CHAPTER XIII.

"Zeal was the spring whence flowed her hardiment."

FAIRFAX.

Barby undid bolt and lock, and Fleda met the traveller in the

hall. She was a lady; her air and dress showed that, though

the latter was very plain.

"Does Mr. Rossitur live here?" was her first word.

Fleda answered it, and brought her visitor into the sitting-

room. But the light falling upon a form and face that had seen

more wear and tear than time, gave her no clue as to the who

or what of the person before her. The stranger's hurried look

around the room seemed to expect something.

"Are they all gone to bed?"

"All but me," said Fleda.

"We have been delayed — we took a wrong road — we've been

riding for hours to find the place — hadn't the right

direction." Then, looking keenly at Fleda, from whose vision

an electric spark of intelligence had scattered the clouds,

she said —

"I am Marion Rossitur."

"I knew it!" said Fleda, with lips and eyes that gave her

already a sister's welcome; and they were folded in each

other's arms almost as tenderly and affectionately, on the

part of one at least, as if there had really been the

relationship between them. But more than surprise and

affection struck Fleda's heart.

"And where are they all, Fleda? Can't I see them?"

"You must wait till I have prepared them; Hugh and aunt Lucy

are not very well. I don't know that it will do for you to see

them at all to-night, Marion."

"Not to-night! They are not ill?"

"No — only enough to be taken care of — not ill. But it would

be better to wait."

"And my father?"

"He is not at home."

Marion exclaimed in sorrow, and Fleda, to hide the look that

she felt was on her face, stooped down to kiss the child. He

was a remarkably fine-looking, manly boy.

"That is your cousin Fleda," said his mother.

"No — _aunt_ Fleda," said the person thus introduced — "don't

put me off into cousindom, Marion. I am uncle Hugh's sister —

and so I am your aunt Fleda. Who are you?"

"Rolf Rossitur Schwiden."

Alas, how wide are the ramifications of evil! How was what

might have been very pure pleasure utterly poisoned and turned

into bitterness! It went through Fleda's heart with a keen

pang, when she heard that name and looked on the very fair

brow that owned it, and thought of the ineffaceable stain that

had come upon both. She dared look at nobody but the child. He

already understood the melting eyes that were making

acquaintance with his, and half felt the pain that gave so

much tenderness to her kiss, and looked at her with a grave

face of awakening wonder and sympathy. Fleda was glad to have

business to call her into the kitchen.

"Who is it?" was Barby's immediate question.

"Aunt Lucy's daughter."

"She don't look much like her!" said Barby, intelligently.

"They will want something to eat, Barby."

"I'll put the kettle on. It'll boil directly. I'll go in there

and fix up the fire."

A word or two more, and then Fleda ran up to speak to her aunt

and Hugh.

Her aunt she found in a state of agitation that was frightful.

Even Fleda's assurances, with all the soothing arts she could

bring to bear, were some minutes before they could in any

measure tranquillize her. Fleda's own nerves were in no

condition to stand another shock, when she left her and went

to Hugh's door. But she could get no answer from him, though

she spoke repeatedly.

She did not return to her aunt's room. She went down stairs,

and brought up Barby and a light from thence.

Hugh was lying senseless and white — not whiter than his

adopted sister, as she stood by his side. Her eye went to her

companion.

"Not a bit of it!" said Barby, — "he's in nothing but a faint

— just run down stairs and get the vinegar-bottle, Fleda — the

pepper vinegar. Is there any water here?" —

Fleda obeyed, and watched — she could little more — the

efforts of Barby, who indeed needed no help, with the cold

water, the vinegar, and rubbing of the limbs. They were for

some time unsuccessful — the fit was a severe one, and Fleda

was exceedingly terrified before any signs of returning life

came to reassure her.

"Now, you go down stairs and keep quiet!" said Barby, when

Hugh was fairly restored, and had smiled a faint answer to

Fleda's kiss and explanations — "Go, Fleda! you aint fit to

stand. Go and sit down some place, and I'll be along directly

and see how the fire burns. Don't you s'pose Mis' Rossitur

could come in, and sit in this easy-chair a spell without

hurting herself?"

