With an impatient gesture she waved him off, and going alone to her

daughter, threw her arms around her neck, sobbing convulsively. There

was an awkward silence, and then Mr. Gilbert, thinking he was called

upon for an explanation, arose, and addressing himself mostly to Mr.

Sherwood, said, "I suppose what has transpired here to-night seems

rather strange, and will undoubtedly furnish the neighborhood with

gossip for more than a week, but they are welcome to canvass, whatever

I do. I can't help it if I was born with an unusual degree of pride,

neither can I help feeling mortified, as I many times did, at my

family, particularly after she," glancing at his mother, "married the

man whose name she bears."

Here Mrs. Hudson lifted up her head, and coming to Mr. Gilbert's side,

stood proudly erect, while he continued: "She would tell you he was a

good man, but I hated him, and swore never to enter the house while he

lived. I went away, took care of myself, grew rich, married into one

of the first families in Hartford, and--and--"

Here he paused, and his mother, continuing the sentence, added, "and

grew ashamed of your own mother, who many a time went without the

comforts of life that you might be educated. You were always a proud,

wayward boy, William, but never did I think you would do as you have

done. You have treated me with utter neglect, never allowing your wife

to see me, and when I once proposed visiting you in Hartford you asked

your brother, now dead, to dissuade me from it, if possible, for you

could not introduce me to your acquaintances as your mother. Never do

you speak of me to your children, who, if they know they have a

grandmother, little dream that she lives within a mile of their

father's dwelling. One of them I have seen, and my heart yearned

toward her as it did toward you when first I took you in my arms, my

first-born baby; and yet, William, I thank Heaven there is in her

sweet face no trace of her father's features. This may sound harsh,

unmotherly, but greatly have I been sinned against, and now, just as a

brighter day is dawning upon me, why have you come here? Say, William,

why?"

By the time Mrs. Hudson had finished, nearly all in the room were

weeping. Mr. Gilbert, however, seemed perfectly indifferent, and with

the most provoking coolness replied, "I came to see my fair sister

married--to congratulate her upon an alliance which will bring us upon

a more equal footing."

"You greatly mistake me, sir," said Mr. Sherwood, turning haughtily

toward Mr. Gilbert, at the same time drawing Mabel nearer to him; "you

greatly mistake me, if, after what I have heard, you think I would

wish for your acquaintance. If my wife, when poor and obscure, was not

worthy of your attention, _you_ certainly are not now worthy of hers,

and it is my request that our intercourse should end here."

Mr. Gilbert muttered something about "extenuating circumstances," and

"the whole not being told," but no one paid him any attention; and at

last, snatching up his hat, he precipitately left the house, I sending

after him a hearty good riddance, and mentally hoping he would measure

his length in the ditch which he must pass on his way across Hemlock

Swamp.

The next morning Mr. and Mrs. Sherwood departed on their bridal tour,

intending on their return to take their mother with them to the city.

Several times during their absence I saw Mr. Gilbert, either going to

or returning from the "haunted house," and I readily guessed he was

trying to talk his mother over, for nothing could be more mortifying

than to be cut by the Sherwoods, who were among the first in Hartford.

Afterward, greatly to my satisfaction, I heard that though,

motherlike, Mrs. Hudson had forgiven her son, Mr. Sherwood ever

treated him with a cool haughtiness, which effectually kept him at a

distance.

Once, indeed, at Mabel's earnest request, Mrs. Gilbert and Nellie were

invited to visit her, and as the former was too feeble to accomplish

the journey, Nellie went alone, staying a long time, and torturing her

sister on her return with a glowing account of the elegantly-furnished

house, of which Adaline had once hoped to be the proud mistress.

For several years after Mabel's departure from Rice Corner nothing

especial occurred in the Gilbert family, except the marriage of

Adaline with a rich bachelor, who must have been many years older than

her father, for he colored his whiskers, wore false teeth and a wig,

besides having, as Nellie declared, a wooden leg! For the truth of

this last I will not vouch, as Nellie's assertion was only founded

upon the fact of her having once looked through the keyhole of his

door, and espied standing by his bed something which looked like a

cork leg, but which might have been a boot! What Adaline saw in him to

like I could never guess. I suppose, however, that she only looked at

his rich gilding, which covered a multitude of defects.

Immediately after the wedding the happy pair started for a two-years'

tour in Europe, where the youthful bride so enraged her bald-headed

lord by flirting with a mustached Frenchman that in a fit of anger the

old man picked up his goods, chattels, and wife, and returned to New

York within three months of his leaving it!

CHAPTER VI.

POOR, POOR NELLIE.

And now, in the closing chapter of this brief sketch of the Gilberts,

I come to the saddest part--the fate of poor Nellie, the dearest

playmate my childhood ever knew, she whom the lapse of years ripened

into a graceful, beautiful girl, loved by everybody, even by Tom

Jenkins, whose boyish affection had grown with his growth and

strengthened with his strength.

And now Nellie was the affianced bride of William Raymond, who had

replaced the little cornelian with the engagement ring. At last the

rumor reached Tom Jenkins, awaking him from the sweetest dream he had

ever known. He could not ask Nellie if it were true, so he came to me;

and when I saw how he grew pale and trembled, I felt that Nellie was

not altogether blameless. But he breathed no word of censure against

her; and when, a year or two afterward, I saw her given to William

Raymond, I knew that the love of two hearts was hers; the one to

cherish and watch over her, the other to love and worship, silently,

secretly, as a miser worships his hidden treasure.

* * * * *

The bridal was over. The farewells were over, and Nellie had

gone--gone from the home whose sunlight she had made, and which she

had left forever. Sadly the pale, sick mother wept, and mourned her

absence, listening in vain for the light footfall and soft, ringing

voice she would never hear again.

Three weeks had passed away, and then, far and near the papers teemed

with accounts of the horrible Norwalk catastrophe, which desolated

many a home, and wrung from many a heart its choicest treasure. Side

by side they found them--Nellie and her husband--the light of her

brown eyes quenched forever, and the pulses of his heart still in

death!

I was present when they told the poor invalid of her loss, and even

now I seem to hear the bitter, wailing cry which broke from her white

lips, as she begged them to unsay what they had said, and tell her

Nellie was not dead--that she would come back again.

It could not be. Nellie would never return; and in six weeks' time the

broken-hearted mother was at rest with her child.

THE THANKSGIVING PARTY AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.

CHAPTER I.

NIGHT BEFORE THANKSGIVING.

"Oh, I do hope it will be pleasant to-morrow," said Lizzie Dayton, as

on the night before Thanksgiving she stood at the parlor window,

watching a dense mass of clouds, behind which the sun had lately gone

to his nightly rest.

"I hope so, too," said Lucy, coming forward and joining her sister;

"but then it isn't likely it will be. There has been a big circle

around the moon these three nights, and besides that, I never knew it

fail to storm when I was particularly anxious that it should be

pleasant;" and the indignant beauty pouted very becomingly at the

insult so frequently offered by that most capricious of all things,

the weather.

"Thee shouldn't talk so, Lucy," said Grandma Dayton, who was of Quaker

descent, at the same time holding up between herself and the window

the long stocking which she was knitting. "Doesn't thee know that when

thee is finding fault with the weather thee finds fault with Him who

made the weather?"

"I do wish, grandma," answered Lucy, "that I could ever say anything

which did not furnish you with a text from which to preach me a

sermon."

Grandma did not reply directly to this rather uncivil speech, but,

she continued: "I don't see how the weather will hurt thee, if it's

the party thee is thinking of, for Mr. Graham's is only ten rods or so

from here.

"I'm not afraid I can't go," answered Lucy; "but you know as well as I

that if the wind blows enough to put out a candle, father is so

old-maidish as to think Lizzie and I must wear thick stockings and

dresses, and I shouldn't wonder if he insisted on flannel wrappers!"

"Well," answered grandma, "I think myself it will be very imprudent

for Lizzie, in her present state of health, to expose her neck and

arms. Thy poor marm died with consumption when she wasn't much older

than thee is. Let me see--she was twenty-three the day she died, and

thee was twenty-two in Sep--"

"For heaven's sake, grandmother," interrupted Lucy, "don't continually

remind me of my age, and tell me how much younger mother was when she

was married. I can't help it if I'm twenty-two, and not married or

engaged either. But I will be both before I am a year older."

So saying, she quitted the apartment, and repaired to her own room.

Ere we follow her thither we will introduce both her and her sister to

our readers. Lucy and Lizzie were the only children of Mr. Dayton, a

wealthy, intelligent, and naturally social man, the early death of

whose idolized, beautiful wife had thrown a deep gloom over his

spirits, which time could never entirely dispel. It was now seventeen

years since, a lonely, desolate widower, at the dusky twilight hour he

had drawn closely to his bosom his motherless children, and thought

that but for them he would gladly have lain down by her whose home was

now in heaven. His acquaintances spoke lightly of his grief, saying he

would soon get over it and marry again. They were mistaken, for he

remained single, his widowed mother supplying to his daughters the

place of their lost parent.

In one thing was Mr. Dayton rather peculiar. Owing to the death of

his wife, he had always been in the habit of dictating to his

daughters in various small matters, such as dress, and so forth, about

which fathers seldom trouble themselves. And even now he seemed to

forget that they were children no longer, and often interfered in

their plans in a way exceedingly annoying to Lucy, the eldest of the

girls, who was now twenty-two and was as proud, selfish, and

self-willed as she was handsome and accomplished. Old maids she held

in great abhorrence, and her great object in life was to secure a

wealthy and distinguished husband. Hitherto she had been unsuccessful,

for the right one had not yet appeared. Now, however, a new star was

dawning on her horizon, in the person of Hugh St. Leon, of New

Orleans. His fame had preceded him, and half the village of S---- were

ready to do homage to the proud millionaire, who would make his first

appearance at the Thanksgiving party. This, then, was the reason why

Lucy felt so anxious to be becomingly dressed, for she had resolved

upon a conquest, and she felt sure of success. She knew she was

beautiful. Her companions told her so, her mirror told her so, and her

sweet sister Lizzie told her so more then twenty times a day.

Lizzie was four years younger than her sister, and wholly unlike her,

both in personal appearance and disposition. She had from childhood

evinced a predisposition to the disease which had consigned her mother

to an early grave. On her fair, soft cheek the rose of health had

never bloomed, and in the light which shone from her clear hazel eye,

her fond father read but too clearly "passing away--passing away."

