"Study hour's just over, and we're going to the drawing-room," they

announced. "We've got leave to stay up and see our cousins when they

come."

"That's nice," she answered, "I hope to see them in the morning."

In the hall above, she passed Miss Worth on her way from the schoolroom

to her own apartment. She was struck with the weary and sad expression

of her face, and paused for an instant, half inclined to offer her

sympathy, and ask if in anything she could be of service.

But with a slight nod of recognition, the governess glided by, and the

next moment Mildred heard her door close, and the key turn in the lock.

"Poor thing! I dare say she is homesick!" thought Mildred, passing on

into her own room, which she found, as usual, very bright and cheery;

a good fire, a table with an astral lamp, books and writing materials,

drawn up near it, an easy chair on the farther side; the one inviting

to work, the other to repose.

She had completely won Rachel's heart, and the young handmaiden took

especial pride and pleasure in arranging everything to "Miss Milly's"

liking, and being always ready to wait upon her.

Mildred sat down at the table and opened her books.

"Two hours for these and my letter to mother; then to bed and to sleep,

that I may be able to rise early and secure the two morning hours for

study before seeing those girls at breakfast," was the thought in her

mind.

She set herself to her work with determined energy, but in vain; she

could not fix her attention. She conned the words again and again but

without taking in their meaning. Miss Worth's sad face kept coming

between her and the printed page.

"She is very lonely, she needs a friend, a comforter," whispered the

inward voice.

"But she might consider me an intruder, trying to pry into her private

affairs, forcing a friendship upon her which she has never sought--and

she so much older than I," was the answering thought. "And she is only

a governess. Aunt Belle evidently considers her quite beneath her

friendship, and might be displeased if I put her on an equality with

myself."

But Mildred blushed to find herself influenced by such a motive. She

too might be a governess some day and she would be none the less a

lady; it was an honorable and useful calling; and it ought to be

considered far more creditable to earn one's bread thus than to be

willing to live upon the labor of others.

"No," she exclaimed half aloud, closing her book and pushing it from

her, "that shall not hinder me! but ought I to go?"

Dropping her face into her hands, she sent up a silent petition. "Lord,

show me! I desire to acknowledge thee in all my ways, and I know thou

wilt fulfill thy gracious promise to direct my paths."

Then she tried to put herself in Miss Worth's place. How utterly lonely

the poor governess was among them all! among, and yet not of them. Mrs.

Dinsmore would as soon have thought of sympathizing with an automaton

as with any of the human creatures employed in her service. Her

domestics were comfortably fed and clothed; Miss Worth's liberal salary

was always punctually paid; and what more could any of them ask?

As Mildred mentally reviewed the events of the past weeks she realized

as never before how entirely apart from them all this one member of

the family circle had been--her presence ignored in their familiar

chat--except when it related in some way to her duties--her wishes,

taste, convenience never consulted, no interest taken in her welfare,

no inquiries regarding her health or happiness or as to whether her

letters--usually handed to her at the breakfast-table when the others

received theirs--brought good news or ill.

Ah, now it came to Mildred's recollection that that morning's mail

brought a letter for Miss Worth; and had she not looked a little paler

than her wont at dinner? and were there not traces of tears about her

eyes?

Her hesitation was at an end. She was quite sure that if bad news had

come to her she would be glad to have the sympathy of even a child, or

a dumb animal; and only waiting to ask for wisdom to do and say the

right thing, she rose and went out into the hall.

The stage had just driven up to the door, and the sounds coming from

below told of the arrival of the expected guests, gay, girlish voices

mingling with those of her aunt, uncle and cousins.

She lingered a moment thinking how pleasant it would be should those

girls prove congenial companions to her, then going to Miss Worth's

door she tapped lightly on it.

A step came slowly across the room and the door opened.

"Excuse me," Mildred said, blushing and hesitating, "I do not wish to

intrude, but I thought you looked sad and had perhaps heard ill news;

might be homesick, in need of a friend even if it were one who had only

sympathy to offer."

"Come in, won't you?

"It is very, very kind, Miss Keith; I did not expect it; and--and I do

want a friend," was answered in hurried, tremulous tones, as Miss Worth

stepped back to allow her visitor to pass in, then closed the door and

set a chair for her near the fire.

A writing desk stood open on the table, an unfinished letter lying upon

it.

"I'm afraid I have disturbed you," Mildred said, glancing at them. "You

are busy?"

"No, I found I could not say what I wished, or perhaps did not know

what I wanted to say," the governess answered with a dreary sigh.

Silence fell between them for some moments, Miss Worth, who had resumed

her seat, gazing abstractedly into the fire, while Mildred was trying

to think what to say, and silently asking to be directed. But she

was not the first to speak. "Does life ever seem to you a weary road

to travel, Miss Keith? A burden that you would be glad to lay down

forever?" asked the governess. "But I forget. You are so young, so

happy, that you can know nothing of such an experience. At your age

I was gay and light-hearted too; as well I might be--at home in my

father's house and abundantly supplied with comforts and luxuries

without thought or care of mine. Ah, times are sadly changed with me

and all who are nearest and dearest to me. But excuse me! I have no

right to obtrude my private griefs upon you."

"Please don't feel so," Mildred said, sympathetic tears springing to

her eyes. "I cannot tell you how sorry I am for you! how I would like

to comfort you! and I know it is sometimes a relief and comfort just to

pour out our sorrows to a fellow creature. And O, Miss Worth, I wish

you knew what a comfort it is to tell them all to Jesus!" she added low

and feelingly.

"Is it? Do you think he can hear? that he listens? that he cares?"

The look that accompanied the questions was half eager, half skeptical,

and full of unexpressed longing.

"I have not the least doubt of it," Mildred answered with earnest

conviction in her tones. "'God over all blessed forever,' he is

everywhere present. He has, as he himself declared, all power given

unto him in heaven and in earth; and he is so full of love and

compassion that he deems nothing that concerns his children, one way or

another, too small for his attention. He would not have even the little

children turned away when the parents brought them to him, and he cares

for the sparrows.

"'Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and one of them shall not

fall to the ground without your Father. But the very hairs of your head

are all numbered. Fear ye not, therefore, ye are of more value than

many sparrows.'"

"But I am not one of his children;" sighed the governess. "I have paid

no attention to these things, Miss Mildred; I did not seek him in my

days of prosperity, and I cannot expect him to care for me now in my

adversity."

"But he is so loving and compassionate, so ready to forgive. He

proclaims himself 'the Lord, the Lord God, merciful and gracious,

long-suffering and abundant in goodness and truth, keeping mercy for

thousands, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin.'

"'Come now and let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins

be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like

crimson they shall be as wool.' Jesus said, 'Him that cometh to me I

will in nowise cast out.' You say you want a friend, Miss Worth, and

there is none other that can compare with Jesus in love and tenderness,

in power and willingness to do all you need."

"A friend," repeated Miss Worth absently, more as if thinking aloud

than talking to her visitor, "yes, that is what I need; what I have

been longing for for days and weeks; more especially to-night; but,"

and she turned her face abruptly toward Mildred, while her voice took a

touchingly pathetic tone, "I know not how or where to find the One you

speak of; nor can I believe that he would receive me if I did; that he

would care to help and comfort me. Why should he?"

"I don't know, except that he is so good, so kind, so loving!" Mildred

said, her eyes shining. "But dare you doubt his word? the word of him

who tells us that he himself is the truth?"

"Does he say that?"

"Yes, 'I am the way and the truth and the life.' Oh, believe his

love--the love of Christ which passeth knowledge! 'Herein is love, not

that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his son to be the

propitiation for our sins."

"Ah, but am I included in that word 'our'?"

"'Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden and I will give

you rest.' 'Whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely.'

Could invitations be more comprehensive?"

"No; I think not. But how, Miss Mildred, how shall I come? I was not

religiously brought up and am very ignorant on these subjects."

"'With the heart man believeth unto righteousness.' 'Believe on the

Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be saved.'"

"But what am I to do?"

"Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts:

and let him return unto the Lord, and he will have mercy upon him;'

quoted Mildred, 'and to our God for he will abundantly pardon,' 'only

believe;' for by grace are ye saved, through faith; and that not of

yourselves; it is the gift of God. Not of works, lest any man should

boast.'

"Do you not see that Christ has done it all, kept the law for us, borne

its penalty in our stead, and now offers us the justification of our

persons, the sanctification of our natures, and adoption into God's

family all as a free gift, the purchase of his blood. We cannot merit

it, we cannot buy it; it is 'without money and without price.' All we

can do is to accept the offered salvation and forsaking every other

hope and trust, lean wholly upon Jesus."

Miss Worth seemed lost in sad perplexing thought, while Mildred's heart

went up in silent petition on her behalf.

"Tell it me again," she said at length with emotion; and Mildred tried

to make a clearer statement than before.

"It is so simple and beautiful--God's plan of salvation--" Mildred

said in conclusion, "only to give ourselves unreservedly to the Lord

and trust wholly in him. Jesus said, 'This is the work of God, that ye

believe on him whom he hath sent.' And of his sheep, he says, 'I give

unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any

pluck them out of my hand.'"

"Yes; but I want a friend now:--for this life: its cares, troubles,

trials, perplexities. Does he promise that?" asked the governess, with

a wistful, longing look.

"Oh, yes, yes indeed! in very many places," Mildred said. "'This

poor man cried and the Lord heard him and saved him out of all his

troubles.'

"'He shall deliver thee in six troubles; yea in seven there shall no

evil touch thee.'

"'Call upon me in the day of trouble: I will deliver thee, and thou

shalt glorify me.'

"'Cast thy burden upon the Lord and he shall sustain thee.'

"'Be careful for nothing; but in everything by prayer and supplication

with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known unto God. And the

peace of God which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts

and minds through Christ Jesus.'"

Again a few moments of profound silence, while Miss Worth seemed to be

thinking deeply, then turning to Mildred, "I cannot express my sense of

your kindness," she said, "and--" she paused, hesitated, but went on

hurriedly, and with emotion, "I will seek this Friend of whom you have

been speaking, for I sorely need such an one. But you," she continued

with increasing emotion, "you have so generously offered your sympathy,

yet refrained, with true delicacy, from showing the least curiosity in

regard to my troubles. But it would be a relief to confide in you to

some extent, if--if you would care to listen."

"I should be much interested and very glad to be of service," Mildred

answered gently. "And I think I need not assure you that your

confidence will be sacred."

"No; I am quite certain of that," returned Miss Worth; then went on to

give a slight sketch of her past life; or rather of some parts of it;

for she did not deem it necessary, or wise, to tell of all the trials

which had fallen to her lot.

Her father, she said, had been in the early part of his career a

very successful business man, and in her childhood and youth she was

surrounded with luxury; but reverses came, loss followed loss, till

they were reduced to absolute poverty. Then her father died and the

burden of her mother's support, as well as her own and that of a

younger sister, fell upon her.

There was an older sister who had been married for some years; but

her husband was dissipated and worthless, and she had several little

children to provide for as best she could. The mother and Delia, the

young sister, lived with her, but Miss Worth paid their board, and

clothed them.

The letter received to-day was from Mrs. Marks, the married one, and

drew a sad picture of toil, privation, and bitter disappointment.

Her children were sick, her husband came home drunk every night, to

threaten and abuse her, and then the mother fretted continually over

their reverses and her own ailments, fancied or real; and Delia was

dissatisfied because she could not dress like other girls in the school

she attended. The letter wound up with a request for a loan, and a hint

that the sum paid for board of the mother and sister was too small.

Also a little note was inclosed from Delia, asking, indeed almost

demanding, money for the purchase of a new dress.

But of these Miss Worth said nothing.

Mildred was full of genuine sympathy, and showed it in a way that was

very soothing and comforting.

Yet, after she was gone, the burden rolled back upon the heart of the

poor, lonely governess. She sat long over the fire, hands clasped in

her lap, head bowed upon her breast, vainly striving to solve the

perplexing problem how she was to meet all the demands upon her slender

purse.

Her disposition was noble and self sacrificing; she would have

willingly denied herself all superfluities in dress that her mother

might not miss her accustomed luxuries, Delia go without finery, or

Mrs. Marks and her children be overworked or underfed; but it would

not do; Mrs. Dinsmore's governess must be many removes from shabby in

her attire.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Chapter Eleventh.

"Self is the medium least refined of all,

Through which Opinion's searching beam can fall;

And passing there, the clearest, steadiest ray,

Will tinge its light, and turn its line astray."

Moore.

It was at the breakfast table the next morning that Mildred had her

first sight of the new comers.

They were late in making their appearance, excusing themselves on the

ground of fatigue from the journey of the previous day.

