had put his confession there,

and it had become wedged in and was out of sight, until frequent opening

and shutting the drawer had brought it into view. He read the document

again, and felt the perspiration oozing out of every pore. The twenty

thousand recommended for him made him laugh, as he thought that was the

sum he had intended for Amy, and which looked very small for his own

needs. "Six times two are twelve," he said, calculating the interest at

six per cent. "Twelve hundred a year is not much when one expected as

many thousands. I believe I'll burn it!" and again the paper was held so

near the fire that a corner of it was scorched.

"I can't do it," he said, drawing it back a second time. "It would do

no good, either, if they find out in Florida. I don't see, though, how

they can, and if they have, Jack would have written, but I can't burn it

yet. I must think a while."

He put the paper aside, and, without his overcoat, went out into the

cold, sleety rain, which was falling heavily. It chilled him at once,

but he did not think of it as he went through the grounds and gardens

and fields of the Crompton Place, where everything was in perfect order

and bespoke the wealth of the owner. It was a fair heritage, and he

could not give it up without a pang. He never knew how many miles he

walked back and forth across the fields and through the woods. Nor did

he know that he was cold, until he returned to the house with drenched

garments and a chill which he felt to his bones. He had taken a heavy

cold, and staid in-doors the next morning, shivering before the grate,

which he told Peter to heap with coal until it was hot as--. He didn't

finish the sentence, but added, "I'm infernally cold,--influenza, I

reckon, but I won't have any nostrums brought to me. All I want is a

good fire."

Peter heaped up the fire until the room seemed to him like a furnace,

and then left the young man alone with his thoughts and his temptation,

which was assailing him a second time, stronger than before. He firmly

believed the devil was there, urging him to burn the paper, and held

several spirited conversations with him, pro and con, the cons finally

gaining the victory.

Late in the afternoon Jack's telegram was brought to him. "We'll be home

this evening."

"That means seven o'clock, and dinner at halfpast seven," he said to

Peter. "Send Sam with the carriage, and see that there are fires in

their rooms."

He had given his orders and then sat down to decide what he would do.

"I know the Old Harry is here with me, but his company is better than

none," he said, wishing he had a shawl, he was so cold, with the room at

90 degrees.

The short day drew to a close. Peter came in and lighted the gas, and

put more coal on the grate, and said Sam had gone to the station. Half

an hour later Howard heard the whistle of the train, and then the sound

of wheels coming up the avenue.

"Now or never!" was whispered in his ear, and his hand, with the paper

in it, went toward the fire.

There was a fierce struggle, and Howard felt that he was really fighting

with an unseen foe; then his hand came back with the paper in it, safe

except for a second scorch on one side.

"By the great eternal, it is never! I swear it!" he said, as his arm

dropped beside him and the paper fell to the floor.

There was a sound below of people entering the house. They had come, and

he heard Eloise's voice as she passed his door on her way to her room

with Amy. Was Jack there too? he was wondering--when Jack came in, gay

and breezy, but startled when he met the woe-begone face turned toward

him.

"By George! old man," he said, "Peter told me you were shut up with a

cold, but I didn't expect this. Why, you look like a ghost, and are

sweating like a butcher, and no wonder. The thermometer must be a

hundred. What's the matter?"

"Jack," Howard said, "for forty-eight hours I have had a hand-to-hand

tussle with the devil. He was here bodily, as much as you are, but I

beat him, and swore I wouldn't burn the paper. Read it!"

He pointed to it upon the floor at his feet.

"I had it pretty near the fire twice, and singed it some," he continued,

as Jack took it up, and, glancing at the first words, exclaimed, "A

will! You found one, then?"

"Not a regularly attested will, but answers every purpose," Howard

replied, while Jack read on with lightning rapidity, understanding much

that was dark before, and guessing in part what it was to Howard to have

all his hopes swept away.

"By Jove!" he said, as he finished reading, "there was good in the old

man after all. I didn't think so when I heard Jakey's story, and saw

where his wife lived and died. We found the marriage certificate."

"You did!" Howard exclaimed, a great gladness that he had not destroyed

the paper taking possession of him. "Why didn't you write and tell me?