If there was in Lucy Dayton's selfish nature any redeeming quality, it

was that she possessed for her frail young sister a love amounting

almost to adoration. Years before, she had trembled as she thought how

soon the time might come when for her sister's merry voice she would

listen in vain; but as month after month and year after year went by,

and still among them Lizzie stayed, Lucy forgot her fears, and

dreamed not that ere long one chair would be vacant--that Lizzie would

be gone.

Although so much younger than her sister, Lizzie, for more than a

year, had been betrothed to Harry Graham, whom she had known from

childhood. Now, between herself and him the broad Atlantic rolled, nor

would he return until the coming autumn, when, with her father's

consent, Lizzie would be all his own.

Alas! alas! ere autumn came

How many hearts were weeping

For her who 'neath the willow's shade

Lay sweetly, calmly sleeping.

CHAPTER II.

THANKSGIVING DAY.

Slowly the feeble light of a stormy morning broke over the village of

S----. Lucy's fears had been verified, for Thanksgiving's dawn was

ushered in by a fierce, driving storm. Thickly from the blackened

clouds the feathery flakes had fallen until the earth far and near was

covered by a mass of white, untrodden snow.

Lucy had been awake for a long time, listening to the sad song of the

wind, which swept howling by the casement. At length, with an

impatient frown at the snow which covered the window pane, she turned

on her pillow, and tried again to sleep. Her slumbers, however, were

soon disturbed by her sister, who arose, and putting aside the

curtain, looked out upon the storm, saying half-aloud, "Oh, I am

sorry, for Lucy will be disappointed."

"I disappointed!" repeated Lucy; "now, Lizzie, why not own it, and say

you are as much provoked at the weather as I am, and wish this horrid

storm had stayed in the icy caves of Greenland?"

"Because," answered Lizzie, "I really care but little about the party.

You know Harry will not be there, and besides that, the old, ugly pain

has come back to my side this morning;" and even as she spoke a low,

hacking cough fell on Lucy's ear like the echo of a distant knell.

Lucy raised herself up, and leaning on her elbow looked earnestly at

her sister, and fancied ('twas not all fancy), that her cheeks had

grown thinner and her brow whiter within a few weeks. Lizzie proceeded

with her toilet, although she was twice obliged to stop on account of

"the ugly pain," as she called it.

"Hurry, sister," said Lucy, "and you will feel better when you get to

the warm parlor."

Lizzie thought so, too, and she accelerated her movements as much as

possible. Just as she was leaving the room Lucy detained her a moment

by passing her arm caressingly around her. Lizzie well knew that some

favor was wanted, and she said, "Well, what is it, Lucy? What do you

wish me to give you?"

"Nothing, nothing," answered Lucy; "but do not say anything to father

about the pain in your side, for fear he will keep you at home, and,

worse than all, make me stay, too."

Lizzie gave the required promise, and then descended to the breakfast

parlor, where she found her grandmother, and was soon joined by her

sister and father. After the usual salutation of the morning the

latter said "There is every prospect of our being alone to-day, for

the snow is at least a foot and a half deep, and is drifting every

moment."

"But, father," said Lucy, "that will not prevent Lizzie and me from

going to the party to-night."

"You mean, if I choose to let you go, of course," answered Mr. Dayton.

"Why," quickly returned Lucy, "you cannot think of keeping us at home.

It is only distant a few rods, and we will wrap up well."

"I have no objections to your going," replied Mr. Dayton, "provided

you dress suitably for such a night."

"Oh, father," said Lucy, "you cannot be capricious enough to wish us

to be bundled up in bags."

"I care but little what dress you wear," answered Mr. Dayton, "if it

has what I consider necessary appendages, viz., sleeves and waist."

The tears glittered in Lucy's bright eyes as she said, "Our party

dresses are at Miss Carson's, and she is to send them home this

morning."

"Wear them, then," answered Mr. Dayton, "provided they possess the

qualities I spoke of, for without those you cannot go out on such a

night as this will be."

Lucy knew that her dress was minus the sleeves, and that her father

would consider the waist a mere apology for one, so she burst into

tears and said, rather angrily, "I had rather stay at home than go

rigged out as you would like to have me."

"Very well; you can stay at home," was Mr. Dayton's quiet reply.

In a few moments he left the room, and then Lucy's wrath burst forth

unrestrainedly. She called her father all sorts of names, such as "an

old granny--an old fidget," and finished up her list with what she

thought the most odious appellation of all, "an old maid."

In the midst of her tirade the door bell rang. It was the boy from

Miss Carson's, and he brought the party dresses. Lucy's thoughts now

took another channel, and while admiring her beautiful embroidered

muslin and rich white satin skirt, she forgot that she could not wear

it. Grandma was certainly unfortunate in her choice of words, this

morning, for when Lucy for the twentieth time asked if her dress were

not a perfect beauty, the old Quakeress answered:

"Why, it looks very decent, but it can do thee no good, for thy pa has

said thee cannot wear it; besides, the holy writ reads, 'Let your

adorning--'"

Here Lucy stopped her ears, exclaiming, "I do believe, grandma, you

were manufactured from a chapter in the Bible, for you throw your holy

writ into my face on all occasions."

The good lady adjusted her spectacles, and replied, "How thee talks! I

never thought of throwing my Bible at thee, Lucy!"

Grandma had understood her literally.

Nothing more was said of the party until dinner time, although there

was a determined look in Lucy's flashing eye, which puzzled Lizzie not

a little. Owing to the storm, Mr. Dayton's country cousins did not, as

was their usual custom, come into town to dine with him, and for this

Lucy was thankful, for she thought nothing could be more disagreeable

than to be compelled to sit all day and ask Cousin Peter how much his

fatting hogs weighed; or his wife, Elizabeth Betsey, how many teeth

the baby had got; or, worse than all the rest, if the old maid, Cousin

Berintha, were present, to be obliged to be asked at least three

times, whether it's twenty-four or twenty-five she'd be next

September, and on saying it was only twenty-three, have her word

disputed and the family Bible brought in question. Even then Miss

Berintha would demur, until she had taken the Bible to the window, and

squinted to see if the year had not been scratched out and rewritten!

Then closing the book with a profound sigh she would say, "I never,

now! it beats all how much older you look!"

All these annoyances Lucy was spared on this day, for neither Cousin

Peter, Elizabeth Betsey, or Miss Berintha made their appearance. At

the dinner table Mr. Dayton remarked quietly to his daughters, "I

believe you have given up attending the party!"

"Oh, no, father," said Lucy, "we are going, Lizzie and I."

"And what about your dress?" asked Mr. Dayton.

Lucy bit her lip as she replied, "Why, of course, we must dress to

suit you, or stay at home."

Lizzie looked quickly at her sister, as if asking how long since she

had come to this conclusion; but Lucy's face was calm and unruffled,

betraying no secrets, although her tongue did when, after dinner, she

found herself alone with Lizzie in their dressing-room. A long

conversation followed, in which Lucy seemed trying to persuade Lizzie

to do something wrong. Possessed of the stronger mind, Lucy's

influence over her sister was great, and sometimes a bad one, but

never before had she proposed an open act of disobedience toward their

father, and Lizzie constantly replied, "No, no, Lucy, I can't do it;

besides, I really think I ought not to go, for that pain in my side is

no better."

"Nonsense, Lizzie," said Lucy. "If you are going to be as whimsical

as Miss Berintha you had better begin at once to dose yourself with

burdock or catnip tea." Then, again recurring to the dress, she

continued, "Father did not say we must not wear them after we got

there. I shall take mine, anyway, and I wish you would do the same;

and then, if he ever knows it, he will not be as much displeased when

he finds that you, too, are guilty."

After a time, Lizzie was persuaded, but her happiness for that day was

destroyed, and when at tea-time her father asked if she felt quite

well, she could scarcely keep from bursting into tears. Lucy, however,

came to her relief, and said she was feeling blue because Harry would

not be present! Just before the hour for the party Lucy descended to

the parlor, where her father was reading, in order, as she said, to

let him see whether her dress were fussy enough to suit him. He

approved her taste, and after asking if Lizzie, too, were dressed in

the same manner, resumed his paper. Ere long the covered sleigh stood

at the door, and in a few moments Lucy and Lizzie were in Anna

Graham's dressing-room, undergoing the process of a second toilet.

Nothing could be more beautiful than was Lucy Dayton, after party

dress, bracelets, curls, and flowers had all been adjusted. She

probably thought so, too, for a smile of satisfaction curled her lip

as she saw the radiant vision reflected by the mirror. Her bright eye

flashed, and her heart swelled with pride as she thought, "Yes,

there's no help for it, I shall win him sure;" then turning to Anna

Graham, she asked, "Is that Mr. St. Leon to be here to-night?"

"Yes, you know he is," answered Anna, "and I pity him, for I see you

are all equipped for an attack; but," continued she, glancing at

Lizzie, "were not little Lizzie's heart so hedged up by brother Hal, I

should say your chance was small."

Lucy looked at her sister, and a chill struck her heart as she

observed a spasm of pain which for an instant contracted Lizzie's

fair, sweet face. Anna noticed it, too, and springing toward her,

said, "What is it, Lizzie? are you ill?"

"No," answered Lizzie, laying her hand on her side; "nothing but a

sharp pain. It will soon be better;" but while she spoke her teeth

almost chattered with the cold.

Oh, Lizzie, Lizzie!

For a short time, now, we will leave the young ladies in Miss Graham's

dressing-room, and transport our readers to another part of the

village.

CHAPTER III.

ADA HARCOURT.

In a small and neat, but scantily furnished chamber, a poor widow was

preparing her only child, Ada, for the party. The plain, white muslin

dress of two years old had been washed and ironed so carefully that

Ada said it looked just as well as new; but then everything looked

well on Ada Harcourt, who was highly gifted, both with intellect and

beauty. After her dress was arranged she went to the table for her old

white gloves, the cleaning of which had cost her much trouble, for her

mother did not seem to be at all interested in them, so Ada did as

well as she could. As she was about to put them on her mother returned

from a drawer, into the recesses of which she had been diving, and

from which she brought a paper carefully folded.

"Here, Ada," said she, "you need not wear those gloves; see here"--and

she held up a pair of handsome mitts, a fine linen handkerchief, and a

neat little gold pin.

"Oh, mother, mother!" said Ada joyfully, "where did you get them?"

"I know," answered Mrs. Harcourt, "and that is enough."

After a moment's thought Ada knew, too. The little hoard of money her

mother had laid by for a warm winter shawl had been spent for her.

From Ada's lustrous blue eyes the tears were dropping as, twining her

arm around her mother's neck, she said, "Naughty, naughty mother!" but

there was a knock at the door. The sleigh which Anna Graham had

promised to send for Ada had come; so dashing away her tears, and

adjusting her new mitts and pin, she was soon warmly wrapped up, and

on her way to Mr. Graham's.