It occurred to Fleda immediately, that it might do more good

than harm to her aunt if her attention were diverted even by

another cause of anxiety. She gently summoned her, telling her

no more than was necessary to fit her for being Hugh's nurse,

and, in a very few minutes, she and Barby were at liberty to

attend to other claims upon them. But it sank into her heart,

"Hugh will not get over this!" — and when she entered the

sitting-room, what Mr. Carleton, years before, had said of the

wood-flower, was come true in its fullest extent — "A storm-

wind had beaten it to the ground."

She was able, literally, to do no more than Barby had said —

sit down and keep herself quiet. Miss Elster was in her

briskest mood, flew in and out, made up the fire in the

sitting-room, and put on the kettle in the kitchen, which she

had been just about doing when called to see Hugh. The much-

needed supper of the travellers must be still waited for; but

the fire was burning now, the room was cozily warm and bright,

and Marion drew up her chair with a look of thoughtful

contentment. Fleda felt as if some conjurer had been at work

there for the last few hours — the room looked so like and

felt so unlike itself.

"Are you going to be ill too, Fleda?" said Marion, suddenly.

"You are looking — very far from well!"

"I shall have a headache to-morrow," said Fleda, quietly, — "I

generally know the day beforehand."

"Does it always make you look so?"

"Not always — I am somewhat tired."

"Where is my father gone?"

"I don't know. Rolf, dear," said Fleda, bending forward to the

little fellow, who was giving expression to some very fidgety

impatience — "what is the matter? — what do you want?"

The child's voice fell a little from its querulousness towards

the sweet key in which the questions had been put, but he gave

utterance to a very decided wish for "bread and butter."

"Come here," said Fleda, reaching out a hand and drawing him,

certainly with no force but that of attraction, towards her

easy-chair — "come here and rest yourself in this nice place

by me — see, there is plenty of room for you — and you shall

have bread and butter and tea, and something else, too, I

guess, just as soon as Barby can get it ready."

"Who is Barby?" was the next question, in a most

uncompromising tone of voice.

"You saw the woman that came in to put wood on the fire — that

was Barby — she is very good and kind, and will do anything

for you if you behave yourself."

The child muttered, but so low as to show some unwillingness

that his words should reach the ears that were nearest him,

that "he wasn't going to behave himself."

Fleda did not choose to hear, and went on with composing

observations, till the fair little face she had drawn to her

side was as bright as the sun, and returned her smile with

interest.

"You have an admirable talent at moral suasion, Fleda," said

the mother, half smiling — "I wish I had it."

"You don't need it so much here."

"Why not?"

"It may do very well for me, but I think, not so well for

you."

"Why? — what do you mean? I think it is the only way in the

world to bring up children — the only way fit for rational

beings to be guided."

Fleda smiled, though the faintest indication that lips could

give, and shook her head — ever so little.

"Why do you do that? — tell me."

"Because, in my limited experience," said Fleda, as she passed

her fingers through the boy's dark locks of hair — "in every

household where 'moral suasion' has been the law, the children

have been the administrators of it. Where is your husband?"

"I have lost him — years ago" — said Marion, with a quick

expressive glance towards the child. "I never lost what I at

first thought I had, for I never had it. Do you understand?"

Fleda's eyes gave a sufficient answer.

"I am a widow — these five years — in all but what the law

would require," Marion went on. "I have been alone since then

— except my child. He was two years old then; and since then I

have lived such a life, Fleda!"

"Why didn't you come home?"

"Couldn't — the most absolute reason in the world. Think of

it! — Come home! It was as much as I could do to stay there!"

Those sympathizing eyes were enough to make her go on.

"I have wanted everything — except trouble. I have done

everything — except ask alms. I have learned, Fleda, that

death is not the worst form in which distress can come."

Fleda felt stung, and bent down her head to touch her lips to

the brow of little Rolf.

