CHAPTER XIV

"FORWARD! COMPANY A"

When Mrs. Kemble was left alone with Captain Nichol's parents in the

sitting-room, she told them of Helen's plan of employing the photograph

in trying to recall their son to himself. It struck them as an

unusually effective method. Mrs. Kemble saw that their anxiety was so

intense that it was torture for them to remain in suspense away from

the scene of action. It may be added that her own feelings also led her

to go with them into the back parlor, where all that was said by Nichol

and her daughter could be heard. Her solicitude for Helen was not less

than theirs for their son; and she felt the girl might need both

motherly care and counsel. She was opposed even more strenuously than

her husband to any committal on the daughter's part to her old lover

unless he should become beyond all doubt his former self. At best, it

would be a heavy cross to give up Martine, who had won her entire

affection. Helen's heart presented a problem too deep for solution.

What would--what could--Captain Nichol be to her child in his present

condition, should it continue?

It was but natural, therefore, that she and her husband should listen

to Helen's effort to awaken memories of the past with profound anxiety.

How far would she go? If Nichol were able to respond with no more

appreciative intelligence than he had thus far manifested, would a

sentiment of pity and obligation carry her to the point of accepting

him as he was, of devoting herself to one who, in spite of all their

commiseration and endeavors to tolerate, might become a sort of horror

in their household! It was with immense relief that they heard her

falter in her story, for they quickly divined that there was nothing in

him which responded to her effort. When they heard her rise and moan,

"If he had only come back to me mutilated in body, helpless! but this

change--" they believed that she was meeting the disappointment as they

could wish.

Mr. and Mrs. Nichol heard the words also, and while in a measure

compelled to recognize their force, they conveyed a meaning hard to

accept. The appeal upon which so much hope had been built had failed.

In bitterness of soul, the conviction grew stronger that their once

brave, keen-minded son would never be much better than an idiot.

Then Helen appeared among them as pale, trembling, and overwhelmed as

if she had seen a spectre. In strong reaction from her effort and

blighted hope she was almost in a fainting condition. Her mother's arms

received her and supported her to a lounge; Mrs. Nichol gave way to

bitter weeping; Mr. Kemble wrung the father's hand in sympathy, and

then at his wife's request went for restoratives. Dr. Barnes closed the

sliding-doors and prudently reassured Nichol: "You have done your best,

Captain, and that is all I asked of you. Remain here quietly and look

at your picture for a little while, and then you shall have a good long

rest."

"I did try, Doctor," protested Nichol, anxiously. "Gee wiz! I reckon a

feller orter try ter please sech a purty gyurl. She tole me lots. Look

yere, Doctor, why kyan't I be tole over en over till I reckerlect it

all?"

"Well, we'll see, Captain. It's late now, and we must all have a rest.

Stay here till I come for you."

Nichol was so pleased with his photograph that he was well content in

its contemplation. The physician now gave his attention to Helen, who

was soon so far restored as to comprehend her utter failure. Her

distress was great indeed, and for a few moments diverted the thoughts

of even Mr. and Mrs. Nichol from their own sad share in the

disappointment.

"Oh, oh!" sobbed Helen, "this is the bitterest sorrow the war has

brought us yet."

"Well, now, friends," said Dr. Barnes, "it's time I had my say and gave

my orders. You must remember that I have not shared very fully in your

confidence that the captain could be restored by the appeals you have

made; neither do I share in this abandonment to grief now. As the

captain says, he is yet simply unable to respond. We must patiently

wait and see what time and medical skill can do for him. There is no

reason whatever for giving up hope. Mrs. Kemble, I would advise you to

take Miss Helen to her room, and you, Mr. Nichol, to take your wife and

son home. I will call in the morning, and then we can advise further."

His counsel was followed, the captain readily obeying when told to go

with his parents. Then the physician stepped over to Martine's cottage

and found, as he supposed, that the opiate and exhausted nature had

brought merciful oblivion.

It was long before Helen slept, nor would she take anything to induce

sleep. She soon became quiet, kissed her mother, and said she wished to

be alone. Then she tried to look at the problem in all its aspects, and

earnestly asked for divine guidance. The decision reached in the gray

dawn brought repose of mind and body.

It was late in the afternoon when Martine awoke with a dull pain in his

head and heart. As the consciousness of all that had happened returned,

he remembered that there was good reason for both. His faithful old

domestic soon prepared a dainty meal, which aided in giving tone to his

exhausted system. Then he sat down by his fire to brace himself for the

tidings he expected to hear. Helen's chair was empty. It would always

be hers, but hope was gone that she would smile from it upon him during

the long winter evenings. Already the room was darkening toward the

early December twilight, and he felt that his life was darkening in

like manner. He was no longer eager to hear what had occurred. The

mental and physical sluggishness which possessed him was better than

sharp pain; he would learn all soon enough--the recognition, the

beginning of a new life which inevitably would drift further and

further from him. His best hope was to get through the time, to endure

patiently and shape his life so as to permit as little of its shadow as

possible to fall upon hers. But as he looked around the apartment and

saw on every side the preparations for one who had been his, yet could

be no longer, his fortitude gave way, and he buried his face in his

hands.

So deep was his painful revery that he did not hear the entrance of Dr.

Barnes and Mr. Kemble. The latter laid a hand upon his shoulder and

said kindly, "Hobart, my friend, it is just as I told you it would be.

Helen needs you and wishes to see you."

Martine started up, exclaiming, "He must have remembered her."

Mr. Kemble shook his head. "No, Hobart," said the doctor, "she was as

much of a stranger to him as you were. There were, of course, grounds

for your expectation and hers also, but we prosaic physiologists have

some reason for our doubtings as well as you for your beliefs. It's

going to be a question of time with Nichol. How are you yourself? Ah, I

see," he added, with his finger on his patient's pulse. "With you it's

going to be a question of tonics."

"Yes, I admit that," Martine replied, "but perhaps of tonics other than

those you have in mind. You said, sir [to Mr. Kemble], that Helen

wished to see me?"

"Yes, when you feel well enough."

"I trust you will make yourselves at home," said Martine, hastily

preparing to go out.

"But don't you wish to hear more about Nichol?" asked the doctor,

laughing.

"Not at present. Good-by."

Yet he was perplexed how to meet the girl who should now have been his

wife; and he trembled with strange embarrassment as he entered the

familiar room in which he had parted from her almost on the eve of

their wedding. She was neither perplexed nor embarrassed, for she had

the calmness of a fixed purpose. She went swiftly to him, took his

hand, led him to a chair, then sat down beside him. He looked at her

wonderingly and listened sadly as she asked, "Hobart, will you be

patient with me again?"

"Yes," he replied after a moment, yet he sighed deeply in foreboding.

Tears came into her eyes, yet her voice did not falter as she

continued: "I said last night that you would understand me better than

any one else; so I believe you will now. You will sustain and

strengthen me in what I believe to be duty."

"Yes, Helen, up to the point of such endurance as I have. One can't go

beyond that."

"No, Hobart, but you will not fail me, nor let me fail. I cannot marry

Captain Nichol as he now is"--there was an irrepressible flash of joy

in his dark eyes--"nor can I," she added slowly and sadly, "marry you."

He was about to speak, but she checked him and resumed. "Listen

patiently to me first. I have thought and thought long hours, and I

think I am right. You, better than I, know Captain Nichol's

condition--its sad contrast to his former noble self. The man we once

knew is veiled, hidden, lost--how can we express it? But he exists, and

at any time may find and reveal himself. No one, not even I, can revolt

at what he is now as he will revolt at it all when his true

consciousness returns. He has met with an immeasurable misfortune. He

is infinitely worse off than if helpless--worse off than if he were

dead, if this condition is to last; but it may not last. What would he

think of me if I should desert him now and leave him nothing to

remember but a condition of which he could only think with loathing? I

will hide nothing from you, Hobart, my brave, true friend--you who have

taught me what patience means. If you had brought him back utterly

helpless, yet his old self in mind, I could have loved him and married

him, and you would have sustained me in that course. Now I don't know.

My future, in this respect, is hidden like his. The shock I received

last night, the revulsion of feeling which followed, leaves only one

thing clear. I must try to do what is right by him; it will not be

easy. I hope you will understand. While I have the deepest pity that a

woman can feel, I shrink from him NOW, for the contrast between his

former self and his present is so terrible. Oh, it is such a horrible

mystery! All Dr. Barnes's explanations do not make it one bit less

mysterious and dreadful. Albert took the risk of this; he has suffered

this for his country. I must suffer for him; I must not desert him in

his sad extremity. I must not permit him to awake some day and learn

from others what he now is, and that I, the woman he loved, of all

others, left him to his degradation. The consequences might be more

fatal than the injury which so changed him. Such action on my part

might destroy him morally. Now his old self is buried as truly as if he

had died. I could never look him in the face again if I left him to

take his chances in life with no help from me, still less if I did that

which he could scarcely forgive. He could not understand all that has

happened since we thought him dead. He would only remember that I

deserted him in his present pitiable plight. Do you understand me,

Hobart?"

"I must, Helen."

"I know how hard it is for you. Can you think I forget this for a

moment? Yet I send for you to help, to sustain me in a purpose which

changes our future so greatly. Do you not remember what you said once

about accepting the conditions of life as they are? We must do this

again, and make the best of them."

"But if--suppose his memory does not come back. Is there to be no hope?"

"Hobart, you must put that thought from you as far as you can. Do you

not see whither it might lead? You would not wish Captain Nichol to

remain as he is?"

"Oh," he cried desperately, "I'm put in a position that would tax any

saint in the calendar."

"Yes, you are. The future is not in our hands. I can only appeal to you

to help me do what I think is right NOW."

He thought a few moments, took his resolve, then gave her his hand

silently. She understood him without a word.

The news of the officer's return and of his strange condition was soon

generally known in the village; but his parents, aided by the

physician, quickly repressed those inclined to call from mere

curiosity. At first Jim Wetherby scouted the idea that his old captain

would not know him, but later had to admit the fact with a wonder which

no explanations satisfied. Nichol immediately took a fancy to the

one-armed veteran, who was glad to talk by the hour about soldiers and

hospitals.

Before any matured plan for treatment could be adopted Nichol became

ill, and soon passed into the delirium of fever. "The trouble is now

clear enough," Dr. Barnes explained. "The captain has lived in

hospitals and breathed a tainted atmosphere so long that his system is

poisoned. This radical change of air has developed the disease."

Indeed, the typhoid symptoms progressed so rapidly as to show that the

robust look of health had been in appearance only. The injured,

weakened brain was the organ which suffered most, and in spite of the

physician's best efforts his patient speedily entered into a condition

of stupor, relieved only by low, unintelligible mutterings. Jim

Wetherby became a tireless watcher, and greatly relieved the

grief-stricken parents. Helen earnestly entreated that she might act

the part of nurse also, but the doctor firmly forbade her useless

exposure to contagion. She drove daily to the house, yet Mrs. Nichol's

sad face and words could scarcely dissipate the girl's impression that

the whole strange episode was a dream.

At last it was feared that the end was near. One night Dr. Barnes, Mr.

and Mrs. Nichol, and Jim Wetherby were watching in the hope of a gleam

of intelligence. He was very low, scarcely more than breathing, and

they dreaded lest there might be no sign before the glimmer of life

faded out utterly.

Suddenly the captain seemed to awake, his glassy eyes kindled, and a

noble yet stern expression dignified his visage. In a thick voice he

said, "For--" Then, as if all the remaining forces of life asserted

themselves, he rose in his bed and exclaimed loudly, "Forward! Company

A. Guide right. Ah!" He fell back, now dead in very truth.

"Oh!" cried Jim Wetherby, excitedly, "them was the last words I heard

from him just before the shell burst, and he looks now just as he did

then."