Juliet, the elder of the two, was an extremely sentimental young lady;

tall and thin, with fair complexion, pale auburn hair, and faded blue

eyes.

The other, Reba, a noisy, rattling, romping, pert young Miss, with

staring black eyes, black hair, straight and coarse, and a muddy skin,

which she strove with very limited success to conceal with toilet

powder and rouge.

She prided herself on being a fast girl, a good shot with a pistol,

and not afraid to mount the wildest horse that could be found.

Her talk was of horses and dogs, race courses and shooting matches; her

sister's of beaux, parties and dress.

Juliet had a great deal to say about her summer at Saratoga, and the

gentlemen she had met there, especially a certain titled foreigner,

whom she spoke of as "that charming, fascinating Count De Lisle."

It came out in the course of the morning, that she had heard from him

since her return home in the fall, and would not be surprised if he

should follow her to Roselands.

"Pa won't like it if he does," remarked Reba. "He thinks he's a

fortune-hunter, with nothing to recommend him but his title, and that

very likely it is all a pretence. And I am inclined to think pa is

right, and that the fellow is not even a foreigner."

"As if your opinion was of the least consequence!" sneered her sister.

"I consider both you and pa extremely uncharitable to indulge in such

suspicions. I have seen a good deal more of the Count than either of

you, and he is a delightful man."

"Well, don't waste your time disputing, girls," interrupted Mrs.

Dinsmore, "you have yet to decide what you will wear to-night."

They were in the dressing-room appropriated to the sisters during their

stay; Mildred was with them, Mrs. Dinsmore having invited her in, that

they might have the benefit of her taste.

A quantity of finery was spread out upon the bed, table, and chairs,

and presently the four were deep in consultation on the all important

subject.

Mildred was gifted with artistic taste in dress, and great facility

in giving form and shape to her conceptions, by the use of scissors

and needle. She was also very obliging, and having fallen to-day into

the hands of those who were selfishly unscrupulous about imposing upon

good nature, she was given little rest until the two girls were fully

attired for the ball.

They surveyed themselves with delight; and indeed both looked

remarkably well for them; Juliet in white gauze over pale blue silk,

and a few white blossoms from the green-house in her hair; Reba in

black silk with black lace overskirt looped with scarlet ribbons, and

hair trimmed with flowers of the same brilliant hue.

She was in her wildest spirits, dancing, and pirouetting round the

room, declaring that Mildred had laid her under lasting obligations,

she had had no idea how handsome she was, and it would be strange

if she didn't make a conquest before the evening was over; Juliet

hearing it all with a half contemptuous smile, while contemplating the

reflection of her own charms in the glass, with the self-satisfied

thought that they far exceeded those of her sister.

"You are entirely welcome," said Mildred, "and I am very glad you are

satisfied with the result of my labors. Now I must go to Aunt Belle,

for I promised to put the finishing touches to her toilet."

"We'll go too, and show ourselves," said Reba, and all three tripped

gayly down the stairs, into Mrs. Dinsmore's dressing-room.

They found her resplendent in silk, lace and diamonds. The costly gems

depended from her ears, sparkled on her wrists, at her throat, on every

link of her watch chain; and Mildred's task was to place a spray of

them in her hair, already elaborately dressed by her waiting maid.

"Oh, you are splendid, Aunt Belle!" cried Reba, clapping her hands. "I

declare I believe you look younger and prettier than either of us."

"Don't turn flatterer, child," said Mrs Dinsmore, coloring with

pleasure at the compliment, and giving her mirror a glance of

unmistakable satisfaction.

"Oh, you needn't pretend you don't know it," laughed Reba. "But now

look at us and say if you're not proud of your nieces."

"Yes indeed," Mrs. Dinsmore said after a moment's critical survey,

"you are charming girls, both of you. Mildred, I think you deserve any

amount of credit."

"Eh! what has she been about?" Mr. Dinsmore asked, coming in from an

adjoining room; "superintending the toilet of these girls? Why she is

certainly a young lady of taste, and a useful member of society."

"Decidedly prettier in her neat home dress than they in all their

finery," he added mentally. Then aloud, "Come, Milly, don't you begin

to want to go along? It isn't too late yet to change your mind. We'll

wait for you to dress."

"Thank you," she answered brightly, "but I have not changed my mind,

and really feel quite sure that I shall enjoy myself better at home."

"Such odd taste," laughed Reba.

"But perhaps she does not expect to pass the time alone," drawled

Juliet with a significant look.

Mildred repelled the insinuation with dignity. "I expect no company but

my books," she said, "and certainly desire no other."

She was entirely sincere, yet it did seem a little lonely as she sat by

the fire in her own room after they had gone.

But she turned resolutely to her books, soon grew interested, and after

a couple of hours spent in close study, retired to bed.

Only her uncle, Miss Worth, and the children met her at the

breakfast-table the next morning.

Mr. Dinsmore explained that his wife and her nieces were sleeping off

their fatigue, adding, "The girls danced all night, and really it was

near sunrise when we reached home."

"They must be very tired," Mildred said. "Aunt Belle and you too,

uncle."

"Yes; I think your plan was the wisest, after all. But what shall you

do with yourself to-day? I fear you will be left quite to your own

resources."

"I assure you I will be at no loss," she returned with a cheery smile.

The first thing in order after breakfast was a ride, in which

Adelaide, Louise and Lora were her companions. A very enjoyable one,

the morning being bright, clear and not very cold.

On their return, as they cantered up the avenue, Adelaide exclaimed,

"There's the Ion carriage at the door. What an early call Mrs. Travilla

is making!"

But it was only a servant with a note for Mildred; an urgent invitation

to her to drive over to Ion and spend the day.

"I send my carriage for you," wrote Mrs. Travilla, "hoping it may not

return empty. Uncle Eben is a careful driver, will bring you safely, I

think, and carry you back when you feel that your visit must come to an

end. I should drive over for you myself, but am confined to the house

by a severe cold."

No more welcome invitation could have come to Mildred. Full of delight

she hastened to her room to change her riding habit for something more

suitable for the occasion. That was the work of but a few moments,

and leaving a message for Mrs. Dinsmore, who had not risen, she was

presently bowling briskly along the road leading to Ion.

She anticipated a delightful day and was not disappointed. It was

passed principally in Mrs. Travilla's boudoir and without other

companionship, and seemed to Mildred very much like a day at home with

her mother; for this new friend was a woman of the same spirit, and

very similar gifts and graces. And she received her young guest with

truly motherly warmth and tenderness of greeting.

The talk was first of Mildred's far off home and the dear ones there,

then of the better land and the dearest Friend of all that either

possessed; and while conversing of Him and His wondrous love their

hearts were drawn very close together.

"Mrs. Travilla," Mildred said, breaking a pause in the conversation,

"there is some one I want you to help me pray for; one who wants just

such a kind, loving, powerful, everpresent Friend as Jesus."

"Yes, my child, I will," Mrs. Travilla responded with feeling, "we will

unite our prayers, and he will know whom we mean, though I am ignorant

of it; He whose precious promise is, 'If two of you shall agree on

earth as touching anything that they shall ask it shall be done of them

of my Father which is in heaven.'"

"It _is_ a precious promise," Mildred said, tears springing to her

eyes. "And there are others--O, Mrs. Travilla, can you not guess whom?

that I want to plead it for. Some that I love, who are very kind to

me, but seem to care nothing at all about this Friend, and to have no

thought or concern for anything beyond this life."

"Yes, I know," Mrs. Travilla said, pressing the girl's hand tenderly in

hers, "and you may well believe that I have not known them all these

years without often asking my dear Lord to reveal himself to them in

all his loveliness; and now I am very, very glad to have a helper in

this."

They sat silent then for some minutes, when the adornments of the room

attracting Mildred's eye, reminded her of a question she had been

longing to ask.

Beginning with an account of her visit to Mrs. Landreth and the talk

between them, in which Mrs. Travilla seemed interested, she went on to

say, with a smiling glance around the tasteful apartment, "I feel sure

that you do not think as she does, and that she is not right in her

views or practice either; and yet I confess I am at a loss to know how

to refute her arguments. So I have wanted to ask an explanation of your

views. Do you think Mrs. Landreth a really good Christian woman?"

"Yes, my dear, I do," Mrs. Travilla said "She is beyond question very

self-denying and benevolent; but I think she forgets that we are to

'_adorn_ the doctrine of God our Saviour in all things;' and so fails

to recommend it as she might to others; particularly her husband and

his nephew.

"I quite agree with your mother that it is a wife's duty to study the

comfort and happiness of her husband in everything that she can without

violating the plain commands of God.

"Mrs. Landreth and I take different views on the question of the best

way to help the poor. She gives money, I let them earn it, paying them

liberally for their work; this plan encourages industry and honest

pride of independence; while the other teaches them to be willing to be

idle pensioners on the bounty of their richer neighbors.

"Mine certainly seems the more self-indulgent way," she added with

a smile, "for my house is thus filled with pretty things while Mrs.

Landreth's is left very bare of ornament; and yet I think it is the

better plan."

"I am sure it is," Mildred responded with an energy and positiveness

that brought a musical laugh from the lips of her friend.

"And," resumed Mrs. Travilla, "we differ quite as decidedly on the

question of dress--she considering it a duty to spend as little

as possible upon herself, that she may have the more to give; I

thinking that those who have the means to do so without stinting their

charities, or driving hard bargains with their tradesmen, should

buy beautiful and expensive things in order to help and encourage

manufacturers, and render themselves and their houses attractive.

"Surely God would not have implanted in us so strong a love of the

beautiful, and given so much to gratify it, if he meant us to ignore

and repress it."

"No, surely not," Mildred said, thoughtfully. "Oh, how good he is! how

much he has given us to enjoy! there are so many beautiful sights and

sounds in nature, so much to gratify the taste and smell--the perfume

from your plants comes most pleasantly to my nostrils at this moment,

and the sweet song of that mocking bird to my ear. And I do so love old

ocean's roar and the rippling of running water. Does it not seem like a

slander upon the God of love, to teach that he would have us spend all

our time, effort and means on those things that are utilitarian only?"

"It certainly does; and yet are not some of these things which some

condemn as mere indulgences, really useful, after all? the surroundings

affect the spirits, and they in turn the health, and therefore the

ability to work. Grand or beautiful scenery has often an inspiring or

soothing effect, and their pictured representations the same to some

extent."

"And just so with a sweet and noble face," Mildred said, "and what a

lovely one that is," turning her eyes toward a painting on the opposite

wall.

"Yes," returned her friend, "I love to lie on my couch and gaze upon

it, when not able to sit up, and it has been a comfort and help to me

in many an hour of pain or sadness. Ah who shall say that an artist's

work is a waste of time--when his pencil is devoted to the reproduction

of the good and beautiful--or that his God-given talent is not to be

improved?"

Then she drew Mildred's attention to other paintings, and pieces of

fancy work, to each of which she had a story attached: generally of a

struggle with poverty and want on the part of the one of whose talent

and skill it was a specimen.

These tales were told in no boastful spirit, yet Mildred learned from

them a valuable lesson on the best use of wealth, and how much good

might be done with it, in the way of lending a helping hand to those

who needed assistance or lift them out of otherwise hopeless poverty,

and how it could be accomplished without sacrificing a praiseworthy

pride of independence.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Chapter Twelfth.

"O credulity,

Security's blind nurse, the dream of fools."

Mason.

Mrs. Dinsmore carried out her plan of filling her house with company

during the holidays. They were mostly young people, and the time was

spent in a constant round of festivities.

In these Mildred bore some share; for she thought it right that she

should do her part in entertaining her aunt's guests. Nor did her

conscience forbid innocent recreation at proper times and seasons,

though she could not consent to make mere amusement the business of her

life.

Some half dozen or more of the neighboring gentry were invited for the

whole fortnight, while others came for an evening, a day, or two or

three days, and on Christmas Eve and New Year's night, large parties

were given.

It was on the latter occasion that Mildred noticed among the guests,

for the first time, a handsome man, apparently about thirty years of

age, who was an entire stranger to her.

His broadcloth and linen were of the finest, a magnificent solitaire

diamond adorned the little finger of his right hand; he wore an

imperial and heavy moustache, and something foreign in his look and

manner, as well as the fact that he seemed to be paying assiduous court

to Juliet, suggested to Mildred the probability that he was the Count

De Lisle, of whom she had heard her make such frequent mention.

She was not long left in doubt as to that, for the next moment Reba

whispered his name in her ear, adding "Juliet is in the seventh heaven,

of course."