"Death would have been a trifle!" said Marion. "I mean — not

that _I_ should have wished to leave Rolf alone in the world;

but if I had been left — I mean I would rather wear outside

than inside mourning."

Fleda looked up again, and at her.

"Oh, I was so mistaken, Fleda!" she said, clasping her hands —

"so mistaken! — in everything; — so disappointed — in all my

hopes. And the loss of my fortune was the cause of it all."

Nay, verily! thought Fleda, but she said nothing; she hung her

head again; and Marion, after a pause, went on to question her

about an endless string of matters concerning themselves and

other people, past doings and present prospects, till little

Rolf, soothed by the uninteresting soft murmur of voices,

fairly forgot bread and butter and himself in a sound sleep,

his head resting upon Fleda.

"Here is one comfort for you, Marion," she said, looking down

at the dark eyelashes which lay on a cheek rosy and healthy as

ever seven years old knew; " he is a beautiful child, and I am

sure, a fine one."

"It is thanks to his beauty that I have ever seen home again,"

said his mother.

Fleda had no heart this evening to speak words that were not

necessary; her eyes asked Marion to explain herself.

"He was in Hyde Park one day — I had a miserable lodging not

far from it, and I used to let him go in there, because he

must go somewhere, you know — I couldn't go with him —"

"Why not?"

"Couldn't! — Oh Fleda! — I have seen changes! — He was there

one afternoon, alone, and had got into difficulty with some

bigger boys — a little fellow, you know — he stood his ground

manfully, but his strength wasn't equal to his spirit, and

they were tyrannizing over him after the fashion of boys, who

are, I do think, the ugliest creatures in creation!" said Mme.

Schwiden, not apparently reckoning her own to be of the same

gender — "and a gentleman, who was riding by, stopped and

interfered, and took him out of their hands, and then asked

him his name — struck, I suppose, with his appearance. Very

kind, wasn't it? men so seldom bother themselves about what

becomes of children. I suppose there were thousands of others

riding by at the same time."

"Very kind," Fleda said.

"When he heard what his name was, he gave his horse to his

servant, and walked home with Rolf; and the next day he sent

me a note, speaking of having known my father and mother, and

asking permission to call upon me. I never was so mortified, I

think, in my life," said Marion, after a moment's hesitation.

"Why?" said Fleda, not a little at a loss to follow out the

chain of her cousin's reasoning.

"Why, I was in such a sort of a place, you don't know, Fleda;

I was working then for a fancy storekeeper, to support myself

— living in a miserable little two rooms. If it had been a

stranger, I wouldn't have cared so much, but somebody that had

known us in different times. I hadn't a thing in the world to

answer the note upon but a half-sheet of letter paper."

Fleda's lips sought Rolf's forehead again, with a curious rush

of tears and smiles at once. Perhaps Marion had caught the

expression of her countenance, for she added, with a little

energy —

"It is nothing to be surprised at — you would have felt just

the same; for I knew by his note, the whole style of it, what

sort of a person it must be."

"My pride has been a good deal chastened," Fleda said, gently.

"I never want _mine_ to be, beyond minding everything," said

Marion; "and I don't believe yours is. I don't know why in the

world I did not refuse to see him — I had fifty minds to — but

he had won Rolf's heart, and I was a little curious, and it

was something strange to see the face of a friend, any better

one than my old landlady, so I let him come."

"Was _she_ a friend?" said Fleda.

"If she hadn't been, I should not have lived to be here; the

best soul that ever was; but still, you know, she could do

nothing for me but be as kind as she could live; this was

something different. So I let him come, and he came the next

day."

Fleda was silent, a little wondering that Marion should be so

frank with her, beyond what she had ever been in former years;

but, as she guessed, Mme. Schwiden's heart was a little opened

by the joy of finding herself at home, and the absolute

necessity of talking to somebody; and there was a further

reason, which Fleda could not judge of, in her own face and

manner. Marion needed no questions, and went on again, after

stopping a moment.