"Yes," said Dr. Barnes, sadly and gravely, "memory came back to him at

the point where he lost it. He has died as we thought at first--a brave

soldier leading a charge."

The stern, grand impress of battle remained upon the officer's

countenance. Friends and neighbors looked upon his ennobled visage with

awe, and preserved in honored remembrance the real man that temporarily

had been obscured. Helen's eyes, when taking her farewell look, were

not so blinded with tears but that she recognized his restored manhood.

Death's touch had been more potent than love's appeal.

In the Wilderness, upon a day fatal to him and so many thousands,

Captain Nichol had prophesied of the happy days of peace. They came,

and he was not forgotten.

One evening Dr. Barnes was sitting with Martine and Helen at their

fireside. They had been talking about Nichol, and Helen remarked

thoughtfully, "It was so very strange that he should have regained his

memory in the way and at the time he did."

"No," replied the physician, "that part of his experience does not

strike me as so very strange. In typhoid cases a lucid interval is apt

to precede death. His brain, like his body, was depleted, shrunken

slightly by disease. This impoverishment probably removed the cerebral

obstruction, and the organ of memory renewed its action at the point

where it had been arrested. My theory explains his last ejaculation,

'Ah!' It was his involuntary exclamation as he again heard the shell

burst. The reproduction in his mind of this explosion killed him

instantly after all. He was too enfeebled to bear the shock. If he had

passed from delirium into quiet sleep--ah, well! he is dead, and that

is all we can know with certainty."

"Well," said Martine, with a deep breath, "I am glad he had every

chance that it was possible for us to give him."

"Yes, Hobart," added his wife, gently, "you did your whole duty, and I

do not forget what it cost you."

QUEEN OF SPADES

"Mother," remarked Farmer Banning, discontentedly, "Susie is making a

long visit."

"She is coming home next week," said his cheery wife. She had drawn her

low chair close to the air-tight stove, for a late March snowstorm was

raging without.

"It seems to me that I miss her more and more."

"Well, I'm not jealous."

"Oh, come, wife, you needn't be. The idea! But I'd be jealous if our

little girl was sorter weaned away from us by this visit in town."

"Now, see here, father, you beat all the men I ever heard of in

scolding about farmers borrowing, and here you are borrowing trouble."

"Well, I hope I won't have to pay soon. But I've been thinking that the

old farmhouse may look small and appear lonely after her gay winter.

When she is away, it's too big for me, and a suspicion lonely for us

both. I've seen that you've missed her more than I have."

"I guess you're right. Well, she's coming home, as I said, and we must

make home seem home to her. The child's growing up. Why, she'll be

eighteen week after next. You must give her something nice on her

birthday."

"I will," said the farmer, his rugged, weather-beaten face softening

with memories. "Is our little girl as old as that? Why, only the other

day I was carrying her on my shoulder to the barn and tossing her into

the haymow. Sure enough, the 10th of April will be her birthday. Well,

she shall choose her own present."

On the afternoon of the 5th of April he went down the long bill to the

station, and was almost like a lover in his eagerness to see his child.

He had come long before the train's schedule time, but was rewarded at

last. When Susie appeared, she gave him a kiss before every one, and a

glad greeting which might have satisfied the most exacting of lovers.

He watched her furtively as they rode at a smart trot up the hill.

Farmer Banning kept no old nags for his driving, but strong, well-fed,

spirited horses that sometimes drew a light vehicle almost by the

reins. "Yes," he thought, "she has grown a little citified. She's

paler, and has a certain air or style that don't seem just natural to

the hill. Well, thank the Lord! she doesn't seem sorry to go up the

hill once more."

"There's the old place, Susie, waiting for you," he said. "It doesn't

look so very bleak, does it, after all the fine city houses you've

seen?"

"Yes, father, it does. It never appeared so bleak before."

He looked at his home, and in the late gray afternoon, saw it in a

measure with her eyes--the long brown, bare slopes, a few gaunt old

trees about the house, and the top boughs of the apple-orchard behind a

sheltering hill in the rear of the dwelling.

"Father," resumed the girl, "we ought to call our place the Bleak

House. I never so realized before how bare and desolate it looks,

standing there right in the teeth of the north wind."

His countenance fell, but he had no time for comment. A moment later

Susie was in her mother's arms. The farmer lifted the trunk to the

horse-block and drove to the barn. "I guess it will be the old story,"

he muttered. "Home has become 'Bleak House.' I suppose it did look

bleak to her eyes, especially at this season. Well, well, some day

Susie will go to the city to stay, and then it will be Bleak House sure

enough."

"Oh, father," cried his daughter when, after doing his evening work, he

entered with the shadow of his thoughts still upon his face--"oh,

father, mother says I can choose my birthday present!"

"Yes, Sue; I've passed my word."

"And so I have your bond. My present will make you open your eyes."

"And pocket-book too, I suppose. I'll trust you, however, not to break

me. What is it to be?"

"I'll tell you the day before, and not till then."

After supper they drew around the stove. Mrs. Banning got out her

knitting, as usual, and prepared for city gossip. The farmer rubbed his

hands over the general aspect of comfort, and especially over the

regained presence of his child's bright face. "Well, Sue," he remarked,

"you'll own that this room IN the house doesn't look very bleak?"

"No, father, I'll own nothing of the kind. Your face and mother's are

not bleak, but the room is."

"Well," said the farmer, rather disconsolately, "I fear the old place

has been spoiled for you. I was saying to mother before you came home--"

"There now, father, no matter about what you were saying. Let Susie

tell us why the room is bleak."

The girl laughed softly, got up, and taking a billet of wood from the

box, put it into the air-tight. "The stove has swallowed it just as old

Trip did his supper. Shame! you greedy dog," she added, caressing a

great Newfoundland that would not leave her a moment. "Why can't you

learn to eat your meals like a gentleman?" Then to her father, "Suppose

we could sit here and see the flames curling all over and around that

stick. Even a camp in the woods is jolly when lighted up by a

flickering blaze."

"Oh--h!" said the farmer; "you think an open fire would take away the

bleakness?"

"Certainly. The room would be changed instantly, and mother's face

would look young and rosy again. The blue-black of this sheet-iron

stove makes the room look blue-black."

"Open fires don't give near as much heat," said her father,

meditatively. "They take an awful lot of wood; and wood is getting

scarce in these parts."

"I should say so! Why don't you farmers get together, appoint a

committee to cut down every tree remaining, then make it a State-prison

offence ever to set out another? Why, father, you cut nearly all the

trees from your lot a few years ago and sold the wood. Now that the

trees are growing again, you are talking of clearing up the land for

pasture. Just think of the comfort we could get out of that wood-lot!

What crop would pay better? All the upholsterers in the world cannot

furnish a room as an open hardwood fire does; and all the produce of

the farm could not buy anything else half so nice."

"Say, mother," said her father, after a moment, "I guess I'll get down

that old Franklin from the garret to-morrow and see if it can't furnish

this room."

The next morning he called rather testily to the hired man, who was

starting up the lane with an axe, "Hiram, I've got other work for you.

Don't cut a stick in that wood-lot unless I tell you."

The evening of the 9th of April was cool but clear, and the farmer

said, genially, "Well, Sue, prospects good for fine weather on your

birthday. Glad of it; for I suppose you will want me to go to town with

you for your present, whatever it is to be."

"You'll own up a girl can keep a secret now, won't you?"

"He'll have to own more'n that," added his wife; "he must own that an

ole woman hasn't lost any sleep from curiosity."

"How much will be left me to own to-morrow night?" said the farmer,

dubiously. "I suppose Sue wants a watch studded with diamonds, or a new

house, or something else that she darsn't speak of till the last

minute, even to her mother."

"Nothing of the kind. I want only all your time tomorrow, and all

Hiram's time, after you have fed the stock."

"All our time!

"Yes, the entire day, in which you both are to do just what I wish. You

are not going gallivanting to the city, but will have to work hard."

"Well, I'm beat! I don't know what you want any more than I did at

first."

"Yes, you do--your time and Hiram's."

"Give it up. It's hardly the season for a picnic. We might go fishing--"

"We must go to bed, so as to be up early, all hands."

"Oh, hold on, Sue; I do like this wood-fire. If it wouldn't make you

vain, I'd tell you how--"

"Pretty, father. Say it out."

"Oh, you know it, do you? Well, how pretty you look in the firelight.

Even mother, there, looks ten years younger. Keep your low seat, child,

and let me look at you. So you're eighteen? My! my! how the years roll

around! It WILL be Bleak House for mother and me, in spite of the

wood-fire, when you leave us."

"It won't be Bleak House much longer," she replied with a significant

little nod.

The next morning at an early hour the farmer said, "All ready, Sue. Our

time is yours till night; so queen it over us." And black Hiram grinned

acquiescence, thinking he was to have an easy time.

"Queen it, did you say?" cried Sue, in great spirits. "Well, then, I

shall be queen of spades. Get 'em, and come with me. Bring a pickaxe,

too." She led the way to a point not far from the dwelling, and

resumed: "A hole here, father, a hole there, Hiram, big enough for a

small hemlock, and holes all along the northeast side of the house.

Then lots more holes, all over the lawn, for oaks, maples, dogwood, and

all sorts to pretty trees, especially evergreens.'

"Oh, ho!" cried the farmer; "now I see the hole where the woodchuck

went in."

"But you don't see the hole where he's coming out. When that is dug,

even the road will be lined with trees. Foolish old father! you thought

I'd be carried away with city gewgaws, fine furniture, dresses, and all

that sort of thing. You thought I'd be pining for what you couldn't

afford, what wouldn't do you a particle of good, nor me either, in the

long run. I'm going to make you set out trees enough to double the

value of your place and take all the bleakness and bareness from this

hillside. To-day is only the beginning. I did get some new notions in

the city which made me discontented with my home, but they were not the

notions you were worrying about. In the suburbs I saw that the most

costly houses were made doubly attractive by trees and shrubbery, and I

knew that trees would grow for us as well as for millionaires--My

conscience! if there isn't--" and the girl frowned and bit her lips.

"Is that one of the city beaux you were telling us about?" asked her

father, sotto voce.

"Yes; but I don't want any beaux around to-day. I didn't think he'd be

so persistent." Then, conscious that she was not dressed for company,

but for work upon which she had set her heart, she advanced and gave

Mr. Minturn a rather cool greeting.

But the persistent beau was equal to the occasion. He had endured Sue's

absence as long as he could, then had resolved on a long day's siege,

with a grand storming-onset late in the afternoon.

"Please, Miss Banning," he began, "don't look askance at me for coming

at this unearthly hour. I claim the sacred rites of hospitality. I'm an

invalid. The doctor said I needed country air, or would have prescribed

it if given a chance. You said I might come to see you some day, and by

playing Paul Pry I found out, you remember, that this was your

birthday, and--"

"And this is my father, Mr. Minturn."

Mr. Minturn shook the farmer's hand with a cordiality calculated to

awaken suspicions of his designs in a pump, had its handle been thus

grasped. "Mr. Banning will forgive me for appearing with the lark," he

continued volubly, determining to break the ice. "One can't get the

full benefit of a day in the country if he starts in the afternoon."

The farmer was polite, but nothing more. If there was one thing beyond

all others with which he could dispense, it was a beau for Sue.

Sue gave her father a significant, disappointed glance, which meant, "I

won't get my present to day"; but he turned and said to Hiram, "Dig the

hole right there, two feet across, eighteen inches deep." Then he

started for the house. While not ready for suitors, his impulse to

bestow hospitality was prompt.

The alert Mr. Minturn had observed the girl's glance, and knew that the

farmer had gone to prepare his wife for a guest. He determined not to

remain unless assured of a welcome. "Come, Miss Banning," he said, "we

are at least friends, and should be frank. How much misunderstanding

and trouble would often be saved if people would just speak their

thought! This is your birthday--YOUR DAY. It should not be marred by

any one. It would distress me keenly if I were the one to spoil it. Why

not believe me literally and have your way absolutely about this day? I

could come another time. Now show that a country girl, at least, can

speak her mind."