"In the name of the people, who is that?" said Lucy Dayton, as Anna

Graham entered the dressing-room, accompanied by a bundle of something

securely shielded from the cold.

The removal of the hood soon showed Lucy who it was, and with an

exclamation of surprise she turned inquiringly to a young lady who was

standing near. To her look the young lady replied, "A freak of Anna's,

I suppose. She thinks a great deal of those Harcourts."

An impatient "pshaw!" burst from Lucy's lips, accompanied with the

words, "I wonder who she thinks wants to associate with that

plebeian!"

The words, the look, and the tone caught Ada's eye and ear, and

instantly blighted her happiness. In the joy and surprise of receiving

an invitation to the party it had never occurred to her that she might

be slighted there, and she was not prepared for Lucy's unkind remark.

For an instant the tears moistened her long silken eyelashes, and a

deeper glow mantled her usually bright cheek; but this only increased

her beauty, which tended to increase Lucy's vexation. Lucy knew that

in her own circle there was none to dispute her claim; but she knew,

too, that in a low-roofed house, in the outskirts of the town, there

dwelt a poor sewing woman, whose only daughter was famed for her

wondrous beauty. Lucy had frequently seen Ada in the streets, but

never before had she met her, and she now determined to treat her with

the utmost disdain.

Not so was Lizzie affected by the presence of "the plebeian." Mrs.

Harcourt had done plain sewing for her father, and Lizzie had

frequently called there for the work. In this way an acquaintance had

been commenced between herself and Ada which had ripened into

friendship. Lizzie, too, had heard the remark of her sister, and,

anxious to atone as far as possible for the unkindness, she went up to

Ada, expressed her pleasure at seeing her there, and then, as the

young ladies were about descending to the parlors, she offered her

arm, saying, "I will accompany you down, but, I have no doubt scores

of beaus will quickly take you off my hands."

The parlors were nearly filled when our party reached them, and Ada

half-tremblingly clung to Lizzie's arm, while, with queen-like grace

and dignity, Lucy Dayton moved through the crowded drawing-room. Her

quick eye had scanned each gentleman, but her search was fruitless.

_He_ was not there, and during the next half-hour she listened rather

impatiently to the tide of flattery poured into her ear by some one of

her admirers. Suddenly there was a stir at the door, and Mr. St. Leon

was announced. He was a tall, fine-looking man, probably about

twenty-five years of age. The expression of his face was remarkably

pleasing, and such as would lead an entire stranger to trust him, sure

that his confidence would not be misplaced. His manners were highly

polished, and in his dignified, self-possessed bearing, there was

something which some called pride, but in all the wide world there was

not a more generous heart than that of Hugh St. Leon.

Lucy for a moment watched him narrowly, and then her feelings became

perfectly calm, for she felt sure that now, for the first time, she

looked upon her future husband! Ere long Anna Graham approached,

accompanied by the gentleman, whom she introduced, and then turning,

left them alone. Lucy would have given almost anything to have known

whether St. Leon had requested an introduction, but no means of

information were at hand, so she bent all her energies to be as

agreeable as possible to the handsome stranger at her side, who each

moment seemed more and more pleased with her.

Meantime, in another part of the room Lizzie and Ada were the center

of attraction. The same kindness which prompted Anna Graham to invite

Ada was careful to see that she did not feel neglected. For this

purpose Anna's brother, Charlie, a youth of sixteen, had been

instructed to pay her particular attention. This he was not unwilling

to do, for he knew no reason why she should not be treated politely,

even if she were a sewing woman's daughter. Others of the company,

observing how attentive Charlie and Lizzie were to the beautiful girl,

felt disposed to treat her graciously, so that to her the evening was

passing very happily.

When St. Leon entered the room the hum of voices prevented Ada from

hearing his name; neither was she aware of his presence until he had

been full fifteen minutes conversing with Lucy. Then her attention was

directed toward him by Lizzie. For a moment Ada gazed as if

spellbound; then a dizziness crept over her, and she nervously grasped

the little plain gold ring which encircled the third finger of her

left hand!

Turning to Lizzie, who, fortunately, had not noticed her agitation,

she said, "What did you say his name was?"

"St. Leon, from New Orleans," replied Lizzie.

"Then I'm not mistaken," Ada said inaudibly.

At that moment Anna Graham approached, and whispered something to Ada,

who gave a startled look, saying, "Oh, no, Miss Anna; you would not

have me make myself ridiculous."

"Certainly not," answered Anna; "neither will you do so, for some of

your songs you sing most beautifully. Do come; I wish to surprise my

friends."

Ada consented rather unwillingly, and Anna led her toward the

music-room, followed by a dozen or more, all of whom wondered what a

sewing woman's daughter knew about music. On their way to the piano

they passed near St. Leon and Lucy, the former of whom started as his

eye fell upon Ada.

"I did not think there was another such face in the world," said he,

apparently to himself; then turning to Lucy, he asked who that

beautiful girl was.

"Which one?" asked Lucy; "there are many beauties here to-night."

"I mean the one with the white muslin, and dark auburn curls," said

St. Leon.

Lucy's brow darkened but she answered, "That? oh, that is Ada

Harcourt. Her mother is a poor sewing woman. I never met Ada before,

and cannot conceive how she came to be here; but then the Grahams are

peculiar in their notions, and I suppose it was a whim of Anna's."

Without knowing it, St. Leon had advanced some steps toward the door

through which Ada had disappeared. Lucy followed him, vexed beyond

measure that the despised Ada Harcourt should even have attracted his

attention.

"Is she as accomplished as handsome?" asked he.

"Why, of course not," answered Lucy, with a forced laugh. "Poverty,

ignorance, and vulgarity go together, usually, I believe."

St. Leon gave her a rapid, searching glance, in which disappointment

was mingled, but before he could reply there was the sound of music.

It was a sweet, bird-like voice which floated through the rooms, and

the song it sang was a favorite one of St. Leon's, who was

passionately fond of music.

"Let us go nearer," said he to Lucy, who, nothing loath, accompanied

him, for she, too, was anxious to know who it was that thus chained

each listener into silence.

St. Leon at length got a sight of the singer, and said with evident

pleasure, "Why, it's Miss Harcourt!"

"Miss Harcourt! Ada Harcourt!" exclaimed Lucy. "Impossible! Why, her

mother daily toils for the bread they eat!"

But if St. Leon heard her, he answered not. His senses were locked in

those strains of music which recalled memories of something, he

scarcely knew what, and Lucy found herself standing alone, her heart

swelling with anger toward Ada, who from that time was her hated

rival. The music ceased, but scores of voices were loud in their call

for another song; and again Ada sang, but this time there was in the

tones of her voice a thrilling power, for which those who listened

could not account. To Ada the atmosphere about her seemed charmed,

for though she never for a moment raised her eyes, she well knew who

it was that leaned upon the piano and looked intently upon her. Again

the song was finished, and then at St. Leon's request he was

introduced to the singer, who returned his salutation with perfect

self-possession, although her heart beat quickly, as she hoped, yet

half-feared, that that he would recognize her. But he did not, and as

they passed together into the next room he wondered much why the hand

which lay upon his arm trembled so violently, while Ada said to

herself, "'Tis not strange he doesn't know me by this name." Whether

St. Leon knew her or not, there seemed about her some strong

attraction, which kept him at her side the remainder of the evening,

greatly to Lucy Dayton's mortification and displeasure.

"I'll be revenged on her yet," she muttered. "The upstart! I wonder

where she learned to play."

This last sentence was said aloud; and Lizzie, who was standing near,

replied, "Her father was once wealthy and Ada had the best of

teachers. Since she has lived in S---- she has occasionally practised

on Anna's piano."

"I think I'd keep a piano for paupers to play on," was Lucy's

contemptuous reply, uttered with no small degree of bitterness, for at

that moment St. Leon approached her with the object of her dislike

leaning upon his arm.

Ada introduced Lizzie to St. Leon, who offered her his other arm, and

the three kept together until Lizzie, uttering a low, sharp cry of

pain leaned heavily as if for support against St. Leon. In an instant

Lucy was at her side; but to all her anxious inquiries Lizzie could

only reply, as she clasped her thin, white hand over her side, "The

pain--the pain--take me home."

"Our sleigh has not yet come," said Lucy. "Oh, what shall we do?"

"Mine is here, and at your command, Miss Dayton," said St. Leon.

Lucy thanked him, and then proceeded to prepare Lizzie, who, chilled

through and through by the exposure of her chest and arms, had borne

the racking pain in her side as long as possible, and now lay upon the

sofa as helpless as an infant. When all was ready St. Leon lifted her

in his arms, and bearing her to the sleigh, stepped lightly in with

her, and took his seat.

"It is hardly necessary for you to accompany us home," said Lucy,

overjoyed beyond measure, though, to find that he was going.

"Allow me to be the judge," answered St. Leon, and other than that,

not a word was spoken until they reached Mr. Dayton's door. Then,

carefully carrying Lizzie into the house, he was about to leave, when

Lucy detained him to thank him for his kindness, adding that she hoped

to see him again.

"Certainly, I shall call to-morrow," was his reply, as he sprang down

the steps, and entering his sleigh, was driven back to Mr. Graham's.

He found the company about dispersing, and meeting Ada in the hall,

asked to accompany her home. Ada's pride for a moment hesitated, and

then she answered in the affirmative. When St. Leon had seated her in

his sleigh he turned back, on pretext of looking for something, but in

reality to ask Anna Graham where Ada lived, as he did not wish to

question her on the subject.

When they were nearly home St. Leon said, "Miss Harcourt, have you

always lived in S----?"

"We have lived here but two years," answered Ada; and St. Leon

continued:

"I cannot rid myself of the impression that somewhere I have met you

before."

"Indeed," said Ada, "when and where?"

But his reply was prevented by the sleigh's stopping at Mrs.

Harcourt's door. As St. Leon bade Ada good night he whispered, "I

shall see you again."

Ada made no answer, but going into the house where her mother was

waiting for her, she exclaimed, "Oh, mother, mother, I've seen

him!--he was there!--he brought me home!"

"Seen whom?" asked Mrs. Harcourt, alarmed at her daughter's agitation.

"Why, Hugh St. Leon!" replied Ada.

"St. Leon in town!" repeated Mrs. Harcourt, her eye lighting up with

joy.

'Twas only for a moment, however, for the remembrance of what she was

when she knew St. Leon, and what she now was, recurred to her, and she

said calmly, "I thought you had forgotten that childish fancy."