It would have saved me that fight with the devil."

"I don't know why I didn't," Jack replied. "I was awfully busy, and went

at once to Palatka to see if Tom Hardy left any family there, and found

he was never married. Then I went to Atlanta to find some trace of the

Browns and the Hardy plantation. The latter had been sold, the Hardys

were all gone, and the Browns, too,--killed in the war, most likely,

except one who is a street-car conductor in Boston, and I am going to

hunt him up, as I believe he was at the wedding, although he must have

been quite young. Yes, I ought to have written, and I'm sorry for you,

upon my soul. You look as if you'd had a taste of the infernal regions.

I'm glad you didn't burn it."

He took Howard's hand and held it, while he told him, very briefly, the

circumstances of their finding the certificate, of whose existence Col.

Crompton could not have known. "And, Howard," he added, "I've something

else to tell you. Eloise is to be my wife. We settled it in the train

before I knew she was a great heiress. Can't you congratulate me?" he

asked, as Howard did not speak.

"I expected it. You've got everything,--money and girl, too," Howard

said at last. "You are a lucky dog, and, whether you believe me or not,

I'd rather have the girl than the money. I asked her to marry me. Did

she tell you?"

"Of course not," Jack replied, and Howard went on, "Well, I did, and

kissed her, too!"

"Did she kiss you?" Jack asked a little sharply, and Howard replied,

"No, sir; she was madder than a hatter; you've no cause to be jealous."

"All right," Jack answered, his brow clearing. "All right. I'm more

sorry for you now than I was before. I didn't know you really cared for

her that way; but, I say, aren't you coming to dinner? The bell has rung

twice, and I still in my travelling clothes and you in your

dressing-gown."

Howard shook his head. "Don't you see, I am sick with an infernal cold,"

he said. "Got it tramping in the rain without my overcoat, and that

fight I told you of has unstrung me. It was a regular battle. But you go

yourself, and perhaps Eloise will come to see me. I shall show her the

Colonel's confession, and she can do as she pleases about telling her

mother."

Jack left him and went to the dinner, which had been kept waiting some

time, and at which Amy did not appear. She had gone at once to bed,

Eloise explained, when she took her seat at the table with Jack. When

told of Howard's message, she said, "Of course I'll go to him," and half

an hour later she was in his room, and greatly shocked at his white,

haggard face, which indicated more than the cold of which he complained.

He did not tell her of his temptation. It was not necessary. He

congratulated her upon her success, and upon her engagement, of which

Jack had told him. Then he gave her the paper he had found, and watched

her as she read it, sometimes with flashes of indignation upon her face,

and again with tears of pity in her eyes.

"He was a bad man," she said, with great energy, and then added, "A good

one, too, in some respects, although I cannot understand the pride which

made him such a coward."

"I can," Howard rejoined. "It's the Crompton pride, stronger than life

itself. I know, for I am a Crompton. You, probably, are more Harris than

Crompton, and do not feel so deeply."

He did not mean to reflect upon her mother's family, but Eloise's face

was very red as she said, "The Harrises and Browns are not people to be

proud of, I know, but they were as honest, perhaps, as the Cromptons,

and they are mine, and if they all came here to-night I would not disown

them."

She looked every inch a Crompton as she spoke, and Howard laughed and

said, "Good for you, little cousin; I believe you would, and if Jack

finds the conductor in Boston, I dare say you will have him at your

wedding. When is it to be?"

"Just as soon as arrangements can be made," Jack replied, coming in in

time to hear the last of Howard's remark, "and, of course, we'll have

the street conductor if he will come. I start to-morrow to find him."

He took an early train the next morning for Boston, and two days after

he wrote to Eloise: "I believe there are a million street cars in the

city and fifty conductors by the name of Brown. Fortunately, however,

there is only one Andrew Jackson, or Andy, as they call him, and I found

him on one of the suburban trains, rather old to be a conductor, but

seemed young for his years. He is your grandmother's cousin, and was

present at the double wedding, when Eudora Harris was married by Elder

Covil to James Crompton, 'a mighty proud-lookin' chap,' he said, 'who

deserted her in less than a month. I remember him well. Pop threatened

to shoot him if he ever cotched him, but the wah broke out and pop was

killed, and all of us but me, who married a little Yankee girl what

brought things to us prisoners in Washington. She's right smart younger

than I am, and I've got eight children and five grandchildren, peart and

lively as rabbits. And you want me to swear that I seen Eudory married?