"There is something sinister in the expression of his face," thought

Mildred, turning away. "I do not like it. Yet it is strangely familiar

too. Where can I possibly have seen it before?"

His attention had been attracted to her and he inquired of Juliet, "Who

is that pretty girl in pink and white!"

"Pretty!" returned Miss Marsden with a scornful toss of the head. "I

cannot say that I admire her style. She's a Miss Keith, a sort of far

away niece of Uncle Dinsmore: a Northern girl and poor, I imagine; for

her father's a country lawyer with a large family."

Juliet was absolutely ignorant of Mr. Keith's circumstances, but it

suited her plans to make it appear that she was no heiress; quite her

own inferior in the matter of wealth, whatever she might be in looks.

"Do not be offended, my angel," he whispered bending over her and

speaking with a slightly foreign accent which she had again and again

extolled to Reba as "perfectly delicious," "I meant not that she was

half so beautiful or charmant as yourself."

"Ah, Count, you are a sad flatterer," she returned with a simper.

"No, no! pardon the contradiction, Miss Juliet, but de truth is nefer

flattery."

"A penny for your thoughts, Miss Keith," said a voice at Mildred's side.

"Ah, good evening, Mr. Landreth," she answered turning toward the

speaker. "You are welcome to them gratis. I am wondering where I

have seen Miss Marsden's admirer before to-night, or if it is only a

resemblance, real or fancied, to some one else that I see in him."

"I cannot tell, indeed," he said, furtively watching the man for a

moment, "but there is something in his face that would make me sorry

to see him ingratiating himself with a lady friend of mine."

"Excuse me, but I must ask you to move, as we are going to dance and

want this sofa behind you, put out of the way," said Reba, coming up to

them with two servants.

"Certainly," Mildred said, taking Mr. Landreth's offered arm.

They passed down the room and out into the conservatory beyond.

"Are you engaged for the first set?" he asked.

"No; nor for any other," she answered with a smile. "I do not dance,

Mr. Landreth."

"It is not too late to begin," he remarked persuasively.

"No, it is too soon."

"You don't think it wrong?" he queried as in surprise, "here in your

home as it were? It's different, is it not, from attending a ball?"

"Yes; but I might grow so fond of it as to want to go to balls. I think

it safest for me to avoid the temptation."

Sets were forming as they returned to the drawing-room, and Miss Worth,

who had been sent for, to play the piano, was just entering by another

door.

She had kept apart from the guests, spending almost all her time in her

own room; so that Mildred had seen very little of her for some days

past.

She noticed on the instant of her entrance, that she was looking pale

and worn; then that her pallor suddenly increased to ghastliness, as

on stepping in, she came face to face with Juliet and the Count in the

nearest set, standing side by side.

He, too, started slightly and turned pale for a moment as his eyes met

those of the governess; but neither spoke and pushing hastily past him

she sat down at the instrument.

She felt herself reeling in her seat and thought she should fall to

the floor; everything seemed to be turning round: but conquering her

emotion by a great effort, she ran her fingers over the keys and dashed

off into a lively dancing tune.

Her head was in a whirl, a mist swam before her eyes so that she could

not see the notes, but her fingers flew so fast that the dancers were

soon panting for breath in their efforts to keep pace with the music.

"Not so fast! not so fast!" called several voices, but though for

an instant she slackened her speed, the next she was rattling on as

before.

Set after set had been danced, Juliet and the count taking part in them

all, and now he led her panting to a seat.

"I like not zose tunes so well as some other," he remarked. "May I

claim ze privilege to speak to ze player zat she choose something else,

and not play quite so rapid?"

"Oh yes, certainly," smiled Juliet sweetly.

Miss Worth was turning over her music in search of a waltz some one had

called for, when a voice spoke at her side; a voice that made her start

and shiver, though she did not look round.

"Your execution was von leetle bit too rapid for us," it said in an

ordinary tone, then in a whisper, the lips close to her ear, "Meet

me half an hour after the company disperses; behind the clump of

evergreens at the foot of the avenue."

"Yes," she answered, almost under her breath, and without so much as

turning her head.

She saw as in a nightmare, a white hand, too large to be a woman's,

with a solitaire diamond sparkling on the fourth finger, busied among

the sheets of music before her, then it vanished, her strained ear

catching the faint echo of the retreating step.

She kept her eyes on her notes, her fingers wandering mechanically over

the keys, calling forth low, soft strains of music, while the dancers

passed out into the refreshment room. She kept it up unceasingly until

they returned; then changed to a waltz in obedience to directions, as

couples began taking their places on the floor. How long it lasted she

did not know, it seemed an age of suffering to her before she found

herself again alone in the solitude of her own room.

As she entered the clock on the mantel struck two. She glanced at it

and sank into a chair by the fire.

"Half an hour," she sighed, shivering and crouching over the blaze.

"What an age to wait; and yet I'm afraid not long enough to let them

all get to bed and asleep. What if I should be seen!"

She dropped her face into her hands with a low groan. It was some

minutes before she lifted it again for another glance at the clock; a

wan, weary, haggard face, full of dread and distress, but with no tears

in the burning eyes.

Slowly the moments dragged themselves along till at last the minute

hand pointed to the half hour, when she rose, wrapped herself in a

large dark shawl, putting it over her head listened at her door for a

moment, to make sure that all was quiet, then glided softly down the

stairs, let herself out at a back door, and creeping along close to

the wall of the house, then in the shadow of the trees that lined the

avenue, gained at length the clump of evergreens at its farther end.

A biting north wind swept the hard, frozen ground, and rustled the

dry leaves at her feet, as she stood leaning against a tree in an

intensely listening attitude. It seemed to pierce to her very vitals,

and shuddering and trembling with the cold, and nervous dread, she drew

the shawl more closely about her, while straining her eyes through the

gloom to catch a glimpse of him whom she had come to meet; for there

was no light save that shining in the winter sky.

She had waited but a moment, when a stealthy step drew near, and a tall

form wrapped in a cloak, stood before her.

"Here first?" he said in a cautious whisper.

"Yes," she answered, in the same low key, and with a sudden catching of

her breath, "Oh, why are you here?"

"For my own advantage," he answered half defiantly, "and," in a

threatening tone, "you'd better have a care how you betray me."

"I have no desire to do so," she returned, with a weary sigh, "but you

must go, and at once; you will ruin me if you stay; you must see that."

"Pooh. I see no such thing. And must is a word you have no right to use

to me. Keep your mouth shut, and all will go well."

"What is your object in coming here?"

"Plain enough, I should think," he answered with a sneer.

"You are deceiving that silly girl, and intend to marry her, simply for

her money?"

"Exactly. Who needs money more than I?"

"And how long will it take you to squander it?"

"Depends upon how much there is," he returned with a sardonic laugh.

"And your luck at the gaming table, I presume," she said bitterly. "You

are acting most dishonorably toward the girl. She would not look at you

if she knew--"

"That I am an American born citizen, eh? Well, am I any the worse for

that?"

"Not for that--not in my esteem; but you know, you _know_ that is not

all, nor the worst by a great deal!" she cried in a tone of suppressed

agony. "And you ask me to stand by and see you deceive this girl to her

ruin, never stretching out a finger for her help! I cannot do it. I

will not! Go! go! you must! you must never show your face here again!"

"Be quiet!" he said angrily; for in her excitement she had raised her

voice to a dangerously high pitch. "And look at home," he went on:

"remember that you are partly responsible for my ruin, and that you,

too, are sailing under false colors."

"But not to the injury of any one; not with any evil intent," she

answered, clasping her hands beseechingly. "And if you drive me from

here, Harry, you will be taking the bread out of our mother's mouth. It

is surely enough that you do nothing for her support yourself."

"I'll help with that when I have secured this girl and her money," he

said with an evil laugh. "Just you keep quiet and all will go well.

Keep my secret, and I'll keep yours."

She leaned back wearily against the tree, clasping her hands more

tightly over her throbbing heart; tears sprang to her eyes, her lips

trembled, but no sound came from them.

"Well?" he cried impatiently.

"Harry," she said, very low and tremulously, "I have been reading

a good deal lately in an old book--one whose teachings we used to

respect in our innocent childhood--and it tells me that 'the way of

transgressors is hard;' that though 'hand join in hand, the wicked

shall not be unpunished'; that there is such a thing as sinning away

your day of grace; and it says, 'Seek ye the Lord while he may be

found, call ye upon him while he is near.' O, Harry, turn from your

wicked ways before it is forever too late. There is mercy even for you,

if you will turn now."

Spell-bound with astonishment, he had heard her thus far in absolute

silence; but now he interrupted her with a savage oath.

"I didn't know you'd turned pious," he sneered. "And I didn't come here

to be preached to. If you know what's for your good you'll keep quiet;

that's all I have to say. And now I'm off. I can't stand here catching

my death of cold."

He was turning away, but she grasped a fold of his cloak.

"Harry," she said in a choking voice, "we used to be fond of each

other: I was very proud of my handsome brother; and--and we've been

parted for five years!"

"That's true, Gerty," he said in a softened tone, turning back and

throwing an arm about her waist; "let's kiss and be friends."

"Harry," she whispered, clinging to him, "do you know anything of--of

_him_?"

"No; and don't want to!" he answered savagely. "You're not fool enough

to care for him now?"

"Women are fools," was all she said in reply.

And they parted; he disappearing in the direction of the road, she

creeping back to the house, and regaining the shelter of her room;

fortunately without meeting any one on the way.

She was tired, oh, _so_ tired! her strength scarcely sufficient to

bring her to the desired haven; but even there she could not rest. She

did not undress or lie down, but crouched beside the fire, her hands

clasped about her knees, her head bowed upon her breast, while the

monotonous ticking of the clock told off the weary seconds, and the

smouldering embers burned out leaving nothing but the cold ashes on the

hearth.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Chapter Thirteenth.

"In desert wilds, in midnight gloom,

In grateful joy, in trying pain,

In laughing youth, or nigh the tomb,

Ah! when is prayer unheard or vain?"

Eliza Cook.

The cold, grey dawn of the winter morning was stealing in at the

windows as at last, sighing heavily, the governess lifted her head with

a returning consciousness of her surroundings.

How dreary it all looked, in the dim, uncertain light! the disordered

room, the fireless hearth--fit emblem, as it seemed, of the cold,

almost dead heart within her.

Life was like a desert at that moment, a rough, weary road where thorns

and briars constantly pierced her tired feet. Why should she stay? Why

not lie down and rest in a quiet grave?

She rose slowly, stiff from the constrained posture, and dragged

herself across the room. Opening her wardrobe door, she took from the

shelf a vial labelled "laudanum." She held it a moment in her hand.

"It is only to go to sleep," she said, half aloud, "to go to sleep, and

never wake again. Never? ah! if I could be sure, _sure_ of that!"

"'And the smoke of their torment ascendeth up forever and ever.' 'Where

their worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched.'"

With a shudder, she put it hastily back, locked the door, and threw

herself upon the bed.

"Oh, God, forgive me!" she cried, "keep me, keep me, or I shall do it

yet! And then--forever and ever! No space for repentance, no coming

back!"

At length tired nature found temporary relief in the heavy, dreamless

slumber of utter exhaustion.

Hours passed, and still she slept on, hearing not, nor heeding the

sounds of returning life in the household.

They were very late after their long night of revelry; breakfast was

not on the table till ten o'clock, and even then no one answered the

summons but the master of the house and Mildred.

The children had taken their morning meal two hours before.

"An unexpected pleasure, this, Milly, my dear," was Mr. Dinsmore's

greeting.

"What, uncle, you did not surely expect me to be still in bed!"

"Well no; but I thought you would be looking fagged and worn; instead

of which, your face is fresh and fair as a rose just washed with dew,

and bright as the morning."

"And why not, if sufficient rest will do it?" she returned, laughingly.

"I retired at twelve, and had my eight hours of sound, refreshing

sleep."

"Ah, you are a wise little woman! too sensible to let late hours rob

you of health and good looks, and make you old before your time. What

is it Solomon says? 'Early to bed and early to rise?'"

"O, uncle, what a joke! there no use in your pretending that you don't

know any better than that," she answered merrily.

"Well, perhaps I do; but he certainly says something about lying late

in bed."

"Several things; one occurs to me now. 'Love not sleep, lest thou come

to poverty; open thine eyes, and thou shalt be satisfied with bread.'

But it cannot mean that we should not take needful rest?"

"Oh no, of course not! there's nothing gained by that. But where's Miss

Worth!"

"She has not joined us since the house has been so full of guests. I

think she takes her meals with the children in the nursery."

"Ah, yes; I presume so; but I had forgotten it, and it struck me that

she might be ill. I thought she was looking badly last night. Did you

notice it?"