"Forgotten!" said Ada bitterly; and then as she recalled the unkind

remark of Lucy Dayton she burst into a passionate fit of weeping.

After a time Mrs. Harcourt succeeded in soothing her, and then drew

from her all the particulars of the party, St Leon and all. When Ada

had finished her mother kissed her fair cheek, saying, "I fancy St.

Leon thinks as much of little Ada now as he did six years ago;" but

Ada could not think so, though that night, in dreams, she was again

happy in her old home in the distant city, while at her side was St.

Leon, who even then was dreaming of a childish face which had haunted

him six long years.

CHAPTER IV.

LUCY.

We left Lizzie lying upon the sofa, where St. Leon had laid her. After

he was gone Lucy proposed calling their father and sending for a

physician, but Lizzie objected, saying she should be better when she

got warm. During the remainder of that night Lucy sat by her sister's

bedside, while each cry of pain which came from Lizzie's lips fell

heavily upon her heart, for conscience accused her of being the cause

of all this suffering. At length the weary night watches were

finished, but the morning light showed more distinctly Lizzie's white

brow and burning cheeks. She had taken a severe cold, which had

settled upon her lungs, and now she was paying the penalty of her

first act of disobedience.

Mr. Dayton had sent for the old family physician, who understood

Lizzie's constitution perfectly. He shook his head as he said, "How

came she by such a cold? Did she go to the party?"

"Yes, sir," replied Mr. Dayton.

"And not half-dressed, I'll warrant," said the gruff old doctor.

Lucy turned pale as her father answered, quickly and truthfully as he

thought, "No, sir, she was properly dressed."

Lizzie heard it, and though speaking was painful, she said, "Forgive

me, father, forgive me; I disobeyed you. I wore the dress you said I

must not wear!"

An exclamation of surprise escaped Mr. Dayton, who, glancing at Lucy,

read in her guilty face what Lizzie generously would not betray.

"Oh, Lucy, Lucy," said he, "how could you do so?"

Lucy could only reply through her tears. She was sincerely sorry that

by her means Lizzie had been brought into danger; but when the doctor

said that by careful management she might soon be better, all feelings

of regret vanished, and she again began to think of St. Leon and his

promise to call. A look at herself in the mirror showed her that she

was looking pale and jaded, and she half-hoped he would not come.

However, as the day wore on she grew nervous as she thought he

possibly might be spending his time with the hated Ada. But he was

not, and at about four o'clock there was a ring at the door. From an

upper window Lucy saw St. Leon, and when Bridget came up for her, she

asked if the parlor was well darkened.

"An' sure it's darker nor a pocket," said Bridget, "an' he couldn't

see a haporth was ye twice as sorry lookin'."

So bathing her face in cologne, in order to force a glow, Lucy

descended to the parlor, which she found to be as dark as Bridget had

said it was. St. Leon received her very kindly, for the devotion she

had the night before shown for her sister had partially

counterbalanced the spitefulness he had observed in her manner when

speaking of Ada at the party. Notwithstanding Bridget's precautions,

he saw, too, that she was pale and spiritless, but he attributed it to

her anxiety for her sister, and this raised her in his estimation.

Lucy divined his thoughts, and in her efforts to appear amiable and

agreeable, a half-hour passed quickly away. At the end of that time

she unfortunately asked, in a very sneering tone, "how long since he

had seen the sewing girl?"

"If you mean Miss Harcourt," said St. Leon coolly, "I've not seen her

since I left her last night at her mother's door."

"You must have been in danger of upsetting if you attempted to turn

round in Mrs. Harcourt's spacious yard," was Lucy's next remark.

"I did not attempt it," said St. Leon. "I carried Miss Ada in my arms

from the street to the door."

The tone and manner were changed. Lucy knew it, and it exasperated

her to say something more, but she was prevented by St. Leon's rising

to go. As Lucy accompanied him to the door she asked how long he

intended to remain in S----.

"I leave this evening, in the cars for New Haven," said he.

"This evening?" repeated Lucy in a disappointed tone, "and will you

not return?"

"Yes, if the business on which I go is successful," answered St. Leon.

"A lady in question, perchance," remarked Lucy playfully.

"You interpret the truth accurately," said St. Leon, and with a cold,

polite bow he was gone.

"Why was he going to New Haven?" This was the thought which now

tortured Lucy. He had confessed that a lady was concerned in his

going, but who was she, and what was she to him? Anyway, there was a

comfort in knowing that Ada Harcourt had nothing to do with it!

Mistaken Lucy! Ada Harcourt had everything to do with it!

CHAPTER V.

UNCLE ISRAEL.

The lamps were lighted in the cars, and on through the valley of the

Connecticut the New Haven train was speeding its way. In one corner of

the car sat St. Leon, closely wrapped in cloak and thoughts, the

latter of which occasionally suggested to him the possibility that his

was a "Tomfool's" errand; "but then," thought he, "no one will know it

if I fail, and if I do not, it is worth the trouble."

When the train reached Hartford a number of passengers entered, all

bound for New Haven. Among them was a comical-looking, middle-aged

man, whom St. Leon instantly recognized as a person whom he had known

when in college in New Haven, and whom the students familiarly called

"Uncle Israel." The recognition was mutual, for Uncle Israel prided

himself on never forgetting a person he had once seen. In a few

moments St. Leon was overwhelming him with scores of questions, but

Uncle Israel was a genuine Yankee, and never felt happier than when

engaged in giving or guessing information.

At length St. Leon asked, "Does Ada Linwood fulfil the promise of

beauty which she gave as a child?"

"Ada who?" said Uncle Israel.

"Linwood," repeated St. Leon, arguing from the jog in Uncle Israel's

memory that all was not right.

"Do you mean the daughter of Harcourt Linwood, he that was said to be

so rich?"

"The same," returned St. Leon. "Where are they?"

Uncle Israel settled himself with the air of a man who has a long

story on hand, and intends to tell it at his leisure. Filling his

mouth with an enormous quid of tobacco, he commenced: "Better than

four years ago Linwood smashed up, smack and clean; lost everything he

had, and the rest had to be sold at vandue. But what was worse than

all, seein' he was a fine feller in the main, and I guess didn't mean

to fail, he took sick, and in about a month died."

"And what became of his widow and orphan?" asked St. Leon eagerly.

"Why, it wasn't nateral," said Uncle Israel, "that they should keep

the same company they did before, and they's too plaguy stuck up to

keep any other; so they moved out of town and supported themselves by

takin' in sewin' or ironin', I forgot which."

"But where are they now?" asked St. Leon.

Uncle Israel looked at him for a moment, and then replied, "The Lord

knows, I suppose, but Israel don't."

"Did they suffer at all?" asked St. Leon.

"Not as long as I stuck to them, but they sarved me real mean,"

answered Uncle Israel.

"In what way?"

"Why, you see," said Uncle Israel, "I don't know why, but somehow I

never thought of matrimony till I got a glimpse of Ada at her father's

vandue. To be sure, I'd seen her before, but then she was mighty big

feelin', and I couldn't ha' touched her with a hoe-handle, but now

'twas different. I bought their house. I was rich and they was poor."

Involuntarily St. Leon clinched his fist, as Uncle Israel continued:

"I seen to getting them a place in the country and then tended to 'em

generally for more than six months, when I one day hinted to Mrs.

Linwood that I would like to be her son-in-law. Christopher! how quick

her back was up, and she gave me to understand that I was lookin' too

high! 'Twas no go with Ada, and after awhile I proposed to the mother.

Then you ought to seen her! She didn't exactly turn me out o' door but

she coolly told me I wasn't wanted there. But I stuck to her and kept

kind o' offerin' myself, till at last they cut stick and cleared out,

and I couldn't find them, high nor low. I bunted for more than a year,

and at last found them in Hartford. Thinkin' maybe they had come to I

proposed again, and kept hangin' on till they gave me the slip again;

and now I don't know where they be, but I guess they've changed their

name."

At this point the cars stopped until the upward train should pass

them, and St. Leon, rising, bade his companion good evening, saying,

"he had changed his mind and should return to Hartford on the other

train."

CHAPTER VI.

EXPLANATION.

Six years prior to the commencement of our story New Haven boasted not

a better or wealthier citizen than Harcourt Linwood, of whose

subsequent failure and death we have heard from Uncle Israel. The

great beauty of his only child, Ada, then a girl of nearly thirteen,

was the subject of frequent comment among the circle in which he

moved. No pains were spared with her education, and many were the

conjectures as to what she would be when time had matured her mind and

beauty.

Hugh St. Leon, of New Orleans, then nineteen years of age, and a

student at Yale, had frequently met Ada at the house of his sister,

Mrs. Durant, whose eldest daughter, Jenny, was about her own age. The

uncommon beauty of the child greatly interested the young Southerner

and once, in speaking of his future prospects to his sister, he

playfully remarked, "Suppose I wait for Ada Linwood."

"You cannot do better," was the reply, and the conversation

terminated.

The next evening there was to be a child's party at the house of Mrs.

Durant, and as Hugh was leaving the house Jenny bounded after him,

saying, "Oh, Uncle Hugh, you'll come to-morrow night, won't you? No

matter if you are a grown-up man, in the junior class, trying to raise

some whiskers! You will be a sort of restraint, and keep us from

getting too rude. Besides, we are going to have tableaux, and I want

you to act the part of bridegroom in one of the scenes."

"Who is to be the bride?" asked Hugh.

"Ada Linwood. Now I know you'll come, won't you?"

"I'll see," was Hugh's answer, as he walked away.

Jenny well knew that "I'll see" meant "yes," and tying on her bonnet,

she hastened off to tell Ada that Uncle Hugh would be present, and

would act the part of bridegroom in the scene where she was to be

bride.

"What! that big man?" said Ada. "How funny!"

Before seven the next evening Mrs. Durant's parlors were filled, for

the guests were not old enough or fashionable enough to delay making

their appearance until morning. Hugh was the last to arrive, for which

Jenny scolded him soundly, saying they were all ready for tableaus.

"But come, now," said she, "and let me introduce you to the bride."

In ten minutes more the curtain rose, and Hugh St. Leon appeared with

Ada on his arm, standing before a gentleman in clerical robes, who

seemed performing the marriage ceremony. Placing a ring on Ada's third

finger, St. Leon, when the whole was finished, took advantage of his

new relationship, and kissed the lips of the bride. Amid a storm of

applause the curtain dropped, and as he led the blushing Ada away he

bent down, and pointing to the ring, whispered, "Wear it until some

future day, when, by replacing it, I shall make you really my little

wife."