With an embarrassed little laugh she answered, "I'm half inclined to

take you at your word; but it would look so inhospitable."

"Bah for looks! The truth, please. By the way, though, you never looked

better than in that trim blue walking-suit."

"Old outgrown working-suit, you mean. How sincere you are!"

"Indeed I am. Well, I'm de trop; that much is plain. You will let me

come another day, won't you?"

"Yes, and I'll be frank too and tell you about THIS day. Father's a

busy man, and his spring work is beginning, but as my birthday-present

he has given me all his time and all Hiram's yonder. Well, I learned in

the city how trees improved a home; and I had planned to spend this

long day in setting out trees--planned it ever since my return. So you

see--"

"Of course I see and approve," cried Minturn. "I know now why I had

such a wild impulse to come out here to-day. Why, certainly. Just fancy

me a city tramp looking for work, and not praying I won't find it,

either. I'll work for my board. I know how to set out trees. I can

prove it, for I planted those thrifty fellows growing about our house

in town. Think how much more you'll accomplish, with another man to

help--one that you can order around to your heart's content."

"The idea of my putting you to work!"

"A capital idea! and if a man doesn't work when a woman puts him at it

he isn't worth the powder--I won't waste time even in original remarks.

I'll promise you there will be double the number of trees out by night.

Let me take your father's spade and show you how I can dig. Is this the

place? If I don't catch up with Hiram, you may send the tramp back to

the city." And before she could remonstrate, his coat was off and he at

work.

Laughing, yet half in doubt, she watched him. The way he made the earth

fly was surprising. "Oh, come," she said after a few moments, "you have

shown your goodwill. A steam-engine could not keep it up at that rate."

"Perhaps not; but I can. Before you engage me, I wish you to know that

I am equal to old Adam, and can dig."

"Engage you!" she thought with a little flutter of dismay. "I could

manage him with the help of town conventionalities; but how will it be

here? I suppose I can keep father and Hiram within earshot, and if he

is so bent on--well, call it a lark, since he has referred to that

previous bird, perhaps I might as well have a lark too, seeing it's my

birthday." Then she spoke. "Mr. Minturn!"

"I'm busy."

"But really--"

"And truly tell me, am I catching up with Hiram?"

"You'll get down so deep that you'll drop through if you're not

careful."

"There's nothing like having a man who is steady working for you. Now,

most fellows would stop and giggle at such little amusing remarks."

"You are soiling your trousers."

"Yes, you're right. They ARE mine. There; isn't that a regulation hole?

'Two feet across and eighteen deep.'"

"Yah! yah!" cackled Hiram; "eighteen foot deep! Dat ud be a well."

"Of course it would, and truth would lie at its bottom. Can I stay,

Miss Banning?"

"Did you ever see the like?" cried the farmer, who had appeared,

unnoticed.

"Look here, father," said the now merry girl, "perhaps I was mistaken.

This--"

"Tramp--" interjected Minturn.

"Says he's looking for work and knows how to set out trees."

"And will work all day for a dinner," the tramp promptly added.

"If he can dig holes at that rate, Sue," said her father, catching

their spirit, "he's worth a dinner. But you're boss to-day; I'm only

one of the hands."

"I'm only another," said Minturn, touching his hat.

"Boss, am I? I'll soon find out. Mr. Minturn, come with me and don a

pair of overalls. You shan't put me to shame, wearing that

spick-and-span suit, neither shall you spoil it. Oh, you're in for it

now! You might have escaped, and come another day, when I could have

received you in state and driven you out behind father's frisky bays.

When you return to town with blistered hands and aching bones, you will

at least know better another time."

"I don't know any better this time, and just yearn for those overalls."

"To the house, then, and see mother before you become a wreck."

Farmer Banning looked after him and shook his head. Hiram spoke his

employer's thought, "Dar ar gem'lin act like he gwine ter set hisself

out on dis farm."

Sue had often said, "I can never be remarkable for anything; but I

won't be commonplace." So she did not leave her guest in the parlor

while she rushed off for a whispered conference with her mother. The

well-bred simplicity of her manner, which often stopped just short of

brusqueness, was never more apparent than now. "Mother!" she called

from the parlor door.

The old lady gave a few final directions to her maid-of-all-work, and

then appeared.

"Mother, this is Mr. Minturn, one of my city friends, of whom I have

spoken to you. He is bent on helping me set out trees."

"Yes, Mrs. Banning, so bent that your daughter found that she would

have to employ her dog to get me off the place."

Now, it had so happened that in discussing with her mother the young

men whom she had met, Sue had said little about Mr. Minturn; but that

little was significant to the experienced matron. Words had slipped out

now and then which suggested that the girl did more thinking than

talking concerning him; and she always referred to him in some light

which she chose to regard as ridiculous, but which had not seemed in

the least absurd to the attentive listener. When her husband,

therefore, said that Mr. Minturn had appeared on the scene, she felt

that an era of portentous events had begun. The trees to be set out

would change the old place greatly, but a primeval forest shading the

door would be as nothing compared with the vicissitude which a favored

"beau" might produce. But mothers are more unselfish than fathers, and

are their daughters' natural allies unless the suitor is objectionable.

Mrs. Banning was inclined to be hospitable on general principles,

meantime eager on her own account to see something of this man, about

whom she had presentiments. So she said affably, "My daughter can keep

her eye on the work which she is so interested in, and yet give you

most of her time.--Susan, I will entertain Mr. Minturn while you change

your dress."

She glanced at her guest dubiously, receiving for the moment the

impression that the course indicated by her mother was the correct one.

The resolute admirer knew well what a fiasco the day would be should

the conventionalities prevail, and so said promptly: "Mrs. Banning, I

appreciate your kind intentions, and I hope some day you may have the

chance to carry them out. To-day, as your husband understands, I am a

tramp from the city looking for work. I have found it, and have been

engaged.--Miss Banning, I shall hold you inflexibly to our agreement--a

pair of overalls and dinner."

Sue said a few words of explanation. Her mother laughed, but urged, "Do

go and change your dress."

"I protest!" cried Mr. Minturn. "The walking-suit and overalls go

together."

"Walking-suit, indeed!" repeated Sue, disdainfully. "But I shall not

change it. I will not soften one feature of the scrape you have

persisted in getting yourself into."

"Please don't."

"Mr. Minturn," said the matron, with smiling positiveness, "Susie is

boss only out of doors; I am, in the house. There is a fresh-made cup

of coffee and some eggs on toast in the dining-room. Having taken such

an early start, you ought to have a lunch before being put to work."

"Yes," added Sue, "and the out-door boss says you can't go to work

until at least the coffee is sipped."

"She's shrewd, isn't she, Mrs. Banning? She knows she will get twice as

much work out of me on the strength of that coffee. Please get the

overalls. I will not sip, but swallow the coffee, unless it's scalding,

so that no time may be lost. Miss Banning must see all she had set her

heart upon accomplished to-day, and a great deal more."

The matron departed on her quest, and as she pulled out the overalls,

nodded her head significantly. "Things will be serious sure enough if

he accomplishes all he has set his heart on," she muttered. "Well, he

doesn't seem afraid to give us a chance to see him. He certainly will

look ridiculous in these overalls, but not much more so than Sue in

that old dress. I do wish she would change it."

The girl had considered this point, but with characteristic decision

had thought: "No; he shall see us all on the plainest side of our life.

He always seemed a good deal of an exquisite in town, and he lives in a

handsome house. If to-day's experience at the old farm disgusts him, so

be it. My dress is clean and tidy, if it is outgrown and darned; and

mother is always neat, no matter what she wears. I'm going through the

day just as I planned; and if he's too fine for us, now is the time to

find it out. He may have come just for a lark, and will laugh with his

folks to-night over the guy of a girl I appear; but I won't yield even

to the putting of a ribbon in my hair."

Mrs. Banning never permitted the serving of cold slops for coffee, and

Mr. Minturn had to sip the generous and fragrant beverage slowly.

Meanwhile, his thoughts were busy. "Bah! for the old saying, 'Take the

goods the gods send,'" he mused. "Go after your goods and take your

pick. I knew my head was level in coming out. All is just as genuine as

I supposed it would be--simple, honest, homely. The girl isn't homely,

though, but she's just as genuine as all the rest, in that old dress

which fits her like a glove. No shams and disguises on this field-day

of my life. And her mother! A glance at her comfortable amplitude

banished my one fear. There's not a sharp angle about her. I was

satisfied about Miss Sue, but the term 'mother-in-law' suggests vague

terrors to any man until reassured.--Ah, Miss Banning," he said, "this

coffee would warm the heart of an anchorite. No wonder you are inspired

to fine things after drinking such nectar."

"Yes, mother is famous for her coffee. I know that's fine, and you can

praise it; but I'll not permit any ironical remarks concerning myself."

"I wouldn't, if I were you, especially when you are mistress of the

situation. Still, I can't help having my opinion of you. Why in the

world didn't you choose as your present something stylish from the

city?"

"Something, I suppose you mean, in harmony with my very stylish

surroundings and present appearance."

"I didn't mean anything of the kind, and fancy you know it. Ah! here

are the overalls. Now deeds, not words. I'll leave my coat, watch,

cuffs, and all impedimenta with you, Mrs. Banning. Am I not a spectacle

to men and gods?" he added, drawing up the garment, which ceased to be

nether in that it reached almost to his shoulders.

"Indeed you are," cried Sue, holding her side from laughing. Mrs.

Banning also vainly tried to repress her hilarity over the absurd guy

into which the nattily-dressed city man had transformed himself.

"Come," he cried, "no frivolity! You shall at least say I kept my word

about the trees to-day." And they started at once for the scene of

action, Minturn obtaining on the way a shovel from the tool-room.

"To think she's eighteen years old and got a beau!" muttered the

farmer, as he and Hiram started two new holes. They were dug and others

begun, yet the young people had not returned. "That's the way with

young men nowadays--'big cry, little wool.' I thought I was going to

have Sue around with me all day. Might as well get used to it, I

suppose. Eighteen! Her mother's wasn't much older when--yes, hang it,

there's always a WHEN with these likely girls. I'd just like to start

in again on that day when I tossed her into the haymow."

"What are you talking to yourself about, father?"

"Oh! I thought I had seen the last of you to-day."

"Perhaps you will wish you had before night."

"Well, now, Sue! the idea of letting Mr. Minturn rig himself out like

that! There's no use of scaring the crows so long before

corn-planting." And the farmer's guffaw was quickly joined by Hiram's

broad "Yah! yah!"

She frowned a little as she said, "He doesn't look any worse than I do."

"Come, Mr. Banning, Solomon in all his glory could not so take your

daughter's eye to-day as a goodly number of trees standing where she

wants them. I suggest that you loosen the soil with the pickaxe, then I

can throw it out rapidly. Try it."

The farmer did so, not only for Minturn, but for Hiram also. The

lightest part of the work thus fell to him. "We'll change about," he

said, "when you get tired."

But Minturn did not get weary apparently, and under this new division

of the toil the number of holes grew apace.

"Sakes alive, Mr. Minturn!" ejaculated Mr. Banning, "one would think

you had been brought up on a farm."

"Or at ditch-digging," added the young man. "No; my profession is to

get people into hot water and then make them pay roundly to get out.

I'm a lawyer. Times have changed in cities. It's there you'll find

young men with muscle, if anywhere. Put your hand here, sir, and you'll

know whether Miss Banning made a bad bargain in hiring me for the day."

"Why!" exclaimed the astonished farmer, "you have the muscle of a

blacksmith."

"Yes, sir; I could learn that trade in about a month."