"I was so glad, in five minutes — I can't tell you, Fleda —

that I had let him come. I forgot entirely about how I looked,

and the wretched place I was in. He was all that I had

supposed, and a great deal more; but, somehow, he hadn't been

in the room three minutes before I didn't care at all for all

the things I had thought would trouble me. Isn't it strange

what a witchery some people have to make you forget everything

but themselves!"

"The reason is, I think, because that is the only thing they

forget," said Fleda, whose imagination, however, was entirely

busy with the _singular_ number.

"I shall never forget him," said Marion. "He was very kind to

me — I cannot tell how kind — though I never realized it till

afterwards; at the time, it always seemed only a sort of

elegant politeness which he could not help. I never saw so

elegant a person. He came two or three times to see me, and he

took Rolf out with him, I don't know how often, to drive; and

he sent me fruit — such fruit! and game, and flowers; and I

had not had anything of the kind, not even seen it, for so

long; I can't tell you what it was to me. He said he had known

my father and mother well when they were abroad."

"What was his name?" said Fleda, quickly.

"I don't know — he never told me — and I never could ask him.

Don't you know, there are some people you can't do anything

with, but just what they please? There wasn't the least thing

like stiffness; you never saw anybody less stiff; but I never

dreamed of asking him questions, except when he was out of

sight. Why, do you know him?" she said, suddenly.

"When you tell me who he was, I'll tell you," said Fleda,

smiling.

"Have you ever heard this story before?"

"Certainly not!"

"He is somebody that knows us very well," said Marion, "for he

asked after every one of the family in particular."

"But what had all this to do with your getting home?"

"I don't wonder you ask. The day after his last visit, came a

note, saying, that he owed a debt in my family, which it had

never been in his power to repay; that he could not give the

enclosure to my father, who would not recognise the

obligation; and that if I would permit him to place it in my

hands, I should confer a singular favour upon him."

"And what was the enclosure?"

"Five hundred pounds."

Fleda's head went down again, and tears dropped fast upon

little Rolf's shoulder.

"I suppose my pride has been a little broken, too," Marion

went on, "or I shouldn't have kept it. But then, if you saw

the person, and the whole manner of it — I don't know how I

could ever have sent it back. Literally I couldn't, though,

for I hadn't the least clue. I never saw or heard from him

afterwards."

"When was this, Marion?"

"Last spring."

"Last spring! — then what kept you so long?"

"Because of the arrival of eyes that I was afraid of. I dared

not make the least move that would show I could move. I came

off the very first packet after I was free."

"How glad you must be!" said Fleda.

"Glad!" —

"Glad of what, Mamma?" said Rolf,. whose dreams the entrance

of Barby had probably disturbed.

"Glad of bread and butter," said his mother; wake up — here it

is."

The young gentleman declared, rubbing his eyes, that he did

not want it now; but, however, Fleda contrived to dispel that

illusion, and bread and butter was found to have the same

dulcifying properties at Queechy that it owns in all the rest

of the world. Little Rolf was completely mollified after a

hearty meal, and was put with his mother to enjoy most

unbroken slumbers in Fleda's room. Fleda herself, after a look

at Hugh, crept to her aunt's bed; whither Barby very soon

despatched Mrs. Rossitur, taking in her place the arm-chair

and the watch with most invincible good-will and

determination; and sleep at last took the joys and sorrows of

that disturbed household into its kind custody.

Fleda was the first one awake, and was thinking how she should

break the last news to her aunt, when Mrs. Rossitur put her

arms round her, and, after a most affectionate look and kiss,

spoke to what she supposed had been her niece's purpose.

"You want taking care of more than I do, poor Fleda!"

"It was not for that I came," said Fleda; "I had to give up my

room to the travellers."

"Travellers!" —

A very few words more brought out the whole, and Mrs. Rossitur

sprang out of bed, and rushed to her daughter's room.