The words were few and lightly spoken, but they touched the heart of

the young Ada, awakening within her thoughts and feelings of which she

never before had dreamed. Frequently, after that, she met St. Leon,

who sometimes teased her about being his wife; but when he saw how

painfully embarrassed she seemed on such occasions, he desisted.

The next year he was graduated, and the same day on which he received

the highest honors of his class was long remembered with heartfelt

sorrow, for ere the city clocks tolled the hour of midnight he stood

with his orphaned niece, Jenny, weeping over the inanimate form of his

sister, Mrs. Durant, who had died suddenly in a fit of apoplexy. Mr.

Durant had been dead some years, and as Jenny had now no relatives in

New Haven, she accompanied her uncle to his Southern home. Long and

passionately she wept on Ada's bosom as she bade her farewell,

promising never to forget her, but to write her three pages of

foolscap every week. To do Jenny justice, we must say that this

promise was faithfully kept for a whole month, and then, with

thousands of its sisterhood, it disappeared into the vale of broken

promises and resolutions.

She still wrote occasionally, and at the end of each epistle there was

always a long postscript from Hugh, which Ada prized almost as much as

she did Jenny's whole letter; and when at last matters changed, the

letter becoming Hugh's and the postscript Jenny's, she made no

objection, even if she felt any. At the time of her father's failure

and death, a long unanswered letter was lying in her portfolio, which

was entirely forgotten until weeks after, when, in the home which

Uncle Israel so _disinterestedly_ helped them to procure, she and her

mother were sewing for the food which they ate. Then a dozen times was

an answer commenced, blotted with tears, and finally destroyed, until

Ada, burying her face in her mother's lap, sobbed out, "Oh, mother, I

cannot do it. I cannot write to tell them how poor we are, for I

remember that Jenny was proud, and laughed at the schoolgirls whose

fathers were not rich."

So the letter was never answered, and as St. Leon about that time

started on a tour through Europe, he knew nothing of their change of

circumstances. On his way home he had in Paris met with Harry Graham,

who had been his classmate, and who now won from him a promise that on

his return to America he would visit his parents, in S----. He did so,

and there, as we have seen, met with Ada Harcourt, whose face, voice,

and manner reminded him so strangely of the Ada he had known years

before, and whom he had never forgotten.

As the reader will have supposed, the sewing-woman whose daughter

Lucy Dayton so heartily despised was none other than Mrs. Linwood, of

New Haven, who had taken her husband's first name in order to avoid

the persecutions of Uncle Israel. The day following the party St. Leon

spent in making inquiries concerning Mrs. Harcourt, and the

information thus obtained determined him to start at once for New

Haven, in order to ascertain if his suspicions are correct.

The result of his journey we already know. Still he resolved not to

make himself known immediately, but to wait until he satisfied himself

that Ada was as good as beautiful. And then?

A few more chapters will tell us what then.

CHAPTER VII.

A MANEUVER.

The gray twilight of a cold December afternoon was creeping over the

village of S----, when Ada Harcourt left her seat by the window,

where, the livelong day, she had sat stitching till her heart was sick

and her eyes were dim. On the faded calico lounge near the fire lay

Mrs. Harcourt, who for several days had been unable to work on account

of a severe cold which seemed to have settled in her face and eyes.

"There," said Ada, as she brushed from her gingham apron the bits of

thread and shreds of cotton, "there, it is done at last, and now

before it is quite dark I will take it home."

"No, not to-night," said Mrs. Harcourt; "to-morrow will do just as

well."

"But, mother," answered Ada, "you know Mrs. Dayton always pays as soon

as the work is delivered, and what I have finished will come to two

dollars and a half, which will last a long time, and we shall not be

obliged to take any from the sum laid by to pay our rent; besides, you

have had nothing nourishing for a long time; so let me go, and on my

way home I will buy you something nice for supper."

Mrs. Harcourt said no more, but the tears fell from her aching eyes as

she thought how hard her daughter was obliged to labor, now that she

was unable to assist her. In a moment Ada was in the street. The

little alley in which she lived was soon traversed, and she about

turning into Main Street, when rapid footsteps approached her, and St.

Leon appeared at her side, saying, "Good evening, Miss Harcourt; allow

me to relieve you of that bundle."

And before she could prevent it he took from her hands the package,

while he continued, "May I ask how far you are walking to-night?"

Ada hesitated a moment, but quickly forcing down her pride, she

answered, "Only as far as Mr. Dayton's. I am carrying home some work."

"Indeed!" said he, "then I can have your company all the way, for I am

going to inquire after Lizzie."

They soon reached their destination, and their ring at the door was

not, as usual, answered by Bridget but by Lucy herself, whose sweet

smile, as she greeted St. Leon, changed into an angry scowl when she

recognized his companion.

"Ada Harcourt!" said she, and Ada, blushing scarlet, began: "I have

brought--" but she was interrupted by St. Leon, who handed Lucy the

bundle, saying:

"Here is your work, Miss Dayton, and I hope it will suit you, for we

took a great deal of pains with it."

Lucy tried to smile as she took the work, and then opening the parlor

door she with one hand motioned St. Leon to enter, while with the

other she held the hall door ajar, as if for Ada to depart. A tear

trembled on Ada's long eyelashes, as she timidly asked;

"Can I see your grandmother?"

"Mrs. Dayton, I presume you mean," said Lucy haughtily.

Ada bowed and Lucy continued: "She is not at home just at present."

"Perhaps, then, you can pay me for the work," said Ada.

The scowl on Lucy's face grew darker as she replied, "I have nothing

to do with grandma's hired help. Come to-morrow and she will be here.

How horridly cold this open door makes the hall!"

Ada thought of the empty cupboard at home, and of her pale, sick

mother. Love for her conquered all other feeling, and in a choking

voice she said, "Oh, Miss Dayton, if you will pay it you will confer a

great favor on me, for mother is sick, and we need it so much!"

There was a movement in the parlor. St. Leon was approaching, and with

an impatient gesture Lucy opened the opposite door, saying to Ada,

"Come in here."

The tone was so angry that, under any other circumstances, Ada would

have gone away. Now, however, she entered, and Lucy, taking out her

purse, said, "How much is the sum about which you make so much fuss?"

"Two dollars and a half," answered Ada.

"Two dollars and a half," repeated Lucy, and then, as a tear fell from

Ada's eye, she added contemptuously, "It is a small amount to cry

about."

Ada made no reply, and was about leaving the room when Lucy detained

her, by saying, "Pray, did you ask Mr. St. Leon to accompany you here

and bring your bundle?"

"Miss Dayton, you know better--you know I did not," answered Ada, as

the fire of insulted pride flashed from her dark blue eyes, which

became almost black, while her cheek grew pale as marble.

Instantly Lucy's manner changed, and in a softened tone she said, "I

am glad to know that you did not; and now, as a friend, I warn you

against receiving any marks of favor from St. Leon."

"What do you mean?" asked Ada, and Lucy continued:

"You have sense enough to know that when a man of St. Leon's standing

shows any preference for a girl in your circumstances it can be from

no good design."

"You judge him wrongfully--you do not know him," said Ada; and Lucy

answered:

"Pray, where did you learn so much about him?"

Ada only answered by rising to go.

"Here, this way," said Lucy, and leading her through an enter passage

to the back door, she added, "I do it to save your good name. St.

Leon is undoubtedly waiting for you, and I would not trust my own

sister with him, were she a poor sewing girl!"

The door was shut in Ada's face, and Lucy returned to the parlor,

where she found her father entertaining her visitor. Seating herself

on a crimson ottoman, she prepared to do the agreeable, when St. Leon,

rising, said, "Excuse my short call, for I must be going. Where have

you left Miss Harcourt?"

"I left her at the door," answered Lucy, "and she is probably halfway

to 'Dirt Alley' by this time, so do not be in haste."

But he was in haste, for when he looked on the fast-gathering darkness

without, and thought of the by streets and lonely alleys through which

Ada must pass on her way home, he felt uneasy, and biding Miss Dayton

good night, he hurried away.

Meantime, Ada had procured the articles she wished for, and proceeded

home, with a heart which would have been light as a bird had not the

remembrance of Lucy's insulting language rung in her ears. Mrs.

Harcourt saw that all was not right, but she forbore making any

inquiries until supper was over. Then Ada, bringing a stool to her

mother's side, and laying her head on her lap, told everything which

had transpired between herself, St. Leon, and Lucy.

Scarcely was her story finished when there was a rap at the door, and

St. Leon himself entered the room. He had failed in overtaking Ada,

and anxious to know of her safe return, had determined to call. The

recognition between himself and Mrs. Harcourt was mutual, but for

reasons of their own, neither chose to make it apparent, and Ada

introduced him to her mother as she would have done any stranger. St.

Leon possessed in an unusual degree the art of making himself

agreeable, and in the animated conversation which ensued Mrs. Harcourt

forgot that she was poor--forgot her aching eyes; while Ada forgot

everything save that St, Leon was present, and that she was again

listening to his voice, which charmed her now even more than in the

olden time.

During the evening St. Leon managed in various ways to draw Ada out on

all the prominent topics of the day, and he felt pleased to find that

amid all her poverty she did not neglect the cultivation of her mind.

A part of each day was devoted to study, which Mrs. Harcourt, who was

a fine scholar, superintended.

It was fast merging toward the hour when phantoms walk abroad ere St.

Leon remembered that he must go. As he was leaving he said to Ada, "I

have a niece, Jenny, about your age, whom I think you would like very

much."

Oh, how Ada longed to ask for her old playmate, but a look from her

mother kept her silent, and in a moment St. Leon was gone.

CHAPTER VIII.

COUSIN BERINTHA AND LUCY'S PARTY.

Cousin Berintha, whom Lucy Dayton so much disliked and dreaded, was a

cousin of Mr. Dayton, and was a prim, matter-of-fact maiden of fifty,

or thereabout. That she was still in a state of single blessedness was

partially her own fault, for at twenty she was engaged to the son of a

wealthy farmer who lived near her father. But, alas! ere the wedding

day arrived, there came to the neighborhood a young lady from Boston,

in whose presence the beauty of the country girl grew dim, as do the

stars in the rays of the morning sun.

Berintha had a plain face, but a strong heart, and when she saw that

Amy Holbrook was preferred, with steady hand and unflinching nerve,

she wrote to her recreant lover that he was free. And now Amy, to whom

the false knight turned, took it into her capricious head that she

would not marry a farmer--she had always fancied a physician; and if

young B---- would win her, he must first secure the title of M.D. He

complied with her request, and one week from the day on which he

received his diploma Berintha read, with a slightly blanched cheek,

the notice of his marriage with the Boston beauty. Three years from

that day she read the announcement of Amy's death, and in two years

more she refused the doctor's offer to give her a home by his lonely

fireside, and a place in his widowed heart. All this had the effect of

making Berintha rather cross, but she seldom manifested her spite

toward any one except Lucy, whom she seemed to take peculiar delight

in teasing, and whose treatment of herself was not such as would

warrant much kindness in return.