"You don't grow muscle like that in a law-office?"

"No, indeed; nothing but bills grow there. A good fashion, if not

abused, has come in vogue, and young men develop their bodies as well

as brains. I belong to an athletic club in town, and could take to

pugilism should everything else fail."

"Is there any prospect of your coming to that?" Sue asked mischievously.

"If we were out walking, and two or three rough fellows gave you

impudence--" He nodded significantly.

"What could you do against two or three? They'd close on you."

"A fellow taught to use his hands doesn't let men close on him."

"Yah, yah! reckon not," chuckled Hiram. One of the farm household had

evidently been won.

"It seems to me," remarked smiling Sue, "that I saw several young men

in town who appeared scarcely equal to carrying their canes."

"Dudes?"

"That's what they are called, I believe."

"They are not men. They are neither fish, flesh, nor fowl, but the

beginning of the great downward curve of evolution. Men came up from

monkeys, it's said, you know, but science is in despair over the final

down-comes of dudes. They may evolute into grasshoppers."

The farmer was shaken with mirth, and Sue could not help seeing that he

was having a good time. She, however, felt that no tranquilly exciting

day was before her, as she had anticipated. What wouldn't that muscular

fellow attempt before night? He possessed a sort of vim and cheerful

audacity which made her tremble, "He is too confident," she thought,

"and needs a lesson. All this digging is like that of soldiers who soon

mean to drop their shovels. I don't propose to be carried by storm just

when he gets ready. He can have his lark, and that's all to-day. I want

a good deal of time to think before I surrender to him or any one else."

During the remainder of the forenoon these musings prevented the

slightest trace of sentimentality from appearing in her face or words.

She had to admit mentally that Minturn gave her no occasion for

defensive tactics. He attended as strictly to business as did Hiram,

and she was allowed to come and go at will. At first she merely

ventured to the house, to "help mother," as she said. Then, with

growing confidence, she went here and there to select sites for trees;

but Minturn dug on no longer "like a steam-engine," yet in an easy,

steady, effective way that was a continual surprise to the farmer.

"Well, Sue," said her father at last, "you and mother ought to have an

extra dinner; for Mr. Minturn certainly has earned one."

"I promised him only a dinner," she replied; "nothing was said about

its being extra."

"Quantity is all I'm thinking of," said Minturn. "I have the sauce

which will make it a feast."

"Beckon it's gwine on twelve," said Hiram, cocking his eye at the sun.

"Hadn't I better feed de critters?"

"Ah, old man! own up, now; you've got a backache," said Minturn.

"Dere is kin' ob a crik comin'--"

"Drop work, all hands," cried Sue. "Mr. Minturn has a 'crik' also, but

he's too proud to own it. How you'll groan for this to-morrow, sir!"

"If you take that view of the case, I may be under the necessity of

giving proof positive to the contrary by coming out to-morrow."

"You're not half through yet. The hardest part is to come."

"Oh, I know that," he replied; and he gave her such a humorously

appealing glance that she turned quickly toward the house to hide a

conscious flush.

The farmer showed him to the spare-room, in which he found his

belongings. Left to make his toilet, he muttered, "Ah, better and

better! This is not the regulation refrigerator into which guests are

put at farmhouses. All needed for solid comfort is here, even to a

slight fire in the air-tight. Now, isn't that rosy old lady a jewel of

a mother-in-law? She knows that a warm man shouldn't get chilled just

as well as if she had studied athletics. Miss Sue, however, is a little

chilly. She's on the fence yet. Jupiter! I AM tired. Oh, well, I don't

believe I'll have seven years of this kind of thing. You were right,

though, old man, if your Rachel was like mine. What's that rustle in

the other room? She's dressing for dinner. So must I; and I'm ready for

it. If she has romantic ideas about love and lost appetites, I'm a

goner."

When he descended to the parlor, his old stylish self again, Sue was

there, robed in a gown which he had admired before, revealing the fact

to her by approving glances. But now he said, "You don't look half so

well as you did before."

"I can't say that of you," she replied.

"A man's looks are of no consequence."

"Few men think so."

"Oh, they try to please such critical eyes as I now am meeting."

"And throw dust in them too sometimes."

"Yes; gold dust, often. I haven't much of that."

"It would be a pity to throw it away if you had."

"No matter how much was thrown, I don't think it would blind you, Miss

Banning."

The dining-room door across the hall opened, and the host and hostess

appeared. "Why, father and mother, how fine you look!"

"It would be strange indeed if we did not honor this day," said Mrs.

Banning. "I hope you have not so tired yourself, sir, that you cannot

enjoy your dinner. I could scarcely believe my eyes as I watched you

from the window."

"I am afraid I shall astonish you still more at the table. I am simply

ravenous."

"This is your chance," cried Sue. "You are now to be paid in the coin

you asked for."

Sue did remark to herself by the time they reached dessert and coffee,

"I need have no scruples in refusing a man with such an appetite; he

won't pine. He is a lawyer, sure enough. He is just winning father and

mother hand over hand."

Indeed, the bosom of good Mrs. Banning must have been environed with

steel not to have had throbs of goodwill toward one who showed such

hearty appreciation of her capital dinner. But Sue became only the more

resolved that she was not going to yield so readily to this muscular

suitor who was digging and eating his way straight into the hearts of

her ancestors, and she proposed to be unusually elusive and alert

during the afternoon. She was a little surprised when he resumed his

old tactics.

After drinking a second cup of coffee, he rose, and said, "As an honest

man, I have still a great deal to do after such a dinner."

"Well, it has just done me good to see you," said Mrs. Banning, smiling

genially over her old-fashioned coffee-pot. "I feel highly

complimented."

"I doubt whether I shall be equal to another such compliment before the

next birthday. I hope, Miss Susie, you have observed my efforts to do

honor to the occasion?"

"Oh," cried the girl, "I naturally supposed you were trying to get even

in your bargain."

"I hope to be about sundown. I'll get into those overalls at once, and

I trust you will put on your walking-suit."

"Yes, it will be a walking-suit for a short time. We must walk to the

wood-lot for the trees, unless you prefer to ride.--Father, please tell

Hiram to get the two-horse wagon ready."

When the old people were left alone, the farmer said, "Well, mother,

Sue HAS got a suitor, and if he don't suit her--" And then his wit gave

out.

"There, father, I never thought you'd come to that. It's well she has,

for you will soon have to be taken care of."

"He's got the muscle to do it. He shall have my law-business, anyway."

"Thank the Lord, it isn't much; but that's not saying he shall have

Sue."

"Why, what have you against him?"

"Nothing so far. I was only finding out if you had anything against

him."

"Lawyers, indeed! What would become of the men if women turned lawyers.

Do you think Sue--"

"Hush!"

They all laughed till the tears came when Minturn again appeared

dressed for work; but he nonchalantly lighted a cigar and was entirely

at his ease.

Sue was armed with thick gloves and a pair of pruning-nippers. Minturn

threw a spade and pickaxe on his shoulder, and Mr. Banning, whom Sue

had warned threateningly "never to be far away," tramped at their side

as they went up the lane. Apparently there was no need of such

precaution, for the young man seemed wholly bent on getting up the

trees, most of which she had selected and marked during recent rambles.

She helped now vigorously, pulling on the young saplings as they

loosened the roots, then trimming them into shape. More than once,

however, she detected glances, and his thoughts were more flattering

than she imagined. "What vigor she has in that supple, rounded form!

Her very touch ought to put life into these trees; I know it would into

me. How young she looks in that comical old dress which barely reaches

her ankles! Yes, Hal Minturn; and remember, that trim little ankle can

put a firm foot down for or against you--so no blundering."

He began to be doubtful whether he would make his grand attack that

day, and finally decided against it, unless a very favorable

opportunity occurred, until her plan of birthday-work had been carried

out and he had fulfilled the obligation into which he had entered in

the morning. He labored on manfully, seconding all her wishes, and

taking much pains to get the young trees up with an abundance of

fibrous roots. At last his assiduity induced her to relent a little,

and she smiled sympathetically as she remarked, "I hope you are

enjoying yourself. Well, never mind; some other day you will fare

better."

"Why should I not enjoy myself?" he asked in well-feigned surprise.

"What condition of a good time is absent? Even an April day has

forgotten to be moody, and we are having unclouded, genial sunshine.

The air is delicious with springtime fragrance. Were ever hemlocks so

aromatic as these young fellows? They come out of the ground so readily

that one would think them aware of their proud destiny. Of course I'm

enjoying myself. Even the robins and sparrows know it, and are singing

as if possessed."

"Hadn't you better give up your law-office and turn farmer?"

"This isn't farming. This is embroidery-work."

"Well, if all these trees grow they will embroider the old place, won't

they?"

"They'll grow, every mother's son of 'em."

"What makes you so confident?"

"I'm not confident. That's where you are mistaken." And he gave her

such a direct, keen look that she suddenly found something to do

elsewhere.

"I declare!" she exclaimed mentally, "he seems to read my very

thoughts."

At last the wagon was loaded with trees enough to occupy the holes

which had been dug, and they started for the vicinity of the farmhouse

again. Mr. Banning had no match-making proclivities where Sue was

concerned, as may be well understood, and had never been far off.

Minturn, however, had appeared so single-minded in his work, so

innocent of all designs upon his daughter, that the old man began to

think that this day's performance was only a tentative and preliminary

skirmish, and that if there were danger it lurked in the unknown

future. He was therefore inclined to be less vigilant, reasoning

philosophically, "I suppose it's got to come some time or other. It

looks as if Sue might go a good deal further than this young man and

fare worse. But then she's only eighteen, and he knows it. I guess he's

got sense enough not to plant his corn till the sun's higher. He can

see with half an eye that my little girl isn't ready to drop, like an

over-ripe apple." Thus mixing metaphors and many thoughts, he hurried

ahead to open the gate for Hiram.

"I'm in for it now," thought Sue, and she instinctively assumed an

indifferent expression and talked volubly of trees.

"Yes, Miss Banning," he said formally, "by the time your hair is tinged

with gray the results of this day's labor will be seen far and wide. No

passenger in the cars, no traveller in the valley, but will turn his

eyes admiringly in this direction."

"I wasn't thinking of travellers," she answered, "but of making an

attractive home in which I can grow old contentedly. Some day when you

have become a gray-haired and very dignified judge you may come out and

dine with us again. You can then smoke your cigar under a tree which

you helped to plant."

"Certainly, Miss Banning. With such a prospect, how could you doubt

that I was enjoying myself? What suggested the judge? My present

appearance?"

The incongruity of the idea with his absurd aspect and a certain degree

of nervousness set her off again, and she startled the robins by a

laugh as loud and clear as their wild notes.

"I don't care," she cried. "I've had a jolly birthday, and am

accomplishing all on which I had set my heart."

"Yes, and a great deal more, Miss Banning," he replied with a formal

bow. "In all your scheming you hadn't set your heart on my coming out

and--does modesty permit me to say it?--helping a little."

"Now, you HAVE helped wonderfully, and you must not think I don't

appreciate it."

"Ah, how richly I am rewarded!"

She looked at him with a laughing and perplexed little frown, but only

said, "No irony, sir."

By this time they had joined her father and begun to set out the row of

hemlocks. To her surprise, Sue had found herself a little disappointed

that he had not availed himself of his one opportunity to be at least

"a bit friendly" as she phrased it. It was mortifying to a girl to be

expecting "something awkward to meet" and nothing of the kind take

place. "After all," she thought, "perhaps he came out just for a lark,

or, worse still, is amusing himself at my expense; or he may have come

on an exploring expedition and plain old father and mother, and the

plain little farmhouse, have satisfied him. Well, the dinner wasn't

very plain, but he may have been laughing in his sleeve at our lack of

style in serving it. Then this old dress! I probably appear to him a

perfect guy." And she began to hate it, and devoted it to the rag-bag

the moment she could get it off.