"Yes; I did. I will inquire about her," Mildred said, remembering with

a pang of self-reproach how ghastly a face the governess had worn on

taking her seat at the piano.

She might be very ill, unable to call for help, neglected by the sleepy

maids, and she herself had been up for two hours and ought to have gone

to her door to inquire.

She went immediately on leaving the table, her alarm and anxiety

increased on the way thither by the information, gleaned from one of

the servants, that Miss Worth had not been present at the nursery

breakfast.

Mildred rapped lightly, then louder, and receiving no answer, tried the

door. It opened and she stole softly in.

Miss Worth lay on the outside of the bed, still dressed as she had last

seen her--in the drawing room at the piano--and sleeping heavily. Her

face was very pale and distressed and she moaned now and then as if in

pain.

She had nothing over her; but a heavy dark shawl lay on the floor

beside the chimney Mildred picked it up and spread it over her, drew

down the blinds to shut out the glare of the sun, rang for the maid,

and while waiting for her, moved quietly about the room putting things

in their places.

"It is very cold here, for the fire is quite out and must be made up at

once," she whispered, meeting the girl at the door and motioning her to

make no noise. "Go bring up wood and kindling."

"De governess sick, Miss Milly?" queried the servant, sending a curious

glance in the direction of the bed.

"I don't know, Dinah, perhaps only tired, for she was up very late

last night; but she is asleep and must not be disturbed." And Mildred

motioned her imperatively away.

It was not till an hour later that Miss Worth stirred and woke to find

a cheerful fire blazing on the hearth and Mildred beside it quietly

knitting.

She put down her work hastily, rose and came forward as she perceived

the governess's eyes fixed upon her in a sort of perplexed surprise.

"Excuse the intrusion," Mildred said; "but I thought you seemed ill,

and was afraid you might need help. I hope your sleep has refreshed

you, and that you will let me order the breakfast they are keeping hot

for you in the kitchen."

"Thank you, I cannot understand such kindness to me," Miss Worth said

huskily. "I was very tired--not sick, I think--and I suppose the sleep

has done me good."

"And you will eat something?"

"I will try, since you are so good."

The effort was but indifferently successful, yet Miss Worth steadily

refused to acknowledge herself on the sick list, and insisted that

she was able to work and must do so; and Mildred went away, feeling

troubled and anxious.

Left alone, Miss Worth took out her writing materials, then resting her

elbows on the table, her face in her hands, sat thus for a long time

without moving, a heavy sigh now and then escaping her.

At last she took up her pen and wrote rapidly for several minutes, then

snatching up the paper, she tore it into fragments and threw them into

the fire.

Another sheet shared the same fate, and seemingly giving it up in

despair, she rose and walked the floor.

"Oh, if I only knew what to do, what to say!" she moaned. "If he

would but hear reason; if he would but forsake his evil courses! And

yet!--Oh, if I had a friend! just one wise, true friend to advise and

help me! But I dare not breathe my terrible fears to any mortal; and

who is there that would care to listen?"

Her eye fell on the Bible lying there on the table, and with the sight

came the recollection of the texts Mildred had quoted to her.

She almost heard a gentle, tender voice saying "Come unto me--and I

will give you rest," and falling on her knees she cried to him,

"Lord Jesus I do come! I give myself to thee; and oh, I beseech thee

in thy great mercy and loving kindness to help me in this my hour of

perplexity and distress!"

Strange what a blessed calm succeeded the storm. She rose from her

knees wondrously soothed and quieted. She had found a Friend who had

pledged His word to help her and who had all power in heaven and in

earth. What need she fear? "If God be for us, who can be against us?"

There might be trouble in store for her--great and sore trouble--but He

would help her through.

There was a sound of gay young voices in the halls without and on

the stairway; a carriage had driven to the door, an open barouche,

and presently she saw it going down the avenue and that Mr. and Mrs.

Dinsmore and the three young ladies were in it.

The older children were away from home, as she knew, spending a few

days at a neighboring plantation; the younger ones were probably in the

nursery.

She watched the carriage till it was lost to sight far down the road,

then was turning from the window, with the thought in her mind that

it would be a blessing to Juliet Marsden, as well as herself, if it

were taking her home to her father's care, when she caught sight of a

horseman coming from the opposite direction.

She stood still, scanning him narrowly as he turned in at the gate and

came cantering up the avenue; as he drew near she recognized him with

a start of surprise--terror mingling with it at first, but changing

instantly to joy that he had assuredly missed the object of his visit.

It was her scoundrel brother; yet spite of all the distress and anguish

of mind he was causing her, she was conscious of a thrill of sisterly

pride in his handsome face and form, and the grace and ease of his

horsemanship.

But she must seize this unhoped-for opportunity; there were motives

she could urge which escaped her thoughts the previous night, and that

might, perhaps, have weight with him; and much now depended upon prompt

action on her part.

She flew down the stairs and admitted him herself, before he had had

time to ring; and fortunately no servant had perceived his approach.

He looked at her in extreme surprise.

"How is this?" he inquired, with an ill-natured sneer, "have you been

promoted to the office of porter?"

"Hush!" she answered, in an imperative whisper. "Come in here;" and she

led the way into a little parlor close at hand.

"Excuse the impertinence, Madame, but I did not come to see you," he

said angrily, as he followed her in.

"I am well aware of that fact," she said in a calm tone of quiet

firmness, as she turned and faced him. "Nevertheless, I believe I am

the one, and the only one you will see; and it is well, for I have

something of importance to say."

"Where is Miss Marsden?" he demanded.

"Gone for a drive, and all the other ladies with her; Mr. Dinsmore

also. The last of the guests left an hour since, and we may chat for a

good while without much fear of interruption."

"Suppose I don't choose," he returned, straightening himself with a

defiant air.

"Harry, you must hear me!" she said, laying a detaining hand upon his

arm, for he was moving toward the door.

"That's a strong word, and one you've no right to use to me," he

answered moodily, yet yielding to her determined will.

She pointed to a chair, and he sat down.

"Speak and be done with it," he said.

Tears sprang to her eyes, but she forced them back.

"Are you mad, Harry, that you venture a return to this country?" she

asked in an undertone, her voice trembling with excitement, "can you

have forgotten the danger that hangs over you?"

"It's trifling, considering the changes five years have made," he said,

with affected nonchalance; but his cheek paled.

"Don't deceive yourself, don't trust to that; I recognized you at the

first glance," she said, with the earnestness of one determined to

convince.

"Well, one of my own family would, of course, be more apt to do so than

any one else. And I was never known in this part of the country."

"No; but people travel about a great deal; Northerners come South

frequently; especially in winter; and you may, any day, come face to

face with some old acquaintance who will recognize you, and have you

arrested; and then--" she hid her face and shuddered. "O Harry," she

cried, "I shall live in terror till I know you are safe on the other

side of the ocean."

"I'll go in all haste when I have secured my prize," he said coldly.

"Give it up," she entreated, "you have no right to drag an innocent

girl down to infamy with you. Better go and make an honest living by

the labor of your hands."

"I wasn't brought up to that, and infinitely prefer to live by my

wits," he answered, with an evil smile, "and they'll have to help me

to the means to pay my passage to those foreign shores you so highly

recommend."

"Sell this: it would surely bring more than enough for that," she said,

pointing to the glittering gem on his finger.

"Paste, my dear, nothing but paste," he laughed. "Clever imitation,

isn't it?"

"Ah, Harry, a fair type of its owner, I fear," she said sorrowfully.

"Thanks for the compliment," he answered with a bitter laugh. "Well,

after all, it is a compliment, taken in the sense that I'm as clever

an imitation of what Miss Marsden takes me for, as this is of a real

diamond; and perhaps she's as good a judge of the first article, as you

are of the other; ha! ha!"

"Harry," cried his sister, "are you utterly heartless? have you no pity

at all for that poor silly girl?"

"Pooh! Gertrude, I have to look out for myself; and other people

must do the same; I tell you it is a case of necessity," he answered

doggedly.

"No," she said, "there cannot be a necessity for wrong doing, and if

persisted in it must end at last in terrible retribution; both in this

world and the next," she added in low, tremulous tones.

"I'll risk it," he said with an oath. "And as to the girl, why she'd

break her silly heart if I should forsake her," he added, with an

unpleasant laugh, "You've no idea how deeply in love she is."

"You are mistaken: she has no heart to break, and loves nobody, half so

well as herself. She will never be the woman to stand by and comfort

you in adversity: therefore you will be doing a foolish thing to make

her your wife, even though you consult your own interest alone."

At that he only laughed, saying that as the girl's money was all he

wanted, he didn't care whether she stood by him or not after he once

got it into his possession.

She renewed her warnings and entreaties, urging every motive she could

think of to induce him to give up his wicked designs upon Juliet

Marsden, and forsake all his evil courses; but in vain; his heart

was fully set in him to do evil, and neither love of his mother and

sisters, nor pity for the deluded girl, could move him.

Nor did fear of punishment deter him. He was no coward, he said,

glorying in his shame, and showing himself utterly devoid of wisdom

'for the fear of the Lord, that is wisdom; and to depart from evil, is

understanding;' and the Bible calls those fools who make a mock at sin,

despise instruction and hate to depart from evil.

At length there was a sound of approaching wheels; upon which he

exclaimed in a relieved tone, "There, you'd better go; it won't help

either you or me for us to be caught together."

"No," she assented, rising hastily, "I must go. O, Harry, think of what

I've been saying, and don't rush headlong to destruction!"

"There! I've had enough of it!" he retorted angrily. "I'll do as I

please. And do you keep yourself quiet."

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Chapter Fourteenth.

"How poor a thing is pride!"

"The beauty you o'erprise so, time or sickness

Can change to loath'd deformity; your wealth

The prey of thieves."

--Massinger.

The most open-handed hospitality having ever been the rule at

Roselands, it was no difficult matter for Count De Lisle to get himself

invited to stay to tea and spend the evening; in fact it was long past

midnight when he at last took leave of Juliet and went away.

The thud of his horse's hoofs as he galloped down the avenue, brought a

pale, haggard face to an upper window; but the dim light of the stars

revealed nothing save the merest outline of the steed and his rider,

and that for but an instant.

The watcher turned away, sighing to herself "I cannot see him, but it

must be he," hastily crossed the room and stole noiselessly into the

hall beyond.

The hours spent by him in dalliance with Juliet (they had had the

drawing-room to themselves since ten o'clock) had been to her--his much

tried sister--a time of bitter anguish and fierce mental conflict.

How could she permit this wickedness? yet how prevent it, when the only

way to do so was by exposing him--her brother?

It seemed a terribly hard thing to do, for she loved him, and his

disgrace was hers, and that of the whole family.

She was sorely tempted to leave Juliet to the fate she seemed to be

drawing upon herself by her egregious folly,--that of becoming the wife

of a spendthrift, and one whose vices had led him to commit a crime

against the laws of the land, the penalty of which was a term of years

in the penitentiary.

It would be a sad fate, but perhaps not undeserved by a girl who would

rush into it in opposition to the known wishes and commands of her

parents.

Harry had unguardedly admitted to his sister that he had no hope of

winning the consent of either Mr. or Mrs. Marsden; that they were, in

fact, so violently opposed to his suit, that he dared not visit their

daughter in her own home; but he had exultingly added that he was

perfectly certain of his ability to persuade Juliet to elope with him,

and meant to do so sooner or later.

Well, should he accomplish that, and escape to Europe with his prize,

his family probably would not suffer any ill consequence. No one here

knew his real name, or had the slightest suspicion that Miss Worth was

in any way connected with him; but she felt morally certain that in

case Mrs. Dinsmore discovered the truth, her situation at Roselands was

lost; she would be sent away without a recommendation; then it might

be months before she could get employment elsewhere, and that meant

beggary to herself, and those nearest and dearest to her.

Surely no motive of self-interest urged her to stretch out a hand to

save Juliet Marsden from falling into the snare spread for her unwary

feet. Yet pity for the girl, a strong sense of justice, and more than

all, a desire to do the will of her new found Friend, prevailed over

all selfish considerations, and she fully determined to give the

warning, though in a way to risk as little as possible, and for the

last half hour she had watched and waited for the opportunity.

Juliet came up the stairs with a light, quick step, and as she passed

underneath the lamp swung from the ceiling, its rays, falling full

upon her, gave to Miss Worth a moment's distinct view of her face.

It wore an expression of exultant joy; the cheeks were flushed, the

eyes glittering, the lips smiling.

"He has offered himself and been accepted," was Miss Worth's

conclusion; "there is no time to be lost;" and stepping forward, she

stood directly in Juliet's path, confronting her with calm, pale face,

and determined air.