Wall, I will, for I did, and I'd like to see her girl--Amy you call her.

Mabby Mary Jane an' me will come to visit her when I have a spell off.'

"All this he said in a breath, and when I told him I was to marry Amy's

daughter, he called me his cousin, and asked when the wedding was to be.

If it had not been for those eight children and five grandchildren,

thirteen Browns in all, which I felt sure he would bring with him, I

should have promised him and Mary Jane an invitation. As it was, I did

nothing rash. I got his affidavit, and we parted the best of friends, he

urging me to call at his shanty and see Mary Jane and the kids. I had to

decline, but told him perhaps I'd bring my wife to see them. What do you

say? Expect me to-morrow.

"Lovingly,

"JACK."

CHAPTER XI

CONCLUSION

It did not take long for all Crompton to know that Amy was Col.

Crompton's daughter, and that the Colonel had left a paper to that

effect, which Mr. Howard had found, and that Eloise had also found the

marriage certificate, proving her mother's legitimacy beyond a doubt,

and making her sole heir to the Crompton estate. It was Friday night

when the travellers returned from the South, and on Saturday morning,

Mrs. Biggs's washing day, she heard the news. Leaving her clothes in the

suds, and her tubs of rinsing and bluing water upon the floor, she

started for the Crompton House, which she reached breathless with haste

and excitement, and eager to congratulate Amy and Eloise.

"I swan, it 'most seem's if I was your relation," she said, shaking

Eloise's hand, and telling her she always mistrusted she was somebody

more than common, "and I hope we shall be neighborly. I s'pose you'll

live here?"

Eloise received her graciously, and said she should never forget her

kindness, and told her some incidents of her journey, and, as Mrs. Biggs

reported to Tim, "treated me as if I was just as good as she, if she is

a Crompton."

Ruby Ann came later in the day, genuinely glad for Eloise, and sure

that nothing would ever change the young girl's friendship for herself,

no matter what her position might be. Many others called that day and

the following Monday, and Eloise received them with a dignity of which

she was herself unconscious, and which they charged to the Crompton

blood. Howard, who was still suffering from a severe cold, kept his room

until Jack returned. Then he came out with a feeling of humiliation, not

so much that he had lost the estate, as that he had thought to burn the

paper which took it from him. This feeling, however, gradually wore off

under Jack's geniality and Eloise's friendliness, and Amy's sweetness of

manner as she called him Cousin Howard, and said she hoped he would look

upon Crompton as his home. Then he was to have twenty thousand dollars

when matters were adjusted, and that was something to one who, when he

came to Crompton, had scarcely a dollar. His visit had paid, and, though

he was not the master, he was the favored guest and cousin, who, at

Eloise's request, took charge of affairs after Jack went home to New

York.

Early in December Jake came from the South, and was welcomed warmly by

Amy and Eloise. To the servants he was a great curiosity, with his negro

dialect and quaint ways, but no one could look at the old man's honest

face without respecting him. Even Peter, who detected about him an order

of the bad tobacco which had so offended his nostrils in the letters to

his master, and who on general principles disliked negroes, was disarmed

of his prejudices by Jake's confiding simplicity and thorough goodness.

Taking him one day for a drive around the country and through the

village, he bought him some first-class cigars with the thought "Maybe

they'll take that smell out of his clothes."

"Thankee, Mas'r Peter, thankee," Jake said, smacking his lips with his

enjoyment of the flavor of the Havanas. "Dis yer am mighty fine, but I

s'pecks I or'to stick to my backy. I done brought a lot wid me."

He smoked the Havanas as long as they lasted, with no special diminution

of odor as Peter could discover, and then returned to his backy and his

clay pipe.