This line of thought, once begun, seemed so rational that she wondered

it had not occurred to her before. "The idea of my being so

ridiculously on the defensive!" she thought. "No, it wasn't ridiculous

either, as far as my action went, for he can never say I ACTED as if I

wanted him to speak. My conceit in expecting him to speak the moment he

got a chance WAS absurd. He has begun to be very polite and formal.

That's always the way with men when they want to back out of anything.

He came out to look us over, and me in particular; he made himself into

a scarecrow just because I looked like one, and now will go home and

laugh it all over with his city friends. Oh, why did he come and spoil

my day? Even he said it WAS my day, and he has done a mean thing in

spoiling it. Well, he may not carry as much self-complacency back to

town as he thinks he will. Such a cold-blooded spirit, too!--to come

upon us unawares in order to spy out everything, for fear he might get

taken in! You were very attentive and flattering in the city, sir, but

now you are disenchanted. Well, so am I."

Under the influence of this train of thought she grew more and more

silent. The sun was sinking westward in undimmed splendor, but her face

was clouded. The air was sweet, balmy, well adapted to sentiment and

the setting out of trees, but she was growing frosty.

"Hiram," she said shortly, "you've got that oak crooked; let me hold

it." And thereafter she held the trees for the old colored man as he

filled in the earth around them.

Minturn appeared as oblivious as he was keenly observant. At first the

change in Sue puzzled and discouraged him; then, as his acute mind

sought her motives, a rosy light began to dawn upon him. "I may be

wrong," he thought, "but I'll take my chances in acting as if I were

right before I go home."

At last Hiram said: "Reckon I'll have to feed de critters again;" and

he slouched off.

Sue nipped at the young trees further and further away from the young

man who must "play spy before being lover." The spy helped Mr. Banning

set out the last tree. Meantime, the complacent farmer had mused: "The

little girl's safe for another while, anyhow. Never saw her more

offish; but things looked squally about dinner-time. Then, she's only

eighteen; time enough years hence." At last he said affably, "I'll go

in and hasten supper, for you've earned it if ever a man did, Mr.

Minturn. Then I'll drive you down to the evening train." And he hurried

away.

Sue's back was toward them, and she did not hear Minturn's step until

he was close beside her. "All through," he said; "every tree out. I

congratulate you; for rarely in this vale of tears are plans and hopes

crowned with better success."

"Oh, yes," she hastened to reply; "I am more than satisfied. I hope

that you are too."

"I have no reason to complain," he said. "You have stood by your

morning's bargain, as I have tried to."

"It was your own fault, Mr. Minturn, that it was so one-sided. But I've

no doubt you enjoy spicing your city life with a little lark in the

country."

"It WAS a one-sided bargain, and I have had the best of it."

"Perhaps you have," she admitted. "I think supper will be ready by the

time we are ready for it." And she turned toward the house. Then she

added, "You must be weary and anxious to get away."

"You were right; my bones DO ache. And look at my hands. I know you'll

say they need washing; but count the blisters."

"I also said, Mr. Minturn, that you would know better next time. So you

see I was right then and am right now."

"Are you perfectly sure?"

"I see no reason to think otherwise." In turning, she had faced a young

sugar-maple which he had aided her in planting early in the afternoon.

Now she snipped at it nervously with her pruning-shears, for he would

not budge, and she felt it scarcely polite to leave him.

"Well," he resumed, after an instant, "it has a good look, hasn't it,

for a man to fulfil an obligation literally?"

"Certainly, Mr. Minturn," and there was a tremor in her tone; "but you

have done a hundred-fold more than I expected, and never were under any

obligations."

"Then I am free to begin again?"

"You are as free now as you have been all day to do what you please."

And her shears were closing on the main stem of the maple. He caught

and stayed her hand. "I don't care!" she cried almost passionately.

"Come, let us go in and end this foolish talk."

"But I do care," he replied, taking the shears from her, yet retaining

her hand in his strong grasp. "I helped you plant this tree, and

whenever you see it, whenever you care for it, when, in time, you sit

under its shade or wonder at its autumn hues, I wish you to remember

that I told you of my love beside it. Dear little girl, do you think I

am such a blind fool that I could spend this long day with you at your

home and not feel sorry that I must ever go away? If I could, my very

touch should turn the sap of this maple into vinegar. To-day I've only

tried to show how I can work for you. I am eager to begin again, and

for life."

At first Sue had tried to withdraw her hand, but its tenseness relaxed.

As he spoke, she turned her averted face slowly toward him, and the

rays of the setting sun flashed a deeper crimson into her cheeks. Her

honest eyes looked into his and were satisfied. Then she suddenly

gathered the young tree against her heart and kissed the stem she had

so nearly severed. "This maple is witness to what you've said," she

faltered. "Ah! but it will be a sugar-maple in truth; and if petting

will make it live--there, now! behave! The idea! right out on this bare

lawn! You must wait till the screening evergreens grow before--Oh, you

audacious--I haven't promised anything."

"I promise everything. I'm engaged, and only taking my retaining-fees."

"Mother," cried Farmer Banning at the dining-room window, "just look

yonder!"

"And do you mean to say, John Banning, that you didn't expect it?"

"Why, Sue was growing more and more offish."

"Of course! Don't you remember?"

"Oh, this unlucky birthday! As if trees could take Sue's place!"

"Yah!" chuckled Hiram from the barn door, "I knowed dat ar gem'lin was

a-diggin' a hole fer hisself on dis farm."

"Mr. Minturn--" Sue began as they came toward the house arm in arm.

"Hal--" he interrupted.

"Well, then, Mr. Hal, you must promise me one thing in dead earnest.

I'm the only chick father and mother have. You must be very considerate

of them, and let me give them as much of my time as I can. This is all

that I stipulate; but this I do."

"Sue," he said in mock solemnity, "the prospects are that you'll be a

widow."

"Why do you make such an absurd remark?"

"Because you have struck amidships the commandment with the promise,

and your days will be long in the land. You'll outlive everybody."

"This will be no joke for father and mother."

So it would appear. They sat in the parlor as if waiting for the world

to come to an end--as indeed it had, one phase of it, to them. Their

little girl, in a sense, was theirs no longer.

"Father, mother," said Sue, demurely, "I must break some news to you."

"It's broken already," began Mrs. Banning, putting her handkerchief to

her eyes.

Sue's glance renewed her reproaches for the scene on the lawn; but

Minturn went promptly forward, and throwing his arm around the matron's

plump shoulders, gave his first filial kiss.

"Come, mother," he said, "Sue has thought of you both; and I've given

her a big promise that I won't take any more of her away than I can

help. And you, sir," wringing the farmer's hand, "will often see a city

tramp here who will be glad to work for his dinner. These overalls are

my witness."

Then they became conscious of his absurd figure, and the scene ended in

laughter that was near akin to tears.

The maple lived, you may rest assured; and Sue's children said there

never was such sugar as the sap of that tree yielded.

All the hemlocks, oaks, and dogwood thrived as if conscious that theirs

had been no ordinary transplanting; while Minturn's half-jesting

prophecy concerning the travellers in the valley was amply fulfilled.

AN UNEXPECTED RESULT

"Jack, she played with me deliberately, heartlessly. I can never

forgive her."

"In that case, Will, I congratulate you. Such a girl isn't worth a

second thought, and you've made a happy escape."

"No congratulations, if you please. You can talk coolly, because in

regard to such matters you are cool, and, I may add, a trifle cold.

Ambition is your mistress, and a musty law-book has more attractions

for you than any woman living. I'm not so tempered. I am subject to the

general law of nature, and a woman's love and sympathy are essential to

success in my life and work."

"That's all right; but there are as good fish--"

"Oh, have done with your trite nonsense," interrupted Will Munson,

impatiently. "I'd consult you on a point of law in preference to most

of the gray-beards, but I was a fool to speak of this affair. And yet

as my most intimate friend--"

"Come, Will, I'm not unfeeling;" and John Ackland rose and put his hand

on his friend's shoulder. "I admit that the subject is remote from my

line of thought and wholly beyond my experience. If the affair is so

serious I shall take it to heart."

"Serious! Is it a slight thing to be crippled for life?"

"Oh, come, now," said Ackland, giving his friend a hearty and

encouraging thump, "you are sound in mind and limb; what matters a

scratch on the heart to a man not twenty-five?"

"Very well; I'll say no more about it. When I need a lawyer I'll come

to you. Good-by; I sail for Brazil in the morning."

"Will, sit down and look me in the eyes," said Ackland, decisively.

"Will, forgive me. You are in trouble. A man's eyes usually tell me

more than all his words, and I don't like the expression of yours.

There is yellow fever in Brazil."

"I know it," was the careless reply.

"What excuse have you for going?"

"Business complications have arisen there, and I promptly volunteered

to go. My employers were kind enough to hesitate and warn me, and to

say that they could send a man less valuable to them, but I soon

overcame their objections."

"That is your excuse for going. The reason I see in your eyes. You are

reckless, Will."

"I have reason to be."

"I can't agree with you, but I feel for you all the same. Tell me all

about it, for this is sad news to me. I had hoped to join you on the

beach in a few days, and to spend August with you and my cousin. I

confess I am beginning to feel exceedingly vindictive toward this

pretty little monster, and if any harm comes to you I shall be savage

enough to scalp her."

"The harm has come already, Jack. I'm hit hard. She showed me a mirage

of happiness that has made my present world a desert. I am reckless;

I'm desperate. You may think it is weak and unmanly, but you don't know

anything about it. Time or the fever may cure me, but now I am bankrupt

in all that gives value to life. A woman with an art so consummate that

it seemed artless, deliberately evoked the best there was in me, then

threw it away as indifferently as a cast-off glove."

"Tell me how it came about."

"How can I tell you? How can I in cold blood recall glances, words,

intonations, the pressure of a hand that seemed alive with reciprocal

feeling? In addition to her beauty she had the irresistible charm of

fascination. I was wary at first, but she angled for me with a skill

that would have disarmed any man who did not believe in the inherent

falseness of woman. The children in the house idolized her, and I have

great faith in a child's intuitions."

"Oh, that was only a part of her guile," said Ackland, frowningly.

"Probably; at any rate she has taken all the color and zest out of my

life. I wish some one could pay her back in her own coin. I don't

suppose she has a heart; but I wish her vanity might be wounded in a

way that would teach her a lesson never to be forgotten."

"It certainly would be a well-deserved retribution," said Ackland,

musingly.

"Jack, you are the one, of all the world, to administer the punishment.

I don't believe a woman's smiles ever quickened your pulse one beat."

"You are right, Will, it is my cold-bloodedness--to put your thought in

plain English--that will prove your best ally."

"I only hope that I am not leading you into danger. You will need an

Indian's stoicism."

"Bah! I may fail ignominiously, and find her vanity invulnerable, but I

pledge you my word that I will avenge you if it be within the compass

of my skill. My cousin, Mrs. Alston, may prove a useful ally. I think

you wrote me that the name of this siren was Eva Van Tyne?"

"Yes; I only wish she had the rudiments of a heart, so that she might

feel in a faint, far-off way a little of the pain she has inflicted on

me. Don't let her make you falter or grow remorseful, Jack. Remember

that you have given a pledge to one who may be dead before you can

fulfil it."

Ackland said farewell to his friend with the fear that he might never

see him again, and a few days later found himself at a New England

seaside resort, with a relentless purpose lurking in his dark eyes.

Mrs. Alston did unconsciously prove a useful ally, for her wealth and

elegance gave her unusual prestige in the house, and in joining her

party Ackland achieved immediately all the social recognition he

desired.