Lizzie she had always loved, and when Harry Graham went away it was

on Berintha's lap that the young girl sobbed out her grief, wondering,

when with her tears Berintha's were mingled, how one apparently so

cold and passionless could sympathize with her. To no one had Berintha

ever confided the story of her early love. Mr. Dayton was a schoolboy

then, and as but little was said of it at the time, it faded entirely

from memory; and when Lucy called her a "crabbed old maid," she knew

not of the disappointment which had clouded every joy and imbittered a

whole lifetime.

At the first intelligence of Lizzie's illness Berintha came, and

though her prescriptions of every kind of herb tea in the known world

were rather numerous, and her doses of the same were rather large, and

though her stiff cap, sharp nose, and curious little eyes, which saw

everything, were exceedingly annoying to Lucy, she proved herself an

invaluable nurse, warming up old Dr. Benton's heart into a glow of

admiration of her wonderful skill! Hour after hour she sat by Lizzie,

bathing her burning brow, or smoothing her tumbled pillow. Night after

night she kept her tireless watch, treading softly around the

sick-room, and lowering her loud, harsh voice to a whisper, lest she

should disturb the uneasy slumbers of the sick girl, who, under her

skilful nursing, gradually grew better.

"Was there ever such a dear, good cousin," said Lizzie, one day, when

a nervous headache had been coaxed away by what Berintha called her

"mesmeric passes;" and "Was there ever such a horrid bore," said Lucy,

on the same day, when Cousin Berintha "thought she saw a white hair in

Lucy's raven curls!" adding, by way of consolation, "It wouldn't be

anything strange, for I began to grow gray before I was as old as

you."

"And that accounts tor your head being just the color of wool,"

angrily retorted Lucy, little dreaming of the bitter tears and

sleepless nights which had early blanched her cousin's hair to its

present whiteness.

For several winters Lucy had been in the habit of giving a large

party, and as she had heard that St. Leon was soon going South, she

felt anxious to have it take place ere he left town. But what should

she do with Berintha, who showed no indications of leaving, though

Lizzie was much better?

"I declare," said she to herself, "that woman is enough to worry the

life out of me. I'll speak to Liz about it this very day."

Accordingly, that afternoon, when alone with her sister, she said,

"Lizzie, is it absolutely necessary that Berintha should stay here any

longer, to tuck you up, and feed you sage tea through a straw?"

Lizzie looked inquiringly at her sister, who continued: "To tell you

the truth, I'm tired of having her around, and must manage some way to

get rid of her before next week, for I mean to have a party Thursday

night."

Lizzie's eyes now opened in astonishment, as she exclaimed, "A party!

oh, Lucy, wait until I get well."

"You'll be able by that time to come down-stairs in your crimson

morning-gown, which becomes you so well," answered Lucy.

"But father's away," rejoined Lizzie; to which Lucy replied:

"So much the better, for now I shan't be obliged to ask any old

things. I told him I meant to have it while he was gone, for you know

he hates parties. But what shall I do with Berintha?"

"Why, what possible harm can she do?" asked Lizzie. "She would enjoy

it very much, I know; for in spite of her oddities, she likes

society."

"Well, suppose she does; nobody wants her round, prating about white

hairs and mercy knows what. Come, you tell her you don't need her

services any longer--that's a good girl."

There was a look of mischief in Lizzie's eye, and a merry smile on her

lip, as she said, "Why, don't you know that father has invited her to

spend the winter, and she has accepted the invitation?"

"Invited her to spend the winter!" repeated Lucy, while the tears

glittered in her bright eyes. "What does he mean?"

"Why," answered Lizzie, "it is very lonely at Cousin John's, and his

wife makes more of a servant of Berintha than she does a companion, so

father, out of pity, asked her to stay with us, and she showed her

good taste by accepting."

"I'll hang myself in the woodshed before spring--see if I don't!" and

burying her face in her hands, Lucy wept aloud, while Lizzie, lying

back upon her pillow, laughed immoderately at her sister's distress.

"There's a good deal to laugh at, I think," said Lucy, more angrily

than she usually addressed her sister. "If you have any pity, do

devise some means of getting rid of her, for a time, at least."

"Well, then," answered Lizzie, "she wants to go home for a few days,

in order to make some necessary preparations for staying with us, and

perhaps you can coax her to go now, though I for one would like to

have her stay. Everybody knows she is your cousin, and no one will

think less of you for having her here."

"But I won't do it," said Lucy, "and that settles it. Your plan is a

good one, and I'll get her off--see if I don't!"

The next day, which was Saturday, Lucy was unusually kind to her

cousin, giving her a collar, offering to fix her cap, and doing

numerous other little things, which greatly astonished Berintha. At

last, when dinner was over, she said, "Come, cousin, what do you say

to a sleigh ride this afternoon? I haven't been down to Elizabeth

Betsey's in a good while, so suppose we go to-day."

Berintha was taken by surprise, but after a moment she said just what

Lucy hoped she would say, viz., that she was wanting to go home for a

few days, and if Lizzie were only well enough, she would go now.

"Oh, she is a great deal better," said Lucy, "and you can leave her as

well as not. Dr. Benton says I am almost as good a nurse as you and I

will take good care of her--besides, I really think you need rest; so

go, if you wish to, and next Saturday I will come round after you."

Accordingly, Berintha, who suspected nothing, was coaxed into going

home, and when at three o'clock the sleigh was said to be ready, she

kissed Lizzie good-by, and taking her seat by the side of Lucy, was

driven rapidly toward her brother's house.

* * * * *

"There! haven't I managed it capitally!" exclaimed Lucy, as she

reentered her sister's room after her ride; "but the bother of it is,

I've promised to go round next Saturday, and bring not only Berintha,

but Elizabeth Betsey, and her twins! Won't it be horrible! However,

the party'll be over, so I don't care."

Cousin Berintha being gone, there was no longer any reason why the

party should be kept a secret, and before nightfall every servant in

the house was discussing it, Bridget saying: "Faith, an' I thought it

was mighty good she was gettin' with that woman."

Mrs. Dayton was highly indignant at the trick which she plainly saw

had been put upon Berintha, but Lucy only replied, "that she wished it

were as easy a matter to get rid of grandma!"

On Monday cards of invitation to the number of one hundred and fifty

were issued, and when Lizzie, in looking them over, asked why Ada

Harcourt was left out, Lucy replied, that "she guessed she wasn't

going to insult her guests by inviting a sewing girl with them. Anna

Graham could do so, but nobody was going to imitate her."

"Invite her, then, for my sake, and in my name," pleaded Lizzie, but

Lucy only replied:

"I shall do no such thing;" and thus the matter was settled.

Amid the hurry and preparation for the party, days glided rapidly

away, and Thursday morning came, bright, beautiful, and balmy, almost,

as an autumnal day.

"Isn't this delightful!" said Lucy, as she stepped out upon the

piazza, and felt the warm southern breeze upon her cheek. "It's a

wonder, though," she continued, "that Madam Nature didn't conjure up

an awful storm for my benefit, as she usually does!"

Before night she had occasion to change her mind concerning the day.

Dinner was over, and she in Lizzie's room was combing out her long

curls, and trying the effect of wearing them entirely behind her ears.

Suddenly there was the sound of sleigh bells, which came nearer, until

they stopped before the door. Lucy flew to the window, and in tones of

intense anger and surprise, exclaimed, "Now, heaven defend us! here is

Cousin John's old lumber sleigh and rackabone horse, with Berintha and

a hair trunk, a red trunk, two bandboxes, a carpet-bag, a box full of

herbs, and a pillowcase full of stockings. What does it all mean?"

She soon found out what it all meant, for Berintha entered the room in

high spirits. Kissing Lizzie, she next advanced toward Lucy, saying,

"You didn't expect me, I know; but this morning was so warm and

thawing that John said he knew the sleighing would all be gone by

Saturday, so I concluded to come to-day."

Lucy was too angry to reply, and rushing from the room, she closed the

door after her, with a force which fairly made the windows rattle.

Berintha looked inquiringly at Lizzie, who felt inadequate to an

explanation; so Berintha knew nothing of the matter until she

descended to the kitchen, and there learned the whole. Now, if Lucy

had treated her cousin politely and good-naturedly, she would have

saved herself much annoyance, but on the contrary, she told her that

she was neither expected nor wanted there; that parties were never

intended for "such old things;" and that now she was there, she hoped

she would stay in her own room, unless she should happen to be wanted

to wait on the table!

This speech, of course, exasperated Berintha, but she made no reply,

although there was on her face a look of quiet determination, which

Lucy mistook for tacit acquiescence in her proposal.

Five--six--seven--eight--struck the little brass clock, and no one had

come except old Dr. Benton, who, being a widower and an intimate

friend of the family, was invited, as Lucy said, for the purpose of

beauing grandma! Lizzie, in crimson double-gown, and soft, warm shawl,

was reclining on the sofa in the parlor, the old doctor muttering

about carelessness, heated rooms, late hours, etc. Grandma, in rich

black silk and plain Quaker cap, was hovering near her favorite child,

asking continually if she were too hot, or too cold or too tired,

while Lucy, in white muslin dress and flowing curls, flitted hither

and thither, fretting at the servants, or ordering grandma, and

occasionally tapping her sister's pale cheek, to see if she could not

coax some color into it.

"You'll live to see it whiter still," said the doctor, who was

indignant at finding his patient down-stairs.

And where all this time was Berintha? The doctor asked this question,

and Lucy asked this question, while Lizzie replied, that "she was in

her room."

"And I hope to goodness she'll stay there," said Lucy.

Dr. Benton's gray eyes fastened upon the amiable young lady, who, by

way of explanation, proceeded to relate her maneuvers for keeping "the

old maid" from the party.

We believe we have omitted to say that Lucy had some well-founded

hopes of being one day, together with her sister, heiress of Dr.

Benton's property, which was considerable. He was a widower, and had

no relatives. He was also very intimate with Mr. Dayton's family,

always evincing a great partiality for Lucy and Lizzie, and had more

than once hinted at the probable disposal of his wealth. Of course

Lucy, in his presence, was all amiability, and though he was usually

very far-sighted, he but partially understood her real character.

Something, however, in her remarks concerning Berintha displeased him.