Fleda hid her face in the bed to cry — for a moment's

passionate indulgence in weeping while no one could see. But a

moment was all. There was work to do, and she must not disable

herself. She slowly got up, feeling thankful that her headache

did not announce itself with the dawn, and that she would be

able to attend to the morning affairs and the breakfast, which

was something more of a circumstance now with the new

additions to the family. More than that, she knew, from sure

signs, she would not be able to accomplish.

It was all done, and done well, though with what secret

flagging of mind and body nobody knew or suspected. The

business of the day was arranged, Barby's course made clear,

Hugh visited and smiled upon; and then Fleda set herself down

in the breakfast-room to wear out the rest of the day in

patient suffering. Her little spaniel, who seemed to

understand her languid step and faint tones, and know what was

coming, crept into her lap and looked up at her with a face of

equal truth and affection; and after a few gentle

acknowledging touches from the loved hand, laid his head on

her knees, and silently avowed his determination of abiding

her fortunes for the remainder of the day.

They had been there for some hours. Mrs. Rossitur and her

daughter were gathered in Hugh's room; whither Rolf also,

after sundry expressions of sympathy for Fleda's headache,

finding it a dull companion, had departed. Pain of body,

rising above pain of mind, had obliged, as far as possible,

even thought to be still; when a loud lap at the front door

brought the blood in a sudden flush of pain to Fleda's face.

She knew instinctively what it meant.

She heard Barby's distinct accents saying that somebody was

"not well." The other voice was more smothered. But in a

moment the door of the breakfast-room opened, and Mr. Thorn

walked in.

The intensity of the pain she was suffering effectually

precluded Fleda from discovering emotion of any kind. She

could not move. Only King lifted up his head and looked at the

intruder, who seemed shocked, and well he might. Fleda was in

her old headache position — bolt upright on the sofa, her feet

on the rung of a chair, while her hands supported her by their

grasp upon the back of it. The flush had passed away, leaving

the deadly paleness of pain, which the dark rings under her

eyes showed to be well seated.

"Miss Ringgan!" said the gentleman, coming up softly, as to

something that frightened him — "my dear Miss Fleda! I am

distressed! You are very ill. Can nothing be done to relieve

you?"

Fleda's lips rather than her voice said, "Nothing."

"I would not have come in on any account to disturb you if I

had known — I did not understand you were more than a trifle

ill."

Fleda wished he would mend his .mistake, as his understanding

certainly by this time was mended. But that did not seem to be

his conclusion of the best thing to do.

"Since I am here, can you bear to hear me say three words,

without too much pain? I do not ask you to speak."

A faint whispered "yes" gave him leave to go on. She had never

looked at him. She sat like a statue; to answer by a motion of

her head was more than could be risked.

He drew up a chair and sat down, while King looked at him with

eyes of suspicious indignation.

"I am not surprised," he said gently, "to find you suffering.

I knew how your sensibilities must feel the shock of

yesterday. I would fain have spared it you. I will spare you

all further pain on the same score, if possible. Dear Miss

Ringgan, since I am here, and time is precious, may I say one

word before I cease troubling you? I take it for granted that

you were made acquainted with the contents of my letter to

Mrs. Rossitur? — with _all_ the contents? — were you?"

Again Fleda's lips almost voicelessly gave the answer.

"Will you give me what I ventured to ask for?" said he,

gently, "the permission to work _for you?_ Do not trouble those

precious lips to speak — the answer of these fingers will be

as sure a warrant to me as all words that could be spoken,

that you do not deny my request."

He had taken one of her hands in his own. But the fingers lay

with unanswering coldness and lifelessness for a second in his

clasp, and then were drawn away, and took determinate hold of

the chair-back. Again the flush came to Fleda's cheeks,

brought by a sharp pain — oh, bodily and mental too! — and,

after a moment's pause, with a distinctness of utterance that

let him know every word, she said, —

"A generous man would not ask it, Sir."