"What is the meaning of this?" asked Juliet, recoiling, and regarding

the governess with mingled anger and hauteur, "Will you be good enough

to step aside, and allow me to pass on to my own apartments?"

"Excuse me, Miss Marsden, but I must have a word with you," returned

the person addressed, in low, distinct tones, and not moving a hair's

breadth from the position she had taken.

"Indeed!" was the scornful rejoinder, "and pray, who may you be

that take such airs upon yourself? My aunt's governess, if I am not

mistaken, a person with whom I can have nothing in common. Keep your

communications for those in your own station in life. _Will_ you step

out of my way?"

"Not yet; not till I have discharged my duty to you, Miss Marsden,

I must speak a word of warning; I cannot see you rushing headlong to

destruction without crying out to you to beware; and I have no motive

for doing so but pity for you."

Juliet's astonishment was unbounded. What could the creature mean? What

indeed, but to insult her.

"Pity for me!" she cried with withering scorn, "you, a poor dependent

governess, pity me! me the daughter of a wealthy Kentucky planter and

an heiress in my own right. Keep your compassion for such as want it,

I will none of it!" and she would have pushed past Miss Worth, but the

latter laid a hand on her arm, not roughly but with determination.

"It is of Count De Lisle I would speak to you," she said almost under

her breath. "No, I call that back; for he has no right to either the

name or the title."

"How dare you!" cried Juliet with flashing eyes, shaking off the

detaining hand and drawing herself up to her full height. "What do you

know of him?"

"Far more than you do," returned the other calmly. "I have known him

all his life and I tell you he is not what you suppose--not what he

gives himself out to be;--but a man without fortune or title--an

American by birth and education, and seeking you merely for your

wealth."

"I don't believe a word of it! It's all a pack of lies that you have

invented because you are envious of me. Stand out of my way and don't

presume to speak to me again on this subject, nor any other."

So saying the angry girl swept proudly past the humble governess, whom

she regarded as a menial and an impertinent meddler in her affairs, and

gaining her apartments, shut and locked herself in with a noise that

roused her sleeping sister.

"The impudent creature!" she muttered.

"Who?" queried Reba, starting up in bed. "Have you actually discovered

that pa is right and your count a mercenary adventurer?"

"Nonsense! no; I've learned no such thing!"

"What then? who is the impudent creature you are anathematizing?"

"Aunt Belle's governess. She actually waylaid me in the hall and forced

me to stand still and listen while she uttered a warning against him,

pretending that he was an old acquaintance of hers. I shall complain to

aunt and have her turned adrift for her impertinence."

"Better not," laughed Reba; "'twould only tend to rouse suspicion

against him. It must be very late; I advise you to wake up your maid

and get ready for bed."

The encounter had left Miss Worth in quite as unamiable a frame of mind

as that of her antagonist; for the insulting arrogance of Juliet's

manner had sorely wounded her pride; it was hard to take such treatment

from one who was her superior in nothing but the accident of wealth,

and in fact decidedly inferior in the higher gifts of intellect and

education.

"I wash my hands of the whole affair; I will leave her to her fate,"

Miss Worth said to herself as she turned in at her own door again and

secured it after her.

With that she endeavored to dismiss the whole matter from her mind; she

was exceedingly weary and must have rest, and presently everything was

forgotten in a heavy, dreamless sleep.

But with the first moment of wakefulness the burden again pressed

heavily. She could not be indifferent to her brother's wrong-doing nor

to the danger of his discovery, arrest and punishment for his former

crime.

But the holidays were over and she must return to her duties in the

schoolroom; perhaps it was well for her that it was so, since it

compelled her to give her thoughts to other subjects.

Still taking her meals in the nursery, she saw nothing of the lady

guests till Mildred came in the afternoon with a recitation.

Mildred was quietly and steadily pursuing the course of study which she

had laid out for herself; mingling to some extent in the employments

and pastimes of those about her, but contriving to retire betimes

almost every night, and by early rising to secure the morning hours for

the improvement of her mind; a season safe from interruption by her

aunt and her nieces, as it was always spent by them in bed.

In fact there was so utter an absence of congeniality between Mildred

and the other two girls that they were generally better content to

remain apart. And as Mrs. Dinsmore preferred the companionship of her

own nieces, because of both the ties of kindred and harmony of taste

and feeling, Mildred was left to follow her own inclinations with

little hindrance from them.

But though continuing her studies, Mildred, because she felt that the

governess was entitled to the full benefit of the holiday rest, had

not, during the past two weeks, gone to her for assistance or with

recitations.

She was glad that she might now do so with propriety; for since the

episode of the previous morning she had not been able to forget Miss

Worth's pale, distressed countenance; and was really very anxious about

her.

She felt quite sure there was some deeper trouble than mere physical

pain, and had a longing desire to give sympathy and relief; a desire

untainted by a touch of prying curiosity, and that strengthened so

greatly during this afternoon's interview that she was fain to give

expression to it; doing so with extreme delicacy and tact.

It was when the business part of their interview was over, and Mildred

had closed her books and risen to leave the room.

For a moment Miss Worth was silent, her features working with emotion.

"You are very kind," she said at last. "I wish I might confide fully in

you, but you are so young: too young and free from care to understand

my--"

She broke off abruptly and with a groan, dropped her face upon her

folded arms, on the table at which they had been sitting.

"Perhaps so," Mildred said in gently compassionate tones; "I could

almost wish for your sake that I were older."

Miss Worth lifted her head, and with almost startling suddenness, and

a feverish eagerness in her tones, asked, "Miss Mildred, where is Miss

Juliet Marsden to-day?"

"She has passed the greater part of it in bed, I believe," Mildred

answered in utter surprise.

"Has--has her lover been here since--since he left her last night?"

"The Count? No."

"Can you tell me if she is to go out to-night? and where? and who is

to be her escort? Ah, I see you are wondering at my curiosity and it

is only natural that you should; but believe me, it is not the idle

inquisitiveness it must seem to you," she went on rapidly and in

anguished accents; "for I have a reason; there is much at stake--I--I

have tried to be indifferent--to say to myself that it is nothing to

me if--if that vain, silly girl should meet with the fate her folly

deserves; but I cannot; I must try to save her--and him. Oh, if I could

but save _him_."

And again she hid her face, while sobs shook her from head to foot.

"Him!" Mildred cried in increased amazement, "what is he to you? No,

no, I do not ask that. I have no wish to pry into your secrets."

Miss Worth lifted her head, and wiped away her tears.

"Thank you, for withdrawing that question," she said in a broken

voice, "I cannot answer it; but--but this much I will tell you in the

strictest confidence. I have known him in other days, and he is not

what he professes to be; and it would be ruin, _ruin_ to her!"

"Is that so?" Mildred said, with a startled look. "Then surely you will

warn her?"

"I have done so, Miss Keith, though it was like drawing my eye

teeth to do it; but my sacrifice was unappreciated, my motives were

misconstrued; I was treated with scorn and contempt, and have said to

myself, 'I have a just right to be angry and indignant, and shall leave

her to her fate.'"

"But you will tell my uncle? He might be able to prevent the mischief

by setting a watch upon them, and forbidding the man the house."

"No, no, I cannot betray him!" cried Miss Worth in a startled,

terrified tone, "and you--you will respect my confidence, Miss Keith?"

"Certainly; but--surely you will not suffer Juliet to be sacrificed?"

"I have warned her," returned the governess, coldly, "and since she

refuses to heed, on her own head be the consequences."

It was Mildred's turn to be troubled and perplexed. She stood for a

moment in anxious thought.

"Will you not make one more effort?" she said at length. "Would you not

save him from this wrong doing? May not the consequences be dreadful to

him, too? may not her father take a terrible revenge, as men sometimes

do on the deceivers and betrayers of their daughters?"

Miss Worth started, and her wan cheek turned a shade paler.

"I had not thought of that!" she said, drawing a long breath. "Oh, what

shall I do?"

They consulted together, but with no more definite result than a mutual

agreement to keep a strict watch upon the movements of Juliet and her

pseudo nobleman.

Mildred was again about to withdraw, when Miss Worth stopped her.

"Pardon me, Miss Keith," she said, "but you have not answered my

questions."

"They all go to the theatre to-night, and, as I happen to know, Mr.

Landreth is to escort Miss Juliet."

"Not the count? but she will meet him there; I am sure of it. You do

not go, Miss Mildred?"

"To the theatre! oh, no!"

"Then I must go myself, and watch them."

"Surely that is not necessary," reasoned Mildred, "Uncle, Aunt,

Reba--all close at hand."

"Ah! perhaps not," assented the governess, "Possibly it were wiser to

leave the task to them."

Mildred went to her room to ponder and pray over the matter, for she

was sorely perplexed, and not a little anxious for Juliet.

She asked help and direction for herself and Miss Worth; and that the

latter might be led to do her duty, however difficult and painful.

Greatly she wondered what was the tie between her and this spurious

count, till it flashed upon her that his familiar look was a strong

likeness to the governess. Then she knew it was that of relationship.

Her own duty in the affair formed a serious question in her mind.

Much she wished Miss Worth's communication had not been made in

confidence, and that she were free to carry it to her uncle, who

would, in that case, be sure to interfere effectually to save Juliet

from falling a prey to the schemes of this false, designing man.

She could not break her word to the governess, but at length, recalling

the fact that she had heard Reba say her father was suspicious of Count

De Lisle, she determined to repeat that to her uncle, and thus put him

on his guard against the villain, and his probable plot to inveigle

Juliet into a clandestine marriage.

It was not a pleasant thing for Mildred to do; she would much rather

not interfere, but Juliet must be saved at all risks, and neither she

nor Reba had seemed to make a secret of their father's sentiments.

She went at once in search of Mr. Dinsmore, but learned that he was

closeted with a gentleman on business. Then a summons came for her to

drive out with her aunt; tea was ready when they returned; after that

she was occupied with company in the drawing-room, then in assisting

Juliet and Reba to make their toilet for the evening.

Thus the time slipped by, and when the carriage had driven away with

its load of theatre goers, she retired to her own room, without having

had the least opportunity for a word in private with Mr. Dinsmore.

[Illustration]

Chapter Fifteenth.

"It is vain

(I see) to argue 'gainst the grain."

--Butler.

Juliet had scarcely taken her seat in Mr. Dinsmore's box when a

sweeping glance around the theatre showed her Count De Lisle occupying

another at no great distance.

She telegraphed him behind her fan, and during the interval between the

first and second acts he joined them.

When Juliet re-entered the carriage which was to convey her home, she

carried within her glove, a tiny note written on fine, tinted, highly

scented French paper, which he had adroitly slipped into her hand,

unobserved by any of her companions.

Under cover of the darkness she transferred it to her bosom, and the

first moment that she found herself alone in her dressing-room, it was

hastily drawn forth and read at a glance.

Her cheeks flushed, her eyes shone, as with a triumphant smile she

refolded and laid it safely by.

On leaving the room to go down to her late breakfast the next morning,

she carried it with her; for not for any consideration would she risk

having it seen by other eyes than her own.

She was very late and a good deal flurried in consequence; her thoughts

were busy, too, with the important step she had determined to take

that night. In her absence of mind she must have been guilty of some

carelessness, for on returning to her room, after dawdling for an hour

over her meal in company with her aunt and sister, she was horrified to

find that the note was missing.

In vain she searched her pockets, shook out the folds of her dress,

hunted everywhere, even retracing her steps all the way to the

breakfast parlor and looking under and around the table. It was

hopelessly lost and she dare not make any ado or inquiry about it.

She was exceedingly fretted and troubled but must conceal her anxiety,

only hoping that it had fallen into some place where it would be

undiscovered until she and the count had made good their escape from

Roselands, and placed themselves beyond successful pursuit.

Fortunately, as she esteemed it, no one had been witness to her

perturbation, or her quest, Reba and their aunt having, upon leaving

the table, retired together to the boudoir of the latter.

Dire would have been Juliet's anger and alarm could she have known what

had actually become of her missing treasure.

Miss Worth, in passing between the schoolroom and her own apartment,

caught sight of a bit of paper lying on the floor at the head of the

stairway, and stooping, picked it up.

There was neither seal nor superscription upon the outside; therefore

there seemed nothing wrong or dishonorable in opening it, for indeed

how otherwise was she to learn to whom it belonged in order to restore

it?

One glance told who was the writer (for she was no stranger to his

peculiar chirography), to whom it was addressed, and what it signified.

"My Angel, one o'clock A. M. to-morrow. Signal, cry of an owl beneath

your window. Carriage in waiting beyond the hedge.