While strolling with this lady on the piazza he observed the object of

his quest, and was at once compelled to make more allowance than he had

done hitherto for his friend's discomfiture. Two or three children were

leaning over the young girl's chair, and she was amusing them by some

clever caricatures. She was not so interested, however, but that she

soon noted the new-comer, and bestowed upon him from time to time

curious and furtive glances. That these were not returned seemed to

occasion her some surprise, for she was not accustomed to be so utterly

ignored, even by a stranger. A little later Ackland saw her consulting

the hotel register.

"I have at least awakened her curiosity," he thought.

"I've been waiting for you to ask me who that pretty girl is," said

Mrs. Alton, laughing; "you do indeed exceed all men in indifference to

women."

"I know all about that girl," was the grim reply. "She has played the

very deuce with my friend Munson."

"Yes," replied Mrs. Alston, indignantly, "it was the most shameful

piece of coquetry I ever saw. She is a puzzle to me. To the children

and the old people in the house she is consideration and kindness

itself; but she appears to regard men of your years as legitimate game

and is perfectly remorseless. So beware! She is dangerous, invulnerable

as you imagine yourself to be. She will practice her wiles upon you if

you give her half a chance, and her art has much more than her pretty

face to enforce it. She is unusually clever."

Ackland's slight shrug was so contemptuous that his cousin was nettled,

and she thought, "I wish the girl could disturb his complacent

equanimity just a little. It vexes one to see a man so indifferent;

it's a slight to woman;" and she determined to give Miss Van Tyne the

vantage-ground of an introduction at the first opportunity.

And this occurred before the evening was over. To her surprise Ackland

entered into an extended conversation with the enemy. "Well," she

thought, "if he begins in this style there will soon be another victim.

Miss Van Tyne can talk to as bright a man as he is and hold her own.

Meanwhile she will assail him in a hundred covert ways. Out of regard

for his friend he should have shown some disapproval of her; but there

he sits quietly talking in the publicity of the parlor."

"Mrs. Alston," said a friend at her elbow, "you ought to forewarn your

cousin and tell him of Mr. Munson's fate."

"He knows all about Mr. Munson," was her reply. "Indeed, the latter is

his most intimate friend. I suppose my cousin is indulging in a little

natural curiosity concerning this destroyer of masculine peace, and if

ever a man could do so in safety he can."

"Why so?"

"Well, I never knew so unsusceptible a man. With the exception of a few

of his relatives, he has never cared for ladies' society."

Mrs. Alston was far astray in supposing that curiosity was Ackland's

motive in his rather prolonged conversation with Miss Van Tyne. It was

simply part of his tactics, for he proposed to waste no time in

skirmishing or in guarded and gradual approaches. He would cross

weapons at once, and secure his object by a sharp and aggressive

campaign. His object was to obtain immediately some idea of the calibre

of the girl's mind, and in this respect he was agreeably surprised, for

while giving little evidence of thorough education, she was unusually

intelligent and exceedingly quick in her perceptions. He soon learned

also that she was gifted with more than woman's customary intuition,

that she was watching his face closely for meanings that he might not

choose to express in words or else to conceal by his language. While he

feared that his task would be far more difficult than he expected, and

that he would have to be extremely guarded in order not to reveal his

design, he was glad to learn that the foe was worthy of his steel.

Meanwhile her ability and self-reliance banished all compunction. He

had no scruples in humbling the pride of a woman who was at once so

proud, so heartless, and so clever. Nor would the effort be wearisome,

for she had proved herself both amusing and interesting. He might enjoy

it quite as much as an intricate law case.

Even prejudiced Ackland, as he saw her occasionally on the following

day, was compelled to admit that she was more than pretty. Her features

were neither regular nor faultless. Her mouth was too large to be

perfect, and her nose was not Grecian; but her eyes were peculiarly

fine and illumined her face, whose chief charm lay in its power of

expression. If she chose, almost all her thoughts and feelings could

find their reflex there. The trouble was that she could as readily mask

her thought and express what she did not feel. Her eyes were of the

darkest blue and her hair seemed light in contrast. It was evident that

she had studied grace so thoroughly that her manner and carriage

appeared unstudied and natural. She never seemed self-conscious, and

yet no one had ever seen her in an ungainly posture or had known her to

make an awkward gesture. This grace, however, like a finished style in

writing, was tinged so strongly with her own individuality that it

appeared original as compared with the fashionable monotony which

characterized the manners of so many of her age. She could not have

been much more than twenty; and yet, as Mrs. Alston took pains to

inform her cousin, she had long been in society, adding, "Its homage is

her breath of life, and from all I hear your friend Munson has had many

predecessors. Be on your guard."

"Your solicitude in my behalf is quite touching," he replied. "Who is

this fair buccaneer that has made so many wrecks and exacts so heavy a

revenue from society? Who has the care of her and what are her

antecedents?"

"She is an orphan, and possessed, I am told, of considerable property

in her own name. A forceless, nerveless maiden aunt is about the only

antecedent we see much of. Her guardian has been here once or twice,

but practically she is independent."

Miss Van Tyne's efforts to learn something concerning Ackland were

apparently quite as casual and indifferent and yet were made with

utmost skill. She knew that Mrs. Alston's friend was something of a

gossip; and she led her to speak of the subject of her thoughts with an

indirect finesse that would have amused the young man exceedingly could

he have been an unobserved witness. When she learned that he was Mr.

Munson's intimate friend and that he was aware of her treatment of the

latter, she was somewhat disconcerted. One so forewarned might not

become an easy prey. But the additional fact that he was almost a

woman-hater put her upon her mettle at once, and she felt that here was

a chance for a conquest such as she had never made before. She now

believed that she had discovered the key to his indifference. He was

ready enough to amuse himself with her as a clever woman, but knew her

too well to bestow upon her even a friendly thought.

"If I can bring him to my feet it will be a triumph indeed," she

murmured exultantly; "and at my feet he shall be if he gives me half a

chance." Seemingly he gave her every chance that she could desire, and

while he scarcely made any effort to seek her society, she noted with

secret satisfaction that he often appeared as if accidentally near her,

and that he ever made it the easiest and most natural thing in the

world for her to join him. His conversation was often as gay and

unconventional as she could wish; but she seldom failed to detect in it

an uncomfortable element of satire and irony. He always left her

dissatisfied with herself and with a depressing consciousness that she

had made no impression upon him.

His conquest grew into an absorbing desire; and she unobtrusively

brought to bear upon him every art and fascination that she possessed.

Her toilets were as exquisite as they were simple. The children were

made to idolize her more than ever; but Ackland was candid enough to

admit that this was not all guile on her part, for she was evidently in

sympathy with the little people, who can rarely be imposed upon by any

amount of false interest. Indeed, he saw no reason to doubt that she

abounded in good-nature toward all except the natural objects of her

ruling passion; but the very skill and deliberateness with which she

sought to gratify this passion greatly increased his vindictive

feeling. He saw how naturally and completely his friend had been

deceived and how exquisite must have been the hopes and anticipations

so falsely raised. Therefore he smiled more grimly at the close of each

succeeding day, and was more than ever bent upon the accomplishment of

his purpose.

At length Miss Van Tyne changed her tactics and grew quite oblivious to

Ackland's presence in the house; but she found him apparently too

indifferent to observe the fact. She then permitted one of her several

admirers to become devoted; Ackland did not offer the protest of even a

glance. He stood, as it were, just where she had left him, ready for an

occasional chat, stroll, or excursion, if the affair came about

naturally and without much effort on his part. She found that she could

neither induce him to seek her nor annoy him by an indifference which

she meant should be more marked than his own.

Some little time after there came a windy day when the surf was so

heavy that there were but few bathers. Ackland was a good swimmer, and

took his plunge as usual. He was leaving the water when Miss Van Tyne

ran down the beach and was about to dart through the breakers in her

wonted fearless style.

"Be careful," he said to her; "the undertow is strong, and the man who

has charge of the bathing is ill and not here. The tide is changing--in

fact, running out already, I believe." But she would not even look at

him, much less answer. As there were other gentlemen present, he

started for his bath-house, but had proceeded but a little way up the

beach before a cry brought him to the water's edge instantly.

"Something is wrong with Miss Van Tyne," cried half a dozen voices.

"She ventured out recklessly, and it seems as if she couldn't get back."

At that moment her form rose on the crest of a wave, and above the

thunder of the surf came her faint cry, "Help!"

The other bathers stood irresolute, for she was dangerously far out,

and the tide had evidently turned. Ackland, on the contrary, dashed

through the breakers and then, in his efforts for speed, dived through

the waves nearest to the shore. When he reached the place where he

expected to find her he saw nothing for a moment or two but great

crested billows that every moment were increasing in height under the

rising wind. For a moment he feared that she had perished, and the

thought that the beautiful creature had met her death so suddenly and

awfully made him almost sick and faint. An instant later, however, a

wave threw her up from the trough of the sea into full vision somewhat

on his right, and a few strong strokes brought him to her side.

"Oh, save me!" she gasped.

"Don't cling to me," he said sternly. "Do as I bid you. Strike out for

the shore if you are able; if not, lie on your back and float."

She did the latter, for now that aid had reached her she apparently

recovered from her panic and was perfectly tractable. He placed his

left hand under her and struck out quietly, aware that the least

excitement causing exhaustion on his part might cost both of them their

lives.

As they approached the shore a rope was thrown to them, and Ackland,

who felt his strength giving way, seized it--desperately. He passed his

arm around his companion with a grasp that almost made her breathless,

and they were dragged half suffocated through the water until strong

hands on either side rushed them through the breakers.

Miss Van Tyne for a moment or two stood dazed and panting, then

disengaged herself from the rather warm support of the devoted admirer

whom she had tried to play against Ackland, and tried to walk, but

after a few uncertain steps fell senseless on the sand, thus for the

moment drawing to herself the attention of the increasing throng.

Ackland, glad to escape notice, was staggering off to his bath-house

when several ladies, more mindful of his part in the affair than the

men had been, overtook him with a fire of questions and plaudits.

"Please leave me alone," he said almost savagely, without looking

around.

"What a bear he is! Any one else would have been a little complacent

over such an exploit," they chorused, as they followed the unconscious

girl, who was now being carried to the hotel.

Ackland locked the door of his little apartment and sank panting on the

bench. "Maledictions on her!" he muttered. "At one time there was a

better chance of her being fatal to me than to Munson with his

yellow-fever tragedy in prospect. Her recklessness to-day was perfectly

insane. If she tries it again she may drown for all that I care, or at

least ought to care." His anger appeared to act like a tonic, and he

was soon ready to return to the house. A dozen sprang forward to

congratulate him, but they found such impatience and annoyance at all

reference to the affair that with many surmises the topic was dropped.

"You are a queer fellow," remarked his privileged cousin, as he took

her out to dinner. "Why don't you let people speak naturally about the

matter, or rather, why don't you pose as the hero of the occasion?"

"Because the whole affair was most unnatural, and I am deeply incensed.

In a case of necessity I am ready to risk my life, although it has

unusual attractions for me; but I'm no melodramatic hero looking for

adventures. What necessity was there in this case? It is the old story

of Munson over again in another guise. The act was that of an

inconsiderate, heartless woman who follows her impulses and

inclinations, no matter what may be the consequences." After a moment

he added less indignantly, "I must give her credit for one thing, angry

as I am--she behaved well in the water, otherwise she would have

drowned me."

"She is not a fool. Most women would have drowned you."

"She is indeed not a fool; therefore she's the more to blame. If she is

ever so reckless again, may I be asleep in my room. Of course one can't

stand by and see a woman drown, no matter who or what she is."

"Jack, what made her so reckless?" Mrs. Alston asked, with a sudden

intelligence lighting up her face.

"Hang it all! How should I know? What made her torture Munson? She

follows her impulses, and they are not always conducive to any one's

well-being, not even her own."

"Mark my words, she has never shown this kind of recklessness before."