Thorn sprang up, and several times paced the length of the

room, up and down, before he said anything more. He looked at

Fleda, but the flush was gone again, and nothing could seem

less conscious of his presence. Pain and patience were in

every line of her face, but he could read nothing more, except

a calmness as unmistakably written. Thorn gave that face

repeated glances as he walked, then stood still and read it at

leisure. Then he came to her side again, and spoke in a

different voice.

"You are so unlike anybody else," he said, "that you shall

make me unlike myself. I will do freely what I hoped to do

with the light of your smile before me. You shall hear no more

of this affair, neither you nor the world — I have the matter

perfectly in my own hands — it shall never raise a whisper

again. I will move heaven and earth rather than fail — but

there is no danger of my failing. I will try to prove myself

worthy of your esteem, even where a man is most excusable for

being selfish."

He took one of her cold hands again — Fleda could not help it

without more force than she cared to use, and, indeed, pain

would by this time almost have swallowed up other sensation if

every word and touch had not sent it ill a stronger throb to

her very finger-ends. Thorn bent his lips to her hand, twice

kissed it fervently, and then left her, much to King's

satisfaction, who thereupon resigned himself to quiet

slumbers.

His mistress knew no such relief. Excitement had dreadfully

aggravated her disorder, at a time when it was needful to

banish even thought as far as possible. Pain effectually

banished it now, and Barby, coming in a little after Mr. Thorn

had gone, found her quite unable to speak, and scarce able to

breathe, from agony. Barby's energies and fainting remedies

were again put in use, but pain reigned triumphant for hours;

and when its hard rule was at last abated, Fleda was able to

do nothing but sleep like a child for hours more.

Towards a late tea-time she was at last awake, and carrying on

a very one-sided conversation with Rolf, her own lips being

called upon for little more than a smile now and then. King,

not able to be in her lap, had curled himself up upon a piece

of his mistress's dress, and as close within the circle of her

arms as possible, where Fleda's hand and his head were on

terms of mutual satisfaction.

"I thought you wouldn't permit a dog to lie in your lap," said

Marion.

Do you remember that?" said Fleda, with a smile. "Ah, I have

grown tender-hearted, Marion, since I have known what it was

to want comfort myself. I have come to the conclusion that it

is best to let everything have all the enjoyment it can in the

circumstances. King crawled into my lap one day when I had not

spirits enough to turn him out, and he has kept the place ever

since. Little King!" —

In answer to which word of intelligence, King looked in her

face and wagged his tail, and then earnestly endeavoured to

lick all her fingers, which, however, was a piece of comfort

she would not give him.

"Fleda," said Barby, putting her head in, "I wish you'd just

step out here and tell me which cheese you'd like to have

cut."

"What a fool !" said Marion. "Let her cut them all if she

likes."

"She is no fool," said Fleda. She thought Barby's

punctiliousness, however, a little ill-timed, as she rose from

her sofa, and went into the kitchen.

"Well, you _do_ look as if you wa'n't good for nothing but to be

taken care of," said Barby. "I wouldn't have riz you up if it

hadn't been just tea-time, and I knowed you couldn't stay

quiet much longer;" and, with a look which explained her

tactics, she put into Fleda's hand a letter, directed to her

aunt.

"Philetus give it to me," she said, without a glance at

Fleda's face; "he said it was give to him by a spry little

shaver, who wa'n't a mind to tell nothin' about himself."

"Thank you, Barby!" was Fleda's most grateful return, and

summoning her aunt up stairs, she took her into her own room,

and locked the door before she gave her the letter, which

Barby's shrewdness and delicacy had taken such care should not

reach its owner in a wrong way. Fleda watched her as her eye

ran over the paper, and caught it as it fell from her fingers.

"My dear wife,

"That villain Thorn has got a handle of me which he will not

fail to use — you know it all, I suppose, by this time. It is

true that in an evil hour, long ago, when greatly pressed, I

did what I thought I should surely undo in a few days. The

time never came — I don't know why he has let it lie so long,

but he has taken it up now, and he will push it to the

extreme. There is but one thing left for me — I shall not see

you again. The rascal would never let me rest, I know, in any

spot that calls itself American ground.