"Your adorer."

That was all, but it needed not another word to let her, whose eyes now

scanned it in indignant sorrow fully into their plans.

She sent a quick glance around to satisfy herself that she was unseen,

then crushing the missive in her hand, went on her way deeply thankful

that Juliet had lost and that she had found it.

Yet she was sorely perplexed and anxious; so disturbed that it was no

easy matter to give the necessary attention to her pupils. What should

she do? Appeal again to Juliet? It seemed utterly useless. But this

thing must be prevented; yes, even though it cost her the loss of her

situation.

But, Harry! she shuddered and turned sick and faint at the thought that

he might be taken, identified, and put on trial for the crime committed

years ago. He must be saved at all risks. She would go out, meet and

warn him ere he had quite reached Roselands.

He would be furious; perhaps in his rage do her some bodily harm;

but--he must be saved.

She would give this note to Mr. Dinsmore, she decided, telling him

where she had found it, that she had been well acquainted with the

writer in former years, and recognized the hand.

That would be sufficient to lead him to prevent Juliet's leaving the

house, and if she could succeed in warning Harry away, going and

returning unobserved, all would be well.

But her plans miscarried. Mr. Dinsmore, as she learned on seeking an

interview, had left home after an early breakfast, taken hastily in his

private room, and would not probably return until the next day.

Here was an unexpected difficulty; what now was she to do?

She was slowly mounting the stairs in half despairing mood, when a

pleasant, girlish voice addressed her from the hall below.

"Miss Worth, Pomp has just got back from the city with the mail, and

here is a letter for you."

Mildred bounded up the stairs with the last words, put the letter into

the eagerly outstretched hand of the governess, and hurried on to her

own room to revel in the delights of a long epistle from her mother and

sisters.

She was not half through it when there came a rap upon her door, and

with brows knitting with vexation at the unwelcome interruption, she

rose to open it.

She started back with an exclamation of surprise and terror as Miss

Worth tottered in with a face white even to the lips, and sank

speechless into the nearest chair.

"What is it? what is it?" cried Mildred hastening to bring a glass of

water, and hold it to her lips.

The governess swallowed a mouthful, seemingly with some difficulty,

then putting it aside with her hand, "Don't be alarmed," she whispered,

"I shall be over it in a moment. But it was such a shock; oh, how could

he--how could he be so wicked!"

She ended with a burst of weeping.

Mildred's sympathies were fully aroused; laying her precious letter

carefully away for future perusal, she gave herself to the task of

soothing and comforting the poor distracted woman.

Miss Worth told her story brokenly, still concealing the nature of the

tie that connected her with the pseudo count.

Her letter, from her sister, Mrs. Marks, told of the return to America

of their scape-grace brother, that he had paid them a flying visit

weeks ago, and gone again, they knew not whither, and that shortly

after his departure there had come to them a young, pretty Italian

peasant woman, who claimed to be his wife; showing in proof thereof,

some trinkets which they recognized as having belonged to him, a

marriage certificate, and a baby boy, who was his image.

Miss Worth simply stated to Mildred the facts in regard to the note she

had picked up and that her letter had brought certain intelligence that

Juliet's admirer had already a living wife.

"Oh, dreadful!" cried Mildred, "now surely you will warn her once more?"

"Yes, I will; though doubtless she will refuse to believe it of him."

"But she will not, she cannot be so infatuated as to go on and elope

with him without full proof that the story of his marriage is false."

"I do not know that: she is so supremely silly. But Miss Mildred, I

must see her alone, and how am I to manage it? I have only to-day."

Mildred looked thoughtful. "I don't see how yet, but I must contrive to

make an opportunity for you," she said; and after a little more talk

about ways and means, mingled with some words of sympathy and hope

from the younger to the older girl, they parted; Mildred going down to

luncheon, Miss Worth to her own room.

Half an hour later Mildred joined her there with a face that told of

good news before she opened her lips.

"Aunt Dinsmore thinks uncle may be home to-night," she said, "and I

noticed Juliet did not seem pleased to hear it. She asked how soon,

and aunt said probably not before half past one or two o'clock; as the

train gets into the city about midnight and he must drive over from

there.

"Then aunt proposed that we four ladies should take a drive this

afternoon, and Reba and I accepted her invitation at once, but Juliet

declined, saying she was tired and would find more enjoyment in a novel

and the sofa."

"She stays at home to make her preparations," said Miss Worth.

"Just what I think; and this will be your opportunity," returned

Mildred. "Is it not fortunate? Now I must go and leave you to improve

it. The carriage will be at the door in a few moments."

Miss Worth sat down by her window to watch for it, and as soon as it

had driven quite out of sight went quietly to Juliet's door and knocked.

There was no answer though she could hear some one moving softly about

the room.

She waited a moment, then rapped again a little louder than before.

Still no notice was taken, the quiet footfalls and slight rustle of

silken garments continuing as before.

But she persisted, repeating her knocks at short intervals and with

increasing force till at length the key was turned hastily in the lock

and the door thrown open, showing Juliet's fair face crimson with

passion.

"Will you cease that racket?" she began, then starting back at sight of

the pale determined face, "_You!_" she cried, "is it _you_? How dare

you?" and she would have slammed the door in the face of her unwelcome

visitor, but Miss Worth was too quick for her, and holding it forcibly

open, slipped in, pushed it to, turned the key, and facing the girl who

stood spell-bound with astonishment and fury, said.

"I will not apologize for my seemingly rude behavior, since you have

compelled me to it, and it is only for your own sake that I intrude

upon you."

"Leave this room instantly!" was the passionate rejoinder, "instantly,

do you hear?" stamping her foot with rage.

"Not till I have done my errand and cleared my skirts of your ruin, if

you are still so infatuated as to rush upon it," returned the governess

quietly, folding her arms and placing her back against the door.

"I have already told you the man who seeks your hand is a deceiver, a

spurious nobleman, a mere fortune hunter--"

"Stop!" cried Juliet, interrupting her with fury in her tones and again

stamping her foot, "stop! and leave this room or I will summon the

servants to put you out."

"No, you will not do that," Miss Worth returned with a contemptuous

smile, "you will not want them to hear what I have to tell of your

adorer, or rather the adorer of your wealth--and I will not go till I

have finished what I came to say."

"You think to rob me of him," sneered Juliet, "but you are mistaken.

You are too old and ugly. If he ever fancied you it is all past; he can

never do so again. But I can't believe you were ever really pretty, for

you are as ugly as sin now."

"Thank you," the governess answered with irony. "I rejoice to learn

that you think sin ugly, for it is a sin for you to allow this man to

play the lover to you, and it would be a dreadful sin for you to marry

him; not only because of the entire disapproval of your parents but,"

she added with strong emphasis, "because he _already has a wife_."

For a moment Juliet was struck dumb with astonishment, but recovering

herself, "I don't believe it!" she cried, her cheek crimsoning, her

eyes flashing. "I don't believe a word of it; and if I did I'd marry

him all the same," she added, grinding her teeth. "I would, for I love

him, I love him! and you needn't tell me he's a villain!"

"Marry him! the ceremony would be a mere farce, and you a--not a wife;

for you could not be that while she lives who is his lawful, wedded

wife."

Miss Worth spoke with slow distinctness, her eyes fixed severely upon

Juliet's face.

The latter started back as if stung, then resuming her haughty, defiant

air, "How dare you!" she repeated, "What is he to you? and what proof

can you bring of all that you assert against him?"

"What he is to me does not concern you," said Miss Worth, "My knowledge

of his marriage was gained to-day by a letter from his sister; but if

I should show it to you, you would of course ask how you were to know

that he was the man referred to, or that she was a reliable witness.

No, I can prove nothing; but if you are wise you will require proof

that he is--a man who has a right to offer you his hand; who can make

you his lawful wife; and whom to marry will not be ruin."

"Then I am not wise. Now go!"

"I obey you since my errand is now done," returned the governess with a

stately bow, as she unlocked the door and threw it wide open.

Stepping into the hall she faced her antagonist again for an instant.

"If you will persist in this madness, on your own head be your ruin; my

skirts are clear," she said, and swept proudly away.

It cost Mildred quite an effort to give due attention to Reba's chatter

and the small talk of her aunt, during the hour or more of their drive,

her thoughts being very full of the interview then in progress between

Miss Worth and Juliet.

On reaching home she repaired directly to the room of the former to

hear an account of it.

This the governess gave in detail, concluding with, "You see, Miss

Keith, it is just as I expected; she will not hear reason, she will

take no warning, she is fully bent upon carrying out this mad freak,

and if we save her, it will be in spite of herself."

"Yes; and we have but little time to consider how we shall do it," said

Mildred. "What is your plan?"

"To go myself, a little before his appointed hour, to meet and warn him

away, while you remain in the house and on the watch to prevent her

from leaving it to join him. Are you willing to undertake that, Miss

Mildred?"

"Yes; to the best of my ability. I will rouse the whole house if

necessary to prevent her from getting away with him."

"Thank you," Miss Worth said earnestly. "Miss Keith, I am very sorry to

have to call upon you for this assistance, for it will involve the loss

of your night's rest. But Mr. Dinsmore being unfortunately away--"

"Don't speak of it," interrupted Mildred impulsively; "it is a very

small sacrifice on my part, for I am well and pretty strong again; but

you look wretchedly ill."

"Never mind me, I shall be better when this is over," Miss Worth

answered with a faint smile.

"I will leave you to lie down and rest," Mildred said, rising to go;

"and can't you sleep through the early part of the night, if I am on

guard and ready to wake you at midnight?"

The governess shook her head. "I cannot sleep till this is over. But it

will tend to lull Juliet's suspicions if you will retire at your usual

early hour, and let me call you when the appointed hour draws near."

"It is a wise thought, and we will do so," Mildred said. "And now I

must go and dress for dinner. Try not to be so very anxious. I do

believe it will all turn out well," she added hopefully, as she left

the room.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Chapter Sixteenth.

"Muse not that I thus suddenly proceed;

For what I will, I will, and there's an end."

--Shakespeare.

There were guests from the neighborhood at both dinner and tea, some of

whom remained during the evening.

Juliet was unusually gay and sprightly, but to Mildred, who watched her

furtively, her unwonted mirthfulness seemed to cover other and deeper

feelings. There were signs of agitation, perhaps unnoticed by a casual

observer, a nervous tremor, a hectic flush on her cheek, a slight start

at some sudden noise, or an unexpected address.

She was thrumming on the piano and shrieking out an air from a popular

opera, at the top of her voice, when at ten o'clock, Mildred slipped

quietly away to her own room.

Merely exchanging her evening dress for a neat dressing gown, Mildred

threw herself upon a couch to await Miss Worth's summons, and contrary

to her expectations, presently fell into a sound sleep.

She was awakened by a touch on the shoulder and started up to find the

governess standing by her side.

"Will you come now?" she asked in low, agitated tones. "It is half past

twelve, and I must start out at once."

"Yes, I am quite ready," Mildred answered, and wrapping a shawl about

her shoulders, followed the lead of the governess.

A window on the landing of the principal staircase, down which Juliet

would be likely to pass, was on the same side of the house with the one

under which the signal was to be given.

There could be no better post of observation, and here Mildred seated

herself, upon the broad sill, while her companion, parting from her

with a whispered word of mingled thanks, caution and entreaty, glided

down the stairs and let herself out at a side door, using extreme

caution to make no noise.

Thence she gained the avenue, and beyond that the road. Here she paused

and hesitated. She was not sure from which direction her brother would

come; but she must make a choice.

She did so and crept onward, keeping a narrow foot-path that ran

parallel with the road, and between it and a hedge that enclosed the

lawn and adjacent orchard.

Left thus alone, Mildred sat still, her heart beating fast with

excitement and timidity, for the house was dark and silent almost as

the grave.

But she bethought herself of Him to whom the night shineth as the day,

and darkness and light are both alike, and with the thought grew calm

and quiet. She was in the path of duty, and need fear no evil, because

He was with her.

Yet the waiting time seemed long. How would it end? If Miss Worth were

successful, only in her stealthy return; otherwise probably with the

signal and then a struggle between Juliet and herself.

She had begun to breathe more freely with the thought that the time for

that must have passed, and was straining her ear to catch the faint

sound of Miss Worth's approach, when the loud hoot of an owl from the

shrubbery beneath the window, broke the silence with a suddenness that

nearly startled her from her seat, and set her heart to throbbing

wildly again.

She pressed her hand against her side to still it, while she bent

forward, listening intently for some answering sound from above.

A moment of utter stillness, then a slight creak, as of a door opened

with extreme care, followed by other slight sounds as though some one

were stealing softly down the hall, and Mildred slipped from her perch

and back into the shadow of the wall, almost holding her breath for

what was to come.