"Oh, yes, she has. She was running her horse to death the other hot

morning and nearly trampled on a child;" and he told of an unexpected

encounter while he was taking a rather extended ramble.

"Well," exclaimed Mrs. Alston, smiling significantly, "I think I

understand her symptoms better than you do. If you are as cold-blooded

as you seem, I may have to interfere."

"Oh, bah!" he answered impatiently. "Pardon me, but I should despise

myself forever should I become sentimental, knowing what I do."

"Jack, had you no compunctions when fearing that such a beautiful girl

might perish? We are going to have an awful night. Hear the wind

whistle and moan, and the sky is already black with clouds. The roar of

the surface grows louder every hour. Think of that lovely form being

out in those black angry waves, darted at and preyed upon by horrible

slimy monsters. Oh, it fairly makes my flesh creep!"

"And mine too," he said with a strong gesture of disgust; "especially

when I remember that I should have kept her company, for of course I

could not return without her. I confess that when at first I could not

find her I was fairly sick at the thought of her fate. But remember how

uncalled for it all was--quite as much so as that poor Will Munson is

on his way to die with the yellow fever, like enough."

"Jack," said his cousin, affectionately, laying her hand on his arm,

"blessings on your courage to-day! If what might have happened so

easily had occurred, I could never have looked upon the sea again

without a shudder. I should have been tormented by a horrible memory

all my life. It was brave and noble--"

"Oh, hush!" he said angrily. "I won't hear another word about it even

from you. I'm not brave and noble. I went because I was compelled to

go; I hated to go. I hate the girl, and have more reason now than ever.

If we had both drowned, no doubt there would have been less trouble in

the world. There would have been one lawyer the less, and a coquette

extinguished. Now we shall both prey on society in our different ways

indefinitely."

"Jack, you are in an awful mood to-day."

"I am; never was in a worse."

"Having so narrowly escaped death, you ought to be subdued and

grateful."

"On the contrary, I'm inclined to profanity. Excuse me; don't wish any

dessert. I'll try a walk and a cigar. You will now be glad to be rid of

me on any terms."

"Stay, Jack. See, Miss Van Tyne has so far recovered as to come down.

She looked unutterable things at you as she entered."

"Of course she did. Very few of her thoughts concerning me or other

young men would sound well if uttered. Tell your friends to let this

topic alone, or I shall be rude to them," and without a glance toward

the girl he had rescued he left the dining-room.

"Well, well," murmured Mrs. Alston, "I never saw Jack in such a mood

before. It is quite as unaccountable as Miss Tyne's recklessness. I

wonder what is the matter with HIM."

Ackland was speedily driven back from his walk by the rain, which fact

he did not regret, for he found himself exhausted and depressed.

Seeking a retired piazza in order to be alone, he sat down with his hat

drawn over his eyes and smoked furiously. Before very long, however, he

was startled out of a painful revery by a timid voice saying:

"Mr. Ackland, won't you permit me to thank you?"

He rose. Miss Van Tyne stood before him with outstretched hand. He did

not notice it, but bowing coldly, said:

"Please consider that you have thanked me and let the subject drop."

"Do not be so harsh with me," she pleaded. "I cannot help it if you

are. Mr. Ackland, you saved my life."

"Possibly."

"And possibly you think that it is scarcely worth saving."

"Possibly your own conscience suggested that thought to you."

"You are heartless," she burst out indignantly. He began to laugh.

"That's a droll charge for you to make," he said.

She looked at him steadfastly for a moment, and then murmured: "You are

thinking of your friend, Mr. Munson."

"That would be quite natural. How many more can you think of?"

"You are indeed unrelenting," she faltered, tears coming into her eyes;

"but I cannot forget that but for you _I_ should now be out there"--and

she indicated the sea by a gesture, then covered her face with her

hands, and shuddered.

"Do not feel under obligations. I should have been compelled to do as

much for any human being. You seem to forget that I stood an even

chance of being out there with you, and that there was no more need of

the risk than there was that my best friend's life should be blight--"

"You--you out there?" she cried, springing toward him and pointing to

the sea.

"Certainly. You cannot suppose that having once found you, I could come

ashore without you. As it was, my strength was rapidly giving way, and

were it not for the rope--"

"Oh, forgive me," she cried passionately, seizing his hand in spite of

him. "It never entered my mind that you could drown. I somehow felt

that nothing could harm you. I was reckless--I didn't know what I was

doing--I don't understand myself any more. Please--please forgive me,

or I shall not sleep to-night."

"Certainly," he said lightly, "if you will not refer to our little

episode again."

"Please don't speak in that way," she sighed, turning away.

"I have complied with your request."

"I suppose I must be content," she resumed sadly. Then turning her head

slowly toward him she added hesitatingly: "Will you forgive me for--for

treating your friend--"

"No," he replied, with such stern emphasis that she shrank from him and

trembled.

"You are indeed heartless," she faltered, as she turned to leave him.

"Miss Van Tyne," he said indignantly, "twice you have charged me with

being heartless. Your voice and manner indicate that I would be

unnatural and unworthy of respect were I what you charge. In the name

of all that's rational what does this word 'heartless' mean to you?

Where was your heart when you sent my friend away so wretched and

humbled that he is virtually seeking the death from which you are so

glad to escape?"

"I did not love him," she protested faintly.

He laughed bitterly, and continued, "Love! That's a word which I

believe has no meaning for you at all, but it had for him. You are a

remarkably clever woman, Miss Van Tyne. You have brains in abundance.

See, I do you justice. What is more, you are beautiful and can be so

fascinating that a man who believed in you might easily worship you.

You made him believe in you. You tried to beguile me into a condition

that with my nature would be ruin indeed. You never had the baby plea

of a silly, shallow woman. I took pains to find that out the first

evening we met. In your art of beguiling an honest, trusting man you

were as perfect as you were remorseless, and you understood exactly

what you were doing."

For a time she seemed overwhelmed by his lava-like torrent of words,

and stood with bowed head and shrinking, trembling form; but when he

ceased she turned to him and said bitterly and emphatically:

"I did NOT understand what I was doing, nor would my brain have taught

me were I all intellect like yourself. I half wish you had left me to

drown," and with a slight, despairing gesture she turned away and did

not look back.

Ackland's face lighted up with a sudden flash of intelligence and deep

feeling. He started to recall her, hesitated, and watched her earnestly

until she disappeared; then looking out on the scowling ocean, he took

off his hat and exclaimed in a deep, low tone:

"By all that's divine, can this be? Is it possible that through the

suffering of her own awakening heart she is learning to know the pain

she has given to others? Should this be true, the affair is taking an

entirely new aspect, and Munson will be avenged as neither of us ever

dreamed would be possible."

He resumed his old position and thought long and deeply, then rejoined

his cousin, who was somewhat surprised to find that his bitter mood had

given place to his former composure.

"How is this, Jack?" she asked. "As the storm grows wilder without, you

become more serene."

"Only trying to make amends for my former bearishness," he said

carelessly, but with a little rising color.

"I don't understand you at all," she continued discontentedly. "I saw

you sulking in that out-of-the-way corner, and I saw Miss Van Tyne

approach you hesitatingly and timidly, with the purpose, no doubt, of

thanking you. Of course I did not stay to watch, but a little later I

met Miss Van Tyne, and she looked white and rigid. She has not left her

room since."

"You take a great interest in Miss Van Tyne. It is well you are not in

my place."

"I half wish I was and had your chances. You are more pitiless than the

waves from which you saved her."

"I can't help being just what I am," he said coldly. "Good-night." And

he too disappeared for the rest of the evening.

The rain continued to fall in blinding torrents, and the building

fairly trembled under the violence of the wind. The guests drew

together in the lighted rooms, and sought by varied amusements to pass

the time until the fierceness of the storm abated, few caring to retire

while the uproar of the elements was so great.

At last as the storm passed away, and the late-rising moon threw a

sickly gleam on the tumultuous waters, Eva looked from her window with

sleepless eyes, thinking sadly and bitterly of the past and future.

Suddenly a dark figure appeared on the beach in the track of the

moonlight. She snatched an opera-glass, but could not recognize the

solitary form. The thought would come, however, that it was Ackland;

and if it were, what were his thoughts and what place had she in them?

Why was he watching so near the spot that might have been their

burial-place?

"At least he shall not think that I can stolidly sleep after what has

occurred," she thought, and she turned up her light, opened her window,

and sat down by it again. Whoever the unseasonable rambler might be, he

appeared to recognize the gleam from her window, for he walked hastily

down the beach and disappeared. After a time she darkened her room

again and waited in vain for his return. "If it were he, he shuns even

the slightest recognition," she thought despairingly; and the early

dawn was not far distant when she fell into an unquiet sleep.

For the next few days Miss Van Tyne was a puzzle to all except Mrs.

Alston. She was quite unlike the girl she had formerly been, and she

made no effort to disguise the fact. In the place of her old exuberance

of life and spirits, there was lassitude and great depression. The rich

color ebbed steadily from her face, and dark lines under her eyes

betokened sleepless nights. She saw the many curious glances in her

direction, but apparently did not care what was thought or surmised.

Were it not that her manner to Ackland was so misleading, the tendency

to couple their names together would have been far more general. She

neither sought nor shunned his society; in fact, she treated him as she

did the other gentlemen of her acquaintance. She took him at his word.

He had said he would forgive her on condition that she would not speak

of what he was pleased to term that "little episode," and she never

referred to it.

Her aunt was as much at fault as the others, and one day querulously

complained to Mrs. Alston that she was growing anxious about Eva. "At

first I thought she was disappointed over the indifference of that icy

cousin of yours; but she does not appear to care a straw for him. When

I mention his name she speaks of him in a natural, grateful way, then

her thoughts appear to wander off to some matter that is troubling her.

I can't find out whether she is ill or whether she has heard some bad

news of which she will not speak. She never gave me or any one that I

know of much of her confidence."

Mrs. Alston listened but made no comments. She was sure she was right

in regard to Miss Van Tyne's trouble, but her cousin mystified her.

Ackland had become perfectly inscrutable. As far as she could judge by

any word or act of his he had simply lost his interest in Miss Van

Tyne, and that was all that could be said; and yet a fine instinct

tormented Mrs. Alston with the doubt that this was not true, and that

the young girl was the subject of a sedulously concealed scrutiny. Was

he watching for his friend or for his own sake, or was he, in a spirit

of retaliation, enjoying the suffering of one who had made others

suffer? His reserve was so great that she could not pierce it, and his

caution baffled even her vigilance. But she waited patiently, assured

that the little drama must soon pass into a more significant phase.

And she was right. Miss Van Tyne could not maintain the line of action

she had resolved upon. She had thought, "I won't try to appear happy

when I am not. I won't adopt the conventional mask of gayety when the

heart is wounded. How often I have seen through it and smiled at the

transparent farce--farce it seemed then, but I now fear it was often

tragedy. At any rate there was neither dignity nor deception in it. I

have done with being false, and so shall simply act myself and be a

true woman. Though my heart break a thousand times, not even by a

glance shall I show that it is breaking for him. If he or others

surmise the truth, they may; let them. It is a part of my penance; and

I will show the higher, stronger pride of one who makes no vain,

useless pretence to happy indifference, but who can maintain a

self-control so perfect that even Mrs. Alston shall not see one

unmaidenly advance or overture."

She succeeded for a time, as we have seen, but she overrated her will

and underrated her heart, that with deepening intensity craved the love

denied her. With increasing frequency she said to herself, "I must go

away. My only course is to hide my weakness and never see him again. He

is inflexible, yet his very obduracy increases my love a hundred-fold."

At last after a lonely walk on the beach she concluded, "My guardian

must take me home on Monday next. He comes to-night to spend Sunday

with us, and I will make preparations to go at once."