In the love and tender care with which she was surrounded, Amy's mind

recovered its balance to a great extent, with an occasional lapse when

anything reminded her of her life in California as a public singer, or

when she was very tired. She was greatly interested in Eloise's wedding,

which was fixed for the 10th of January, her twentieth birthday. Jack,

who came from New York every week, would have liked what he called a

blow-out, but the recent death of the Colonel and Amy's mourning

precluded that, and only a very few were bidden to the ceremony, which

took place in the drawing-room of the Crompton House, instead of the

church. Amy gave the bride away, and a stranger would never have

suspected that she was what Jakey called quar. After Eloise left for her

bridal trip she began to assume some responsibility as mistress of the

house and to understand Mr. Ferris a little when he talked to her on

business. Jake was a kind of ballast to her during Eloise's absence, but

a Northern winter did not agree with the old man, who wore nearly as

much clothing to keep him warm as Harry Gill, and then complained of

the cold.

"Florida suits me best, and I've a kind of hankerin' for de ole place

whar deys all buried," he said, and in the spring he returned to his

Lares and Penates, leaving Amy a little unsettled with his loss, but she

soon recovered her spirits in the excitement of going abroad.

It was Jack who suggested this trip, which he thought would benefit them

all, and early in May they sailed for Europe, taking Ruby with them, not

in any sense as a waiting maid, as some ill-natured ones suggested, but

as a companion to Amy, and as the friend who had been so kind to Eloise

in her need.

That summer Howard was a conspicuous figure at a fashionable watering

place with his fast horse and stylish buggy, and every other appearance

of wealth and luxury. He had received his twenty thousand dollars and

more, too, for Eloise was disposed to be very generous toward him, and

Amy assented to whatever she suggested.

"I'll have one good time and spend a whole year's interest if I choose,"

he said, and he had a good time and made love to a little Western

heiress, whose eyes were like those of Eloise, and first attracted him

to her, and who before the season was over promised to be his wife.

Just before she left for Europe Eloise brought her grandmother, Mrs.

Smith, from Mayville, and established her in Crompton Place as its

mistress, but that good woman had little to say, and allowed the

servants to have their way in everything. The change from her quiet home

to all the grandeur and ceremony of the Crompton House did not suit her,

and she returned, like Jakey, to her household gods when the family

came back in the spring.

* * * * *

Several years have passed since then, and Crompton Place is just as

lovely as it was when we first saw it on the day of the lawn party.

Three children are there now; two girls, Dora and Lucy, and a sturdy

boy, who was christened James Harris Crompton, but is called Harry. The

doll-house has been brought to light, with Mandy Ann and Judy, to the

great delight of the little girls, and Amy is never brighter than when

playing with the children, and telling them of the palms and oranges,

alligators and negroes in Florida, which she speaks of as home.

Eloise is very happy, and if a fear of the Harris taint ever creeps into

her mind, it is dissipated at once in the perfect sunshine which crowns

her life. Nearly every year Jakey comes to visit "chile Dory an' her lil

ones," and once Mandy Ann spent a summer in Crompton as cook in place of

Cindy, who was taking a vacation. But Northern ways of regularity and

promptness did not suit her.

"'Clar for't," she said, "I jess can't git use't to de Yankee Doodle

quickstep nohow. At Miss Perkinses dey wasn't partic'lar ef things was

half an hour behime."

Her mind dwelt a good deal on what she had seen at Miss Perkins's, more

than forty years before, and on her children and Ted, and when Cindy

returned in the autumn she went back to him and the twins, laden with

gifts from Amy and Eloise, the latter of whom saw that her mother gave

more judiciously than she would otherwise have done. Both Amy and Eloise

are fond of driving, and nearly every day the carriage goes out, but

the coachman is no longer Sam. He is married and lives in the village,

and his place is filled by Tom Walker, who wears a brown livery, and

fills the position with a dignity one would scarcely expect in the tall,

lank boy, once the bully in school and the blackguard of the town.

There have been three or four different teachers in District No. 5,--all

normal graduates, and all during their term of office boarding with Mrs.

Biggs, who is never tired of boasting of her intimacy with the

Cromptons, and Eloise in particular. Every detail of the accident is

repeated again and again, with many incidents of Amy's girlhood. Then

she takes up the Colonel and his private marriage, and with his

introduction we end our story and leave her to tell hers in her own way.

THE END.