The stealthy step drew nearer; something was gliding past her when,

with a quick movement, she stepped before, and threw her arms around

it--a tall, slight figure muffled in a cloak.

There was a low, half stifled cry, then a struggle for release.

"Unhand me," muttered Juliet in a tone of intense, but suppressed fury.

"Is there no limit to your insolent interference?"

"Juliet, it is I!" whispered Mildred, not relaxing her hold in the

least. "I only want to save you from falling a prey to a villain who is

after your money, would ruin you to get it: for he already has a wife."

"I don't believe a word of it! Let me go, let me go, I say!" and

wrenching herself free she dealt Mildred a blow that sent her

staggering against the wall.

But she recovered herself instantly and sprang after Juliet, who was

gliding down the stairs toward the lower hall.

She caught her as they reached the hall below.

"Juliet, Juliet, are you mad?" she panted; "will you forsake all you

love--all that life holds dear for that scoundrel?"

"What business is it of yours?" demanded Juliet fiercely, and trying

with all her strength to shake her off. "I tell you I will not be

prevented by you or anybody. Let go of me, I say, or I will do you a

mischief."

"I will not let you go," returned Mildred. "Come back or I will call

aloud and rouse the house." What would have happened it is impossible

to tell, had not help come at that precise moment.

A carriage had driven up to the front entrance, the rumble of its

wheels sending the cowardly villain in the shrubbery flying to the

adjacent woods.

The girls, in the excitement of their struggle, had not heard its

approach, but the sudden opening of the front door, and the sound of

Mr. Dinsmore's step and voice as he entered, accompanied by his body

servant, to whom he was giving some order as to the disposal of his

luggage, caused them to loose their hold of each other.

Juliet darted up the stairs, while Mildred dropped into a chair; her

strength completely forsaking her with the withdrawal of the necessity

for its exertion.

"Who is here?" demanded Mr. Dinsmore, his ear catching the rustle of

Juliet's garments and the sound of Mildred's heavy breathing.

"Solon, strike a light instantly."

"It is I, uncle," panted Mildred, bursting into hysterical sobs.

"You, Mildred!" he exclaimed in utter astonishment as he recognized the

voice. "Why, child, what on earth are you doing here at this time of

night? All in the dark too. What has gone wrong? are you sick?"

Solon had struck a match and succeeded in lighting the hall lamp, and

with Mr. Dinsmore's last question its rays fell full upon Mildred's

face, showing it pale, agitated, and with eyes brimming with tears.

"Why, you are as white as a sheet!" he exclaimed, laying his hand

affectionately on her shoulder. "Child, child, what is the matter?"

In a few rapid, rather incoherent sentences, she gave him an inkling of

the state of affairs; to which he returned a volley of questions, and

without waiting for an answer to any of them, "Out into the shrubbery,

Solon," he commanded, "call Ajax and Pomp, to help; catch the rascal if

you can, and bring him to me."

Then to Mildred, repeating his queries, "Where is Juliet!" he asked.

"Where is Miss Worth? How does she come to know about the villain or

his plot to carry off Juliet? what is he to her?"

"I don't know, sir, what he is to her," said Mildred, "but she says she

has known him all his life, and a letter she received to-day told her

of his marriage; that he has a living wife."

"He has? the scoundrel!" cried her listener.

"Yes sir; and of course, on learning that, Miss Worth was more than

ever determined to frustrate his plans."

"Well, what more, and where is this precious fool of a Juliet? I wish

all girls were blessed with your common sense, child."

"She ran up stairs as you came in, sir."

"And may have come down by the back stairway and made off with the

rascal, after all!" he exclaimed in alarm. "Run up to her room, Milly,

and see if she is there, while I look about below here."

Mildred went at once, though she would much rather have been excused;

for the errand was no pleasant one; she was very reluctant to meet

Juliet again at that moment; but fortunately was spared the necessity,

as, on nearing the door of Juliet's sleeping room, she distinctly heard

her voice in conversation with Reba.

She hurried down again with her report, which her uncle received with

grim satisfaction.

"That is well," he said. "Now I'll join in the search for the

scoundrel, and I promise you that if we catch him, he'll not get away

unhurt. But where is Miss Worth, child? you have not answered that

question yet."

As he spoke, a side door opened, and a tall black robed figure glided

in.

"Miss Worth!" he exclaimed, catching sight of her face.

"Yes," she said in a hoarse whisper, leaning back against the wall, and

looking ready to faint.

"You are ill," he said; "let me help you into the library and give you

a glass of wine."

She hardly seemed to hear him. Her eyes were fixed in eager, terrified

questioning upon Mildred's face.

"Juliet is in her room," the latter hastened to say.

"Thank God for that!" she said in quivering tones. "And he?"

"Is gone, I suppose. No one has seen him, as far as I know."

At that moment one of the men put his head in at the door. "Can't find

the rascal, massa; reckon he dun gone cl'ar off de place."

"Quite likely; but as he may return, you are to be on the watch till

sunrise," was the reply.

"You didn't meet him?" Mildred asked, drawing near the governess, and

speaking in an undertone.

"No; I must have taken the wrong road. Mr. Dinsmore, I owe you an

explanation. Shall it be given now?"

The voice was very low, very tremulous, but the sad eyes were lifted

unflinchingly to his stern face.

"As you please," he said, his features softening a little at sight of

her distress. "You look hardly able to make it now, and some hours

later will answer just as well. Indeed, I think we would all do well to

go to our beds as soon as possible. But stay a moment."

He stepped into the dining-room, and returned with a glass of wine,

which he offered to the governess, saying, "You look ready to faint;

drink this, it will do you good."

"No, no, never," she cried, shuddering and recoiling as from a serpent;

"it has been the ruin of those I love best."

"Very well," he said coldly, "Mildred, will you take it?"

"No, thank you, uncle; I do not need it and would rather not," the

young girl answered pleasantly.

"Silly girl," he said, draining the glass himself. "Well, good night,

ladies; or rather good morning. Miss Worth, I will see you in the

library directly after breakfast."

So saying he left them.

"What a blessing that it has turned out so well," Mildred said to her

companion.

"Has it?" queried the governess, in a bewildered tone, and putting her

hand to her head. "I feel as though the earth were reeling beneath my

feet. I can not think."

"Let me help you to your room; a few hours' rest will make all right

again with you, I trust," Mildred said compassionately.

"Don't allow yourself to feel anxious or distressed," she went on, as

she assisted her up the stairs. "I am sure uncle will not be hard with

you when he learns how free from blame you are; Juliet has been saved,

and he seems to have escaped, and will not be likely to try it again."

"Ah, if I could have met and warned him," sighed the governess.

"Surely it is better as it is, since he has got away without," reasoned

Mildred: "for might he not have been angry and abusive?"

"True, too true!" she murmured, catching at the balusters to keep from

falling; "yes, it is better so; but my brain reels and I cannot think."

Mildred was alarmed. "What can I do for you?" she asked.

"Nothing, nothing, but help me to my bed, thank you, I shall be better

when I have slept off this horrible fatigue and weakness. Oh, such a

tramp and weary waiting as it was!--out in the cold and darkness on a

lonely road," she gasped shudderingly, as she sank down upon her bed.

"It seemed as if I should drop down and die before I could get back to

the house. And my terror for him! that was the worst of all!"

"I don't think he deserves your love and care for him!" Mildred said,

her indignation waxing hot against the worthless villain.

"Perhaps not," she sighed, "but he loved me once, and he was a noble

fellow then. And I--ah, he told me I had helped to ruin him!"

"But it wasn't true?" Mildred said in a tone of indignant inquiry.

Miss Worth did not seem to hear. "I shall do now," she said presently,

"and you need rest. Do go to your bed, Miss Mildred. Perhaps I shall

sleep if left alone."

Perceiving that she could be of no further assistance, Mildred went not

unwillingly, for she too was quite worn out with fatigue and excitement.

It was eight o'clock when she woke, but she was ready for the summons

to breakfast, which was not served that morning until near nine.

Juliet did not make an appearance at the meal. She was indisposed, Reba

reported, and would take a cup of tea in her own room.

"The best place for her," commented Mr. Dinsmore shortly.

"What do you mean by that?" queried his wife, who had heard nothing of

the occurrences of the past night.

"Just what I say and I hope she will have the grace to stay there till

her father comes for her, as I requested him to do by this morning's

mail."

"Mr. Dinsmore, _will_ you explain yourself?" exclaimed his wife in a

tone of exasperation.

"It will not require many words," he answered drily. "She would have

eloped with another woman's husband last night if she had not been

hindered."

"Another woman's husband!" echoed Reba in astonishment and dismay--"I

did not know it was so bad as that!"

"Dreadful! impossible!" cried Mrs. Dinsmore, dropping her knife and

fork and bursting into tears. "Don't tell me a niece of mine could do

such a thing as that! Mr. Dinsmore, it's a cruel joke."

"No joke at all," he said, "but the simple, unvarnished truth; though

of course she refused to believe that the man was married."

"And who is the wretch?" cried his wife, grinding her teeth. "If you'd

been half a man, you'd have shot him down!"

"I'm no murderer, madam," was the biting retort, "and in my opinion a

cowhiding would much better befit so cowardly a scoundrel. I should

have administered that with hearty good will, could I have laid hands

on him."

"I wish you had!" she exclaimed with passionate vehemence. "I am glad

you wrote for Mr. Marsden, and I hope he will come at once and take

that shameful girl away before she does anything more to bring disgrace

on the family. Reba, why did you let her do so?"

"I, Aunt Belle? I'm not in her confidence, and was as ignorant and

innocent as yourself in regard to the whole thing."

"Who did hinder her? am I not to hear the whole story?" demanded Mrs.

Dinsmore, turning to her spouse again.

"I presume it will all be unfolded to you in time," was the cool reply.

"I have not heard it fully myself yet. Mildred here," and he looked

pleasantly at her, "knows more about it than I do; and to her, I

believe, our thanks are due for preventing the mischief."

"To Miss Worth, uncle, much more than to me," Mildred said, blushing

and feeling decidedly uncomfortable under the surprised, scrutinizing

glances of her aunt and Reba. "It was she who found it all out, tried

to persuade Juliet to give it up, and when she failed in that, told

me--"

"Told you!" interrupted Mrs. Dinsmore, with indignation. "Why did she

not come to me instead? I was the proper person by all odds."

Mildred was at a loss for a reply that should not damage the cause of

the governess; but Mr. Dinsmore came to her relief. "I presume, my

dear, it was to save you from the mortification of hearing of your

niece's contemplated folly, and her from that of having you made

acquainted with it."

[Illustration]

Chapter Seventeenth.

"Do not insult calamity:

It is a barbarous grossness to lay on

The weight of scorn, when heavy misery

Too much already weighs men's fortunes down."

--Daniel.

Returning to her room to don her riding habit, directly after

breakfast, Mildred met Miss Worth on her way to the library to keep her

appointment with Mr. Dinsmore.

"How pale and ill you look!" exclaimed Mildred.

"Ah, you would not wonder if you knew how I shrink from this

interview," sighed the governess.

"I think you need not," Mildred answered kindly; then gave her the

substance of the conversation at the table, in regard to the past

night's occurrences, adding that her uncle's explanation of her

probable motives had entirely appeased Mrs. Dinsmore's anger, and

presumably he did not himself hold her in great disfavor.

"How very good in you to tell me, Miss Keith," the governess said,

grateful tears springing to her eyes. "But I must not delay another

moment, lest I keep him waiting."

She hastened on into the library, and was relieved to find it

tenantless. Unpunctuality would not have helped her cause, and though

the moments of waiting tried her already over-strained nerves, she was

thankful that they had fallen to her lot rather than to his.

She had slept little, waking early, not greatly refreshed, and

tormented with anxiety in regard to her brother's whereabouts,

likelihood to renew his attempt to carry off Juliet, and danger of

arrest on the old charges. This in addition to the care that came

upon her every day:--the ever recurring question how she was to meet

necessary expenses for herself and those dependent upon her.

Almost too weary to stand, yet too restless to remain quiet, she

dropped into a chair for a moment, then rose and paced the floor, at

last pausing beside the fire, and standing there with her right elbow

on the mantel, her forehead in the open palm of her hand, her eyes cast

down, while painful thought surged through her brain.

Thus Mr. Dinsmore found her, so absorbed in her meditations that she

was not aware of his entrance until he coughed slightly to attract her

attention. Then she came out of her reverie with a start.

"Excuse me, sir, but I was not aware that I was no longer alone."