Lucy saw it, but before she had time for any thought on the subject

the door-bell rang, and a dozen or more of guests entered.

The parlors now began to fill rapidly. Ere long St. Leon came, and

after paying his compliments to Lucy, he took his station between her

and the sofa, on which Lizzie sat. So delighted was Lucy to have him

thus near that she forgot Berintha, until that lady herself appeared

in the room, bowing to those she knew, and seating herself on the

sofa, very near St. Leon. The angry blood rushed in torrents to Lucy's

face, and St. Leon, who saw something was wrong, endeavored to divert

her mind by asking her various questions.

At last he said, "I do not see Miss Harcourt. Where is she?"

"She is not expected," answered Lucy carelessly.

"Ah!" said St. Leon; and Berintha, touching his arm, rejoined:

"Of course you could not think Ada Harcourt would be invited here!"

"Indeed! Why not?" asked St. Leon, and Berintha continued:

"To be sure, Ada is handsome, and Ada is accomplished, but then Ada is

poor, and consequently can't come!"

"But I see no reason why poverty should debar her from good society,"

said St. Leon; and Berintha, with an exultant glance at Lucy, who, if

possible, would have paralyzed her tongue, replied:

"Why, if Ada were present, she might rival somebody in somebody's good

opinion. Wasn't that what you said, Cousin Lucy? Please correct me, if

I get wrong."

Lucy frowned angrily, but made no reply, for Berintha had quoted her

very words. After a moment's pause she proceeded: "Yes, Ada is poor;

so though she can come to the front door with a gentleman, she cannot

go out that way, but must be led to a side door or back door; which

was it, Cousin Lucy?"

"I don't know what you are talking about," answered Lucy; and

Berintha, in evident surprise, exclaimed:

"Why, don't you remember when Ada came here with a gentleman--let me

see, who was it?--well, no matter who 'twas--she came with a

gentleman--he was ushered into the parlor, while you took her into a

side room, then into a side passage, and out at the side door, kindly

telling her to beware of the gentleman in the parlor, who could want

nothing good of sewing girls!"

"You are very entertaining to-night," said Lucy; to which Berintha

replied:

"You did not think I could be so agreeable, did you, when you asked me

to keep out of sight this evening, and said that such old fudges as

grandma and I would appear much better in our rooms, taking snuff, and

nodding at each other over our knitting work?"

Lucy looked so distressed that Lizzie pitied her, and touching

Berintha she said, "Please don't talk any more."

At that moment supper was announced, and after it was over St. Leon

departed, notwithstanding Lucy's urgent request that he would remain

longer. As the street door closed after him she felt that she would

gladly have seen every other guest depart also. A moody fit came on,

and the party would have been voted a failure had it not been for the

timely interference of Dr. Benton and Berintha. Together they sought

out any who seemed neglected, entertaining them to the best of their

ability, and leaving with every one the impression that they were the

best-natured couple in the world. At eleven o'clock, Lizzie, wearied

out, repaired to her chamber. Her departure was the signal for others,

and before one o'clock the last good night was said, the doors locked,

the silver gathered up, the tired servants dismissed, and Lucy, in her

sister's room, was giving vent to her wrath against Berintha, the

party, St. Leon, and all.

Scolding, however, could do her no good, and ere long, throwing

herself undressed upon a lounge she fell asleep, and dreamed that

grandma was married to the doctor, that Berintha had become her

stepmother, and, worse than all, that Ada Harcourt was Mrs. St. Leon.

CHAPTER IX.

A WEDDING AT ST. LUKE'S.

The day but one following the party, as Lucy was doing some shopping

down street she stepped for a moment into her dressmaker's, Miss

Carson's, where she found three or four of her companions, all eagerly

discussing what seemed to be quite an interesting topic. As Lucy

entered, one of them turning toward her said; "Oh, isn't it strange?

Or haven't you heard?"

"Heard what?" asked Lucy; and her companion replied:

"Why, Ada Harcourt is going to be married. Miss Carson is making her

the most beautiful traveling dress, with silk hat to match--"

"Besides three or four elegant silk dresses," chimed in another.

"And the most charming morning-gown you ever saw--apple green, and

dark green, striped--and lined with pink silk," rejoined a third.

By this time Lucy had sunk into the nearest chair. The truth had

flashed upon her, as it probably has upon you; but as she did not wish

to betray her real emotions she forced a little bitter laugh, and

said, "St. Leon, I suppose, is the bridegroom."

"Yes; who told you?" asked her companion.

"Oh, I've seen it all along," answered Lucy carelessly. "He called

with her once at our house!"

"But you didn't invite her to your party," said mischievous Bessie

Lee, who loved dearly to tease Lucy Dayton. "You didn't invite her to

your party, and so he left early, and I dare say went straight to Mrs.

Harcourt's and proposed, if he hadn't done so before. Now, don't you

wish you'd been more polite to Ada? They say he's got a cousin South,

as rich and handsome as he is, and if you'd only behaved as you

should, who knows what might have happened!"

Lucy deigned Bessie no reply, and turning to another young lady,

asked, "When is the wedding to be?"

"Next Thursday morning, in the church," was the answer; and Bessie Lee

again interposed, saying, "Come, Lucy, I don't believe you have ever

returned Ada's call, and as I am going to see her, and inquire all

about that Cousin Frank, suppose you accompany me, and learn the

particulars of the wedding."

"Thank you," said Lucy; "I don't care enough about it to take that

trouble;" and soon rising she left the shop.

If Lucy manifested so much indifference, we wot of some bright eyes

and eager ears which are willing to know the particulars, so we will

give them as follows: When St. Leon left Mr. Dayton's it was ten

o'clock, but notwithstanding the lateness of the hour he started for

the small brown house on "Dirt Alley," where dwelt the sewing woman

and her daughter, who were both busy on some work which they wished to

finish that night. Ada had stopped for a moment to replenish the fire

when a knock at the door startled her. Opening it she saw St. Leon,

and in much surprise said, "Why, I supposed you were at the party."

"So I have been," said he; "but I grew weary, and left for a more

congenial atmosphere;" then advancing toward Mrs. Harcourt, he took

her hand, saying, "Mrs. Linwood, allow me to address you by your right

name this evening."

We draw a veil over the explanation which followed--over the

fifty-nine questions asked by Ada concerning Jenny--and over the _one_

question asked by St. Leon, the answer to which resulted in the

purchase of all those dresses at Miss Carson's and the well-founded

rumor that on Thursday morning a wedding would take place at St.

Luke's church.

Poor Lucy! how disconsolate she felt! St. Leon was passing from her

grasp, and there was no help. On her way home she three times heard of

the wedding, and of Ada's real name and former position in life, and

each time her wrath waxed warmer and warmer. Fortunate was it for

Berintha and grandma that neither made her appearance until tea-time,

for Lucy was in just the state when an explosive storm would surely

have followed any remark addressed to her!

The next day was the Sabbath, and as Lucy entered the church, the

first object which met her eye was St. Leon, seated in the sewing

woman's pew, and Ada _tolerably_ though not _very_ near him! "How

disgusting!" she hissed between her teeth, as she entered her own

richly-cushioned seat, and opened her velvet-bound prayer book.

Precious little of the sermon heard she that day, for, turn which way

she would, she still saw in fancy the sweet young face of her rival;

and it took but a slight stretch of imagination to bring to view a

costly house in the far-off "Sunny South," a troop of servants, a

handsome, noble husband, and the hated Ada the happy mistress of them

all! Before church was out Lucy was really sick, and when at home in

her room she did not refuse the bowl of herb tea which Berintha kindly

brought her, saying "it had cured her when she felt just so."

The morning of the wedding came, and though Lucy had determined not to

be present, yet as the hour approached she felt how utterly impossible

it would be for her to stay away; and when at half-past eight the

doors were opened she was among the first who entered the church,

which in a short time was filled. Nine rang from the old clock in the

belfry, and then up the broad aisle came the bridal party, consisting

of Mr. and Mrs. Graham, Charlie and Anna, Mrs. Harcourt, or Mrs.

Linwood as we must now call her, St. Leon and Ada.

"Was there ever a more beautiful bride?" whispered Bessie Lee; but

Lucy made no answer, and as soon as the ceremony was concluded she

hurried home, feeling almost in need of some more catnip tea!

In the eleven o'clock train St. Leon with his bride and her mother

started for New Haven, where they spent a delightful week, and then

returned to S----. A few days were passed at the house of Mr. Graham,

and then they departed for their southern home. As we shall not again

have occasion to speak of them in this story we will here say that the

following summer they came North, together with Jenny and Cousin

Frank, the latter of whom was so much pleased with the rosy cheeks,

laughing eyes, and playful manners of Bessie Lee that when he returned

home he coaxed her to accompany him; and again was there a wedding in

St. Luke's, and again did Miss Carson make the bridal outfit, wishing

that all New Orleans gentlemen would come to S---- for their wives.

CHAPTER X.

A SURPRISE.

"Reuben," said Grandma Dayton to her son one evening after she had

listened to the reading of a political article for which she did not

care one fig, "Reuben, does thee suppose Dr. Benton makes a charge

every time he calls?"

"I don't know," said Mr. Dayton; "what made you ask that question?"

"Because," answered grandma--and her knitting needles rattled loud

enough to be heard in the next room--"because, I think he calls mighty

often, considering that Lizzie neither gets better nor worse; and I

think, too, that he and Berintha have a good many private talks!"

The paper dropped from Mr. Dayton's hand, and "What can you mean?"

dropped from his lips.

"Why," resumed grandma, "every time he comes he manages to see

Berintha alone; and hain't thee noticed that she has colored her hair

lately, and left off caps?"

"Yes; and she looks fifteen years younger for it; but what of that?"

Grandma, whose remarks had all been preparatory to the mighty secret

she was about to divulge, coughed, and then informed her son that

Berintha was going to be married, and wished to have the wedding

there.

"Berintha and the doctor! Good!" exclaimed Mr. Dayton. "To be sure,

I'll give her a wedding, and a wedding dress, too."

Here grandma left the room, and after reporting her success to

Berintha, she sought her granddaughters, and communicated to them the

expected event. When Lucy learned of her cousin's intended marriage

she was nearly as much surprised and provoked as she had been when

first she heard of Ada's.

Turning to Lizzie she said, "It's too bad! for of course we shall have

to give up all hopes of the doctor's money."

"And perhaps thee'll be the only old maid in the family, after all,"

suggested grandma, who knew Lucy's weak point, and sometimes loved to

touch it.

"And if I am," retorted Lucy angrily, "I hope I shall have sense

enough to mind my own business, and not interfere with that of my

grandchildren!"