"You will do better without me than with me.

"R. R."

Fleda mused over the letter for several minutes, and then

touched her aunt, who had fallen on a chair, with her head

sunk in her hands.

"What does he mean?" said Mrs. Rossitur, looking up with a

perfectly colourless face.

"To leave the country."

"Are you sure? Is that it?" said Mrs. Rossitur, rising and

looking over the words again. "He would do anything, Fleda."

"That is what he means, aunt Lucy; don't you see he says he

could not be safe anywhere in America?"

Mrs. Rossitur stood eyeing with intense eagerness, for a

minute or two, the note in her niece's hand.

"Then he is gone! now that it is all settled! — And we don't

know where — and we can't get word to him!"

Her cheek, which had a little brightened, became perfectly

white again.

"He isn't gone yet — he can't be — he cannot have left Queechy

till to-day — he will be in New York for several days yet,

probably."

"New York? — it may be Boston!"

"No, he would be more likely to go to New York — I am sure he

would — he is accustomed to it."

"We might write to both places," said poor Mrs. Rossitur. "I

will do it, and send them off at once."

"But he might not get the letters," said Fleda, thoughtfully;

"he might not dare to ask at the post-office."

His wife looked at that possibility, and then wrung her hands.

"Oh, why didn't he give us a clue?"

Fleda put an arm round her affectionately, and stood thinking;

stood trembling, might as well be said, for she was too weak

to be standing at all.

"What can we do, dear Fleda?" said Mrs. Rossitur, in great

distress, "Once out of New York, and we can get nothing to

him. If he only knew that there is no need, and that it is all

over!"

"We must do everything, aunt Lucy," said Fleda, thoughtfully;

"and I hope we shall succeed yet. We will write, but I think

the most hopeful other thing we could do, would be to put

advertisements in the newspapers — he would be very likely to

see them."

"Advertisements! But you couldn't — what would you put in?"

"Something that would catch his eye, and nobody's else; that

is easy, aunt Lucy."

"But there is nobody to put them in, Fleda; you said uncle

Orrin was going to Boston?"

"He wasn't going there till next week, but he was to be in

Philadelphia a few days before that; the letter might miss

him."

"Mr. Plumfield! — couldn't he?"

But Fleda shook her head.

"Wouldn't do, aunt Lucy: he would do all he could, but he

don't know New York, nor the papers; he wouldn't know how to

manage it; he don't know uncle Rolf; I shouldn't like to trust

it to him."

"Who, then? There isn't a creature we could ask."

Fleda laid her cheek to her poor aunt's, and said, —

"I'll do it."

"But you must be in New York to do it, dear Fleda — you can't

do it here."

"I will go to New York."

"When?"

"To-morrow morning."

"But, dear Fleda, you can't go alone! I can't let you, and

you're not fit to go at all, my poor child!" and between

conflicting feelings Mrs. Rossitur sat down and wept without

measure.

"Listen, aunt Lucy," said Fleda, pressing a hand on her

shoulder; "listen, and don't cry so. I'll go and make all

right, if efforts can do it. I am not going alone — I'll get

Seth to go with me, and I can sleep in the cars, and rest

nicely in the steamboat. I shall feel happy and well when I

know that I am leaving you easier, and doing all that can be

done to bring uncle Rolf home. Leave me to manage, and don't

say anything to Marion — it is one blessed thing that she need

not know anything about all this. I shall feel better than if

I were at home, and had trusted this business to any other

hands."

"You are the blessing of my life," said Mrs. Rossitur.

"Cheer up, and come down and let us have some tea," said

Fleda, kissing her; "I feel as if that would make me up a

little; and then I'll write the letters. I sha'n't want but

very little baggage; there'll be nothing to pack up."

Philetus was sent up the hill with a note to Seth Plumfield,

and brought home a favourable answer. Fleda thought, as she

went to rest, that it was well the mind's strength could

sometimes act independently of its servant, the body, — hers

felt so very shattered and unsubstantial.