Although her resolution did not fail her, she walked forward more and

more slowly, her dejection and weariness becoming almost overpowering.

As she was turning a sharp angle of rocks that jutted well down to the

water she came face to face with Ackland and Mrs. Alston. She was off

her guard; and her thoughts of him had been so absorbing that she felt

he must be conscious of them. She flushed painfully and hurried by with

slight recognition and downcast face, but she had scarcely passed them

when, acting under a sudden impulse, she stopped and said in a low tone:

"Mr. Ackland--"

He turned expectantly toward her. For a moment she found it difficult

to speak, then ignoring the presence of Mrs. Alston, resolutely began:

"Mr. Ackland, I must refer once more to a topic which you have in a

sense forbidden. I feel partially absolved, however, for I do not think

you have forgiven me anything. At any rate I must ask your pardon once

more for having so needlessly and foolishly imperilled your life. I say

these words now because I may not have another opportunity; we leave on

Monday." With this she raised her eyes to his with an appeal for a

little kindness which Mrs. Alston was confident could not be resisted.

Indeed, she was sure that she saw a slight nervous tremor in Ackland's

hands, as if he found it hard to control himself. Then he appeared to

grow rigid. Lifting his hat, he said gravely and unresponsively:

"Miss Van Tyne, you now surely have made ample amends. Please forget

the whole affair."

She turned from him at once, but not so quickly but that both he and

his cousin saw the bitter tears that would come. A moment later she was

hidden by the angle of the rock. As long as she was visible Ackland

watched her without moving, then he slowly turned to his cousin, his

face as inscrutable as ever. She walked at his side for a few moments

in ill-concealed impatience, then stopped and said decisively:

"I'll go no further with you to-day. I am losing all respect for you."

Without speaking, he turned to accompany her back to the house. His

reticence and coldness appeared to annoy her beyond endurance, for she

soon stopped and sat down on a ledge of the rocks that jutted down the

beach where they had met Miss Van Tyne.

"John, you are the most unnatural man I ever saw in my life," she began

angrily.

"What reason have you for so flattering an opinion," he asked coolly.

"You have been giving reason for it every day since you came here," she

resumed hotly. "I always heard it said that you had no heart; but I

defended you and declared that your course toward your mother even when

a boy showed that you had, and that you would prove it some day. But I

now believe that you are unnaturally cold, heartless, and unfeeling. I

had no objection to your wounding Miss Van Tyne's vanity and encouraged

you when that alone bid fair to suffer. But when she proved she had a

heart and that you had awakened it, she deserved at least kindness and

consideration on your part. If you could not return her affection, you

should have gone away at once; but I believe that you have stayed for

the sole and cruel purpose of gloating over her suffering."

"She has not suffered more than my friend, or than I would if--"

"You indeed! The idea of your suffering from any such cause! I half

believe you came here with the deliberate purpose of avenging your

friend, and that you are keeping for his inspection a diary in which

the poor girl's humiliation to-day will form the hateful climax."

They did not dream that the one most interested was near. Miss Van Tyne

had felt too faint and sorely wounded to go further without rest.

Believing that the rocks would hide her from those whose eyes she would

most wish to shun, she had thrown herself down beyond the angle and was

shedding the bitterest tears that she had ever known. Suddenly she

heard Mrs. Alston's words but a short distance away, and was so

overcome by their import that she hesitated what to do. She would not

meet them again for the world, but felt so weak that she doubted

whether she could drag herself away without being discovered,

especially as the beach trended off to the left so sharply a little

further on that they might discover her. While she was looking vainly

for some way of escape she heard Ackland's words and Mrs. Alston's

surmise in reply that he had come with the purpose of revenge. She was

so stung by their apparent truth that she resolved to clamber up

through an opening of the rocks if the thing were possible. Panting and

exhausted she gained the summit, and then hastened to an adjacent

grove, as some wounded, timid creature would run to the nearest cover.

Ackland had heard sounds and had stepped around the point of the rocks

just in time to see her disappearing above the bank. Returning to Mrs.

Alston, he said impatiently:

"In view of your opinions my society can have no attractions for you.

Shall I accompany you to the hotel?"

"No," was the angry reply. "I'm in no mood to speak to you again

to-day."

He merely bowed and turned as if to pursue his walk. The moment she was

hidden, however, he also climbed the rocks in time to see Miss Van Tyne

entering the grove. With swift and silent tread he followed her, but

could not at once discover her hiding-place. At last passionate sobs

made it evident that she was concealed behind a great oak a little on

his left. Approaching cautiously, he heard her moan:

"Oh, this is worse than death! He makes me feel as if even God had no

mercy for me. But I will expiate my wrong; I will, at the bitterest

sacrifice which a woman can make."

She sprang up to meet Ackland standing with folded arms before her. She

started violently and leaned against the tree for support. But the

weakness was momentary, for she wiped the tears from her eyes, and then

turned to him so quietly that only her extreme pallor proved that she

realized the import of her words.

"Mr. Ackland," she asked, "have you Mr. Munson's address?"

It was his turn now to start, but he merely answered: "Yes."

"Do--do you think he still cares for me?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Since then you are so near a friend, will you write to him that I will

try"--she turned away and would not look at him as, after a moment's

hesitation, she concluded her sentence--"I will try to make him as

happy as I can."

"Do you regret your course?" he asked with a slight tremor in his voice.

"I regret that I misled--that I wronged him beyond all words. I am

willing to make all the amends in my power."

"Do you love him?"

She now turned wholly away and shook her head.

"And yet you would marry him?"

"Yes, if he wished it, knowing all the truth."

"Can you believe he would wish it?" he asked indignantly. "Can you

believe that any man--"

"Then avenge him to your cruel soul's content," she exclaimed

passionately. "Tell him that I have no heart to give to him or to any

one. Through no effort or fault of mine I overheard Mrs. Alston's words

and yours. I know your design against me. Assuage your friend's grief

by assuring him of your entire success, of which you are already so

well aware. Tell him how you triumphed over an untaught, thoughtless

girl who was impelled merely by the love of power and excitement, as

you are governed by ambition and a remorseless will. I did not know--I

did not understand how cruel I was, although now that I do know I shall

never forgive myself. But if you had the heart of a man you might have

seen that you were subjecting me to torture. I did not ask or expect

that you should care for me; but I had a right to hope for a little

kindness, a little manly and delicate consideration, a little healing

sympathy for the almost mortal wound that you have made. But I now see

that you have stood by and watched like a grand inquisitor. Tell your

friend that you have transformed the thoughtless girl into a suffering

woman. I cannot go to Brazil. I cannot face dangers that might bring

rest. I must keep my place in society--keep it too under a hundred

observant and curious eyes. You have seen it all of late in this house;

I was too wretched to care. It was a part of my punishment, and I

accepted it. I would not be false again even in trying to conceal a

secret which it is like death to a woman to reveal. I only craved one

word of kindness from you. Had I received it, I would have gone away in

silence and suffered in silence. But your course and what I have heard

have made me reckless and despairing. You do not leave me even the poor

consolation of self-sacrifice. You are my stony-hearted fate. I wish

you had left me to drown. Tell your friend that I am more wretched than

he ever can be, because I am a woman. Will he be satisfied?"

"He ought to be," was the low, husky reply.

"Are you proud of your triumph?"

"No, I am heartily ashamed of it; but I have kept a pledge that will

probably cost me far more than it has you."

"A pledge?"

"Yes, my pledge to make you suffer as far as possible as he suffered."

She put her hand to her side as if she had received a wound, and after

a moment said wearily and coldly:

"Well, tell him that you succeeded, and be content;" and she turned to

leave him.

"Stay," he cried impetuously. "It is now your turn. Take your revenge."

"My revenge?" she repeated in unfeigned astonishment.

"Yes, your revenge. I have loved you from the moment I hoped you had a

woman's heart, yes, and before--when I feared I might not be able to

save your life. I know it now, though the very thought of it enraged me

then. I have watched and waited more to be sure that you had a woman's

heart than for aught else, though a false sense of honor kept me true

to my pledge. After I met you on the beach I determined at once to

break my odious bond and place myself at your mercy. You may refuse me

in view of my course--you probably will; but every one in that house

there shall know that you refused me, and your triumph shall be more

complete than mine."

She looked into his face with an expression of amazement and doubt; but

instead of coldness, there was now a devotion and pleading that she had

never seen before.

She was too confused and astounded, however, to comprehend his words

immediately, nor could the impression of his hostility pass away

readily.

"You are mocking me," she faltered, scarcely knowing what she said.

"I cannot blame you that you think me capable of mocking the noble

candor which has cost you so dear, as I can now understand. I cannot

ask you to believe that I appreciate your heroic impulse of

self-sacrifice--your purpose to atone for wrong by inflicting

irreparable wrong on yourself. It is natural that you should think of

me only as an instrument of revenge with no more feeling than some

keen-edged weapon would have. This also is the inevitable penalty of my

course. When I speak of my love I cannot complain if you smile in

bitter incredulity. But I have at least proved that I have a resolute

will and that I keep my word; and I again assure you that it shall be

known this very night that you have refused me, that I offered you my

hand, that you already had my heart, where your image is enshrined with

that of my mother, and that I entreated you to be my wife. My cousin

alone guessed my miserable triumph; all shall know of yours."

As he spoke with impassioned earnestness, the confusion passed from her

mind. She felt the truth of his words; she knew that her ambitious

dream had been fulfilled, and that she had achieved the conquest of a

man upon whom all others had smiled in vain. But how immeasurably

different were her emotions from those which she had once anticipated!

Not her beauty, not her consummate skill in fascination had wrought

this miracle, but her woman's heart, awakened at last; and it thrilled

with such unspeakable joy that she turned away to hide its reflex in

her face. He was misled by the act into believing that she could not

forgive him, and yet was perplexed when she murmured with a return of

her old piquant humor:

"You are mistaken, Mr. Ackland; it shall never be known that I refused

you."

"How can you prevent it?"

"If your words are sincere, you will submit to such terms as I choose

to make."

"I am sincere, and my actions shall prove it; but I shall permit no

mistaken self-sacrifice on your part, nor any attempt to shield me from

the punishment I well deserve."

She suddenly turned upon him a radiant face in which he read his

happiness, and faltered:

"Jack, I do believe you, although the change seems wrought by some

heavenly magic. But it will take a long time to pay you up. I hope to

be your dear torment for a lifetime."

He caught her in such a strong, impetuous embrace that she gasped:

"I thought you were--cold to our sex."

"It's not your sex that I am clasping, but you--YOU, my Eve. Like the

first man, I have won my bride under the green trees and beneath the

open sky."

"Yes, Jack; and I give you my whole heart as truly as did the first

woman when there was but one man in all the world. That is MY REVENGE."

This is what Will Munson wrote some weeks later:

"Well, Jack, I've had the yellow fever, and it was the most fortunate

event of my life. I was staying with a charming family, and they would

not permit my removal to a hospital. One of my bravest and most devoted

nurses has consented to become my wife. I hope you punished that little

wretch Eva Van Tyne as she deserved."

"Confound your fickle soul!" muttered Ackland. "I punished her as she

did not deserve; and I risked more than life in doing so. If her heart

had not been as good as gold and as kind as Heaven she never would have

looked at me again."

Ackland is quite as indifferent to the sex as ever, but Eva has never

complained that he was cold to her.

A CHRISTMAS-EVE SUIT

The Christmas holidays had come, and with them a welcome vacation for

Hedley Marstern. Although as yet a briefless young lawyer, he had a

case in hand which absorbed many of his thoughts--the conflicting

claims of two young women in his native village on the Hudson. It must

not be imagined that the young women were pressing their claims except

as they did so unconsciously, by virtue of their sex and various

charms. Nevertheless, Marstern was not the first lawyer who had clients

over whom midnight oil was burned, they remaining unaware of the fact.