Grandma made no answer, but secretly she felt some conscientious

scruples with regard to Lucy's grandchildren! As for Berintha she

seemed entirely changed, and flitted about the house in a manner which

caused Lucy to call her "an old fool, trying to ape sixteen." With a

change of feelings her personal appearance also changed, and when she

one day returned from the dentist's with an entire set of new teeth,

and came down to tea in a dark, fashionably-made merino, the

metamorphose was complete, and grandma declared that she looked better

than she ever had before in her life. The doctor, too, was improved,

and though he did not color his hair, he ordered six new shirts, a new

coat, a new horse and a pair of gold spectacles!

After a due lapse of time the appointed day came, and with it, at an

early hour, came Cousin John and Elizabeth Betsey, bringing with them

the few herbs which Berintha, at the time of her removal, had

overlooked. These Bridget demurely proposed should be given to Miss

Lucy, "who of late was much given to drinking catnip." Perfectly

indignant, Lucy threw the herbs, bag and all, into the fire, thereby

filling the house with an odor which made the asthmatic old doctor

wheeze and blow wonderfully during the evening.

A few of the villagers were invited, and when all was ready Mr. Dayton

brought down in his arms his white-faced Lizzie, who imperceptibly

had grown paler and weaker every day, while those who looked at her as

she reclined upon the sofa, sighed, and thought of a different

occasion when they probably would assemble there. For once Lucy was

very amiable, and with the utmost politeness and good nature waited

upon the guests. There was a softened light in her eye, and a

heightened bloom on her cheek, occasioned by a story which Berintha,

two hours before, had told her, of a heart all crushed in its youth,

and aching on through long years of loneliness, but which was about to

be made happy by a union with the only object it had ever loved! Do

you start and wonder? Have you not guessed that Dr. Benton, who that

night for the second time breathed the marriage vow, was the same who,

years before, won the girlish love of Berintha Dayton, and then turned

from her to the more beautiful Amy Holbrook, finding, too late, that

all is not gold that glitters? It is even so, and could you have seen

how tightly he clasped the hand of his new wife, and how fondly his

eye rested upon her, you would have said that, however long his

affections might have wandered, they had at last returned to her, his

first, best love.

CHAPTER XI.

LIZZIE.

Gathered 'round a narrow coffin,

Stand a mourning, funeral train,

While for her, redeemed thus early,

Tears are falling now like rain.

Hopes are crushed and hearts are bleeding;

Drear the fireside now, and alone;

She, the best loved and the dearest,

Far away to heaven hath flown.

Long, long, will they miss thee, Lizzie,

Long, long days for thee they'll weep;

And through many nights of sorrow

Memory will her vigils keep.

In the chapter just finished we casually mentioned that Lizzie,

instead of growing stronger, had drooped day by day, until to all save

the fond hearts which watched her, she seemed surely passing away. But

they to whom her presence was as sunlight to the flowers, shut their

eyes to the dreadful truth, refusing to believe that she was leaving

them. Oftentimes during the long winter nights would Mr. Dayton steal

softly to her chamber, and kneeling by her bedside gaze in mute

anguish upon the wasted face of his darling. And when from her

transparent brow and marble cheek he wiped the deadly night sweats, a

chill, colder far than the chill of death, crept over his heart, and

burying his face in his hands he would cry, "Oh, Father, let this cup

pass from me!"

As spring approached she seemed better, and the father's heart grew

stronger, and Lucy's step was lighter, and grandma's words more

cheerful, as hope whispered, "she will live." But when the snow was

melted from off the hillside, and over the earth the warm spring sun

was shining, when the buds began to swell and the trees to put forth

their young leaves, there came over her a change so fearful that with

one bitter cry of sorrow hope fled forever; and again, in the lonely

night season, the weeping father knelt and asked for strength to bear

it when his best-loved child was gone.

"Poor Harry!" said Lizzie one day to Anna, who was sitting by her,

"Poor Harry, if I could see him again; but I never shall."

"Perhaps you will," answered Anna. "I wrote, to him three weeks ago,

telling him to come quickly."

"Then he will," said Lizzie, "but if I should be dead when he comes,

tell him how I loved him to the last, and that the thought of leaving

him was the sharpest pang I suffered."

There were tears in Anna's eyes as she kissed the cheek of the sick

girl, and promised to do her bidding. After a moment's pause Lizzie

added, "I am afraid Harry is not a Christian, and you must promise not

to leave him until he has a well-founded hope that again in heaven I

shall see him."

Anna promised all, and then as Lizzie seemed exhausted she left her

and returned home. One week from that day she stood once more in

Lizzie's sick-room, listening for the last time to the tones of the

dying girl as she bade her friends adieu. Convulsed with grief Lucy

knelt by the bedside, pressing to her lips one little clammy hand, and

accusing herself of destroying her sister's life. In the furthest

corner of the room sat Mr. Dayton. He could not stand by and see

stealing over his daughter's face the dark shadow which falls but once

on all. He could not look upon her when over her soft brown eyes the

white lids closed forever. Like a naked branch in the autumn wind his

whole frame shook with agony, and though each fiber of grandma's heart

was throbbing with anguish, yet for the sake of her son she strove to

be calm, and soothed him as she would a little child. Berintha, too,

was there, and while her tears were dropping fast, she supported

Lizzie in her arms, pushing back from her pale brow the soft curls

which, damp with the moisture of death, lay in thick rings upon her

forehead.

"Has Harry come?" said Lizzie.

The answer was in the negative, and a moan of disappointment came from

her lips.

Again she spoke: "Give him my Bible--and my curls--when I am dead let

Lucy arrange them--she knows how; then cut them off, and the best, the

longest, the brightest is for Harry; the others for you all. And

tell--tell--tell him to meet--me in heaven--where I'm--going--going."

A stifled shriek from Lucy, as she fell back fainting, told that with

the last word, "going," Lizzie had gone to heaven!

An hour after the tolling bell arrested the attention of many, and of

the few who asked for whom it tolled nearly all involuntarily sighed

and said, "Poor Harry! Died before he came home!"

* * * * *

It was the night before the burial, and in the back parlor stood a

narrow coffin containing all that was mortal of Lizzie Dayton. In the

front parlor Bridget and another domestic kept watch over the body of

their young mistress. Twelve o'clock rang from the belfry of St.

Luke's church, and then the midnight silence was broken by the shrill

scream of the locomotive as the eastern train thundered into the

depot. But the senses of the Irish girls were too profoundly locked in

sleep to heed that common sound; neither did they hear the outer door,

which by accident had been left unlocked, swing softly open, nor saw

they the tall figure which passed by them into the next room--the room

where stood the coffin.

Suddenly through the house there echoed a cry, so long, so loud, so

despairing, that every sleeper started from their rest, and hurried

with nervous haste to the parlor, where they saw Harry Graham, bending

in wild agony over the body of his darling Lizzie, who never before

had turned a deaf ear to his impassioned words of endearment. He had

received his sister's letter, and started immediately for home, but

owing to some delay did not reach there in time to see her alive.

Anxious to know the worst, he had not stopped at his father's house,

but seeing a light in Mr. Dayton's parlors, hastened thither. Finding

the door unlocked, he entered, and on seeing the two servant girls

asleep, his heart beat quickly with apprehension. Still he was

unprepared for the shock which awaited him, when on the coffin and her

who slept within it his eye first rested. He did not faint, nor even

weep, but when his friends came about him with words of sympathy he

only answered, "Lizzie, Lizzie, she is dead!"

During the remainder of that sad night he sat by the coffin pressing

his hand upon the icy forehead until its coldness seemed to benumb his

faculties, for when in the morning his parents and sister came he

scarcely noticed them; and still the world, misjudging ever, looked

upon his calm face and tearless eye, and said that all too lightly had

he loved the gentle girl whose last thoughts and words had been of

him. Ah, they knew not the utter wreck the death of that young girl

had made, of the bitter grief, deeper and more painful because no

tear-drop fell to moisten its feverish agony. They buried her, and

then back from the grave came the two heart-broken men, the father and

Harry Graham, each going to his own desolate home, the one to commune

with the God who had given and taken away, and the other to question

the dealings of that Providence which had taken from him his all.

Days passed, and nothing proved of any avail to win Harry from the

deep despair which seemed to have settled upon him. At length Anna

bethought her of the soft, silken curl which had been reserved for

him. Quickly she found it, and taking with her the Bible repaired to

her brother's room. Twining her arms around his neck she told him of

the death-scene, of which he before had refused to hear. She finished

her story by suddenly holding to view the long, bright ringlet which

once adorned the fair head now resting in the grave. Her plan was

successful, for bursting into tears Harry wept nearly two hours. From

that time he seemed better, and was frequently found bathed in tears,

and bending over Lizzie's Bible, which now was his daily companion.

Lucy, too, seemed greatly changed. She had loved her sister as

devotedly as one of her nature could love, and for her death she

mourned sincerely. Lizzie's words of love and gentle persuasion had

not been without their effect, and when Mr. Dayton saw how kind, how

affectionate and considerate of other people's feelings his daughter

had become, he felt that Lizzie had not died in vain.

Seven times have the spring violets blossomed, seven times the flowers

of summer bloomed, seven times have the autumnal stores been gathered

in, and seven times have the winds of winter sighed over the New

England hills since Lizzie was laid to rest. In her home there have

been few changes. Mr. Dayton's hair is whiter than it was of old, and

the furrows on his brow deeper and more marked. Grandma, quiet and

gentle as ever, knits on day after day, ever and anon speaking of "our

dear little Lizzie, who died years ago."

Lucy is still unmarried, and satisfied, too, that it should be so. A

patient, self-sacrificing Christian, she strives to make up to her

father for the loss of one over whose memory she daily weeps, and to

whose death she accuses herself of being accessory. Dr. Benton and his

rather fashionable wife live in their great house, ride in their

handsome carriage, give large dinner parties, play chess after supper,

and then the old doctor nods over his evening paper, while Berintha

nods over a piece of embroidery, intended to represent a little dog

chasing a butterfly and which would as readily be taken for that as

for anything else, and for anything else as that.

Two years ago a pale young missionary departed to carry the news of

salvation to the heathen land. Some one suggested that he should take

with him a wife, but he shook his head mournfully, saying, "I have one

wife in heaven." The night before he left home, he might have been

seen, long after midnight, seated upon a grassy grave, where the

flowers of summer were growing. Around the stone which marks the spot

rose bushes have clustered so thickly as to hide from view the words

there written, but push them aside and you will read, "Our darling

Lizzie."