"Time enough," he said; "and let me compliment you on being more

punctual than myself. But you are not looking well or happy."

"No, sir; and I think you will hardly wonder that I do not, when you

have heard what I am here to tell."

"Be seated," he said, waving his hand toward an easy chair, while

taking possession of its fellow, "and let me hear what it is."

She seemed at a loss where to begin her story, and to help her

he remarked interrogatively, "I presume you have no objection to

explaining the cause of your mysterious nocturnal ramble?"

"No," she said, "I went to warn that man away from the house."

"Ah! yes, that may have been the better plan, as I was absent from

home; but what puzzles me is to understand how you knew of his coming."

"I had picked this up in the hall," she said, handing him the little

note.

"But how could it tell you so much, since it gives neither the name of

the writer nor that of the person addressed?"

"The man's writing is perfectly familiar to me," she explained, growing

a shade paler as she spoke; "I have known him intimately for years, and

had learned from him his designs upon Miss Marsden."

"An intimate acquaintance of yours!" he exclaimed in astonishment. "Not

one to be proud of, certainly. May I ask a further explanation? It is

a matter of some consequence to know with what style of persons the

instructress of my children associates."

"I know it; you have a perfect right to ask," she stammered, a crimson

blush suffusing her cheek, hot tears rushing into the downcast eyes.

"Oh, may you never know, Mr. Dinsmore, what it is to have those nearest

and dearest bring shame and disgrace upon you!"

"A relative?" he asked. "Is he not a foreigner?"

She shook her head sorrowfully, and after a moment's struggle for

composure, told him what the man was to her, how he had been led astray

by love for the wine-cup, and the evil influence of an older villain;

that he had left his country years ago, traveling his family knew not

whither, and how unexpectedly she had recognized him in the pseudo

Count of whom Juliet had become enamored; how she had entreated him to

go away, and failing to persuade him, had made a fruitless appeal to

Juliet, disclosing his real character and aims; but only to be scouted

at and contemned as an envious rival; then had sought for him with

the purpose of calling in his aid to save the wilful girl from the

destruction she courted, and failing to find him had enlisted Mildred

in the cause.

"Miss Marsden is a born simpleton!" he commented impatiently. "Well,

Miss Worth, she owes a great deal to your good sense and right feeling.

I, too, am obliged to you. I sympathize with you in the trial of having

such a brother, and do not see that you have been at all to blame in

this unfortunate matter; but rather the contrary.

"However, Mrs. Dinsmore is not always entirely reasonable in her views

and requirements, and it is altogether likely would object longer

receiving your services as governess to her children, if she knew of

your relationship to this man. We will, therefore, keep that matter to

ourselves."

So saying, he dismissed her and the subject together, with a wave of

his hand; and she withdrew with one burden somewhat lightened.

For some days nothing special occurred at Roselands; Juliet kept to her

own apartments; for the most part alone, or with no companionship but

that of her maid; for Reba's strongly expressed disgust and indignation

at her folly had sent her into a fit of the pouts, so that they had

small relish for each other's society; and Mrs. Dinsmore, angry with

her for the disgrace she had so nearly brought upon the family, would

not go near her, nor allow any of the children to do so.

Mildred, too, stayed away, partly in obedience to a hint from her aunt,

and partly because she did not suppose her company would be acceptable;

she and Juliet having never been kindred spirits.

Meanwhile, Miss Worth still took her meals in the nursery with the

younger children, doing so of choice, attended faithfully to her duties

in the schoolroom, but was seldom seen at other times. Her light often

burned far into the night, and day by day she grew thinner and paler

her cheeks more sunken, her eyes more hollow, her step slower and more

languid.

Mildred alone seemed to note the change, but to her kind inquiries the

governess always answered that she was well, and that in a tone that

did not encourage further inquiry or remark.

Mr. Marsden was slow in responding to Mr. Dinsmore's summons, but at

length a letter was received, announcing his intention of starting on

his journey two days after date, and requesting Mr. Dinsmore to keep a

vigilant watch over Juliet until his arrival.

It had come by the mail, which, arriving in the city the previous

night, was brought to Roselands by Pomp, in the morning.

Mr. Dinsmore opened it at the breakfast table, read it to himself, and

with a satisfied smile, passed it on to his wife for her perusal, while

he opened the newspaper, and leisurely glanced over its contents.

"Ah!" he exclaimed presently, with some excitement, "here is a bit of

news. Listen!"

He read it aloud.

"Yesterday, a gentleman from Philadelphia, visiting in our city, met

in the street, and recognized an old acquaintance, one Henry Worth,

formerly of Philadelphia, who, some five years ago, fled thence to

escape trial on a charge of forgery. Worth was of respectable family;

his father had been a man of very considerable wealth, but had failed

shortly before the commission of the crime; brought to ruin, it is

said, by the excesses of this son.

"The young man has been leading a gay life of late, in the assumed

character of a French nobleman--calling himself the Count De Lisle. The

gentleman above referred to promptly reported his case to the police;

he was arrested and is now safely lodged in prison; whence he will be

sent north in a few days for trial."

"So it's all true--that he was a scoundrel!" cried Mrs. Dinsmore, "and

his name's Worth! He's Miss Worth's brother! I know it! I'm sure of it!

and that accounts for her knowing all about him. The wicked, deceitful

thing to hide it as she has done, and impose herself--the sister of a

convict--on me as governess to my children! I never heard of anything

so shameful! I'll give her notice at once, and--"

"Why, my dear, what absurd folly!" exclaimed Mr. Dinsmore impatiently,

angry with her for her unreasonable displeasure, and with himself for

having inadvertently read out the name; "what difference does it make?"

"What difference, Mr. Dinsmore! are you crazy? You may consider paupers

and convicts proper associates for your children, but they are not for

mine, and that woman shall go."

"She is neither a pauper nor a convict," he said, "nor in the least

responsible, so far as I have been able to learn, for the wrong doing

of this man, whom, by the way, you do not know to be her brother; and

if he is, I should think a woman's heart would feel for her in the

terrible sorrow and disgrace of having such a relative."

"Papa, what is a convict?" asked Lora.

"One legally proved guilty of a crime," he said; "and, my dear,

the term does not yet apply to the man himself, (much less to your

governess) as he has not yet been brought to trial."

"It's all the same," she sneered, "for I haven't a doubt of his guilt.

There, you needn't smile, as if I had said a foolish thing!"

"I wish you would not _do_ a foolish thing in sending away one so

well qualified for her duties, and faithful in their performance, as

Miss Worth, merely because she is so unfortunate as to bear the same

name--possibly be nearly related to--a scamp."

"Dear me, papa, I think mamma is quite right," remarked Louise, with a

toss of her head. "I'm sure I don't wish to be taught by such a person."

"When your opinion is desired, Louise, it will be called for," said her

father severely. "In the meantime you may reserve it."

"Well, I mean to ask Miss Worth if that man is her brother?" muttered

the child sullenly.

"You will do no such thing!" returned her father. "I will not have a

word said to her about it."

At that his wife smiled significantly.

"It might be as well to show that paragraph to Juliet," she said,

rising from the table. "Suppose you give me the paper."

"Do so, by all means," he replied, handing it to her.

"Mildred, here is something for Miss Worth. Will you see that she gets

it?"

It, too, was a newspaper, and Mildred hoped compassionately, as she

carried it up stairs, that it did not contain the item of distressing

news for Miss Worth that her uncle had read from the other.

Mrs. Dinsmore had preceded her by several minutes, and her voice

speaking in cold, cutting tones, came to the girl's ear, from the upper

hall, as she set her foot upon the first stair.

"You must be aware that your services are no longer acceptable here,"

she was saying. "In fact you would never have been given the situation

had I known of this disgraceful connection; and I must say I am justly

indignant at the gross deception that has been practiced upon me."

"She must be speaking to Miss Worth; oh, what cruel words!" thought

Mildred.

She had reached the landing, and turning to ascend the short flight

above, caught sight of the speaker and the person addressed.

Miss Worth stood leaning against the wall, one hand clutching at the

balustrade for support, her face deathly pale, and her lips trembling;

Mrs. Dinsmore standing a few feet from her, gathering her dainty skirts

close to her person as if fearful of contamination, her aristocratic

nose high in the air, her countenance expressing scorn, contempt, and

righteous indignation.

"What have you to say for yourself?" she demanded.

"Nothing, but that I am guiltless of any intentional wrong," the

governess replied, lifting her head, and speaking in a tone of quiet

despair, "and that I have faithfully performed my duties to the best of

my ability."

"You don't deny, then, that this scoundrel, this felon--"

"Madame," interrupted the governess, her eyes flashing, while a bright

red spot burned on each cheek, "he is not that, for he has never been

convicted of, nor so much as brought to trial for any crime."

"Insolence!" exclaimed Mrs. Dinsmore. "Well, if he hasn't been yet, he

soon will be, and get his deserts, I sincerely hope."

And picking up the newspaper, which seemed to have dropped from Miss

Worth's nerveless hand, she swept on toward Juliet's apartments; in

another moment had disappeared within them, shutting the door after her.

The fire had died out of Miss Worth's eye, the red had left her cheek,

and she was swaying from side to side; only her hold on the balustrade

keeping her from falling.

Mildred sprang toward her. "Lean on me," she said. "Let me help you to

your room. Don't be so troubled; the Lord will take care of you and

yours, if you put your trust in Him."

She did not know whether or not her words were heard and understood.

The poor woman answered only with a heavy sigh and whispered, "Thank

you. I shall be better soon. But oh, what will become of them all! my

mother, my poor mother! He was her pride, her idol!"

Sympathetic tears streamed over Mildred's cheeks as she assisted her to

her room.

"I'm to go away, Miss Mildred," she said, "turned off in disgrace for

what is no fault of mine: no fault but my bitter, bitter sorrow! God

help me and those dependent on me!"

"He will," Mildred answered chokingly; "He is so kind, so full of

compassion; His tender mercies are over all his works!"

She stayed a little while trying to administer consolation, then

putting the paper into Miss Worth's hands, merely saying that it had

come by that morning's mail, she went away.

Finding Rachel busy in her room, she stepped back into the hall and

stood for a few moments at the window there, looking out into the

avenue below where Mr. Dinsmore was mounting his horse to make his

daily morning round of the plantation.

Suddenly there was a sound in Miss Worth's room as of a heavy body

falling to the floor.

Mildred ran to her door, and rushing in without the ceremony of

knocking, found the poor governess stretched, apparently lifeless, upon

the floor, the newspaper lying by her side.

Mildred's eye, as she stooped over the prostrate form, was caught by a

paragraph that was heavily marked.

But the present was no time to examine it, and pushing the paper

aside, she hastened to loosen the clothing of the fainting woman, at

the same time giving directions to the two or three servants who had

been attracted by the noise of the fall, and followed her into the room.

"Throw up that window, Minerva! Some cold water, Fanny, quick, quick!

And you, Rachel, run to my room for my smelling salts."

"O, Miss Milly, is she done gone dead?" asked Fanny fearfully, as she

sprinkled the water upon the still, white face.

"No, no; it's only a bad faint," Mildred answered, but her own heart

quaked with fear as she spoke; the pinched features were so deathlike

in their fixedness and pallor.

And spite of every effort they remained so till, nearly wild with

terror, Mildred bade the servants summon other assistance.

"Call Mrs. Brown," she said. "Ask aunt if we shall not send for the

doctor."

They hurried away to do her bidding, while she renewed her exertions,

sending up silent, importunate petitions the while to her heavenly

Friend.

They were answered; Miss Worth sighed deeply, opened her eyes and

lifted them to the young face bent over her, with a look of such

hopeless, heart-breaking anguish, that the girl burst into sobs and

tears.

"Oh, what is it? what is it?" she said.

"He--he was my husband--and--and I _loved him_," came in a hoarse

whisper from the colorless lips, and with the last word she swooned

again.

"She has lost her reason," thought Mildred. "Poor, poor thing! oh,

perhaps it may be better for her if she never comes to herself again."

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Chapter Eighteenth.

"Never morning wore

To evening, but some heart did break."

--Tennyson.

They brought the housekeeper and the family physician. The latter

pronounced the patient very ill, and with good reason; for she passed

out of one swoon only to fall into another, till they thought that her

end was surely near at hand.

However after some hours the immediate danger seemed over and the

doctor left, promising to return before night.

Mrs. Dinsmore had been awed and frightened into something slightly akin

to terror and remorse on account of her excessive harshness, but now

shook it off.

"Really she takes her dismissal very hard," she remarked to Mildred as

the latter was leaving the dinner table. "I had no idea she was so much

attached to Roselands."

"I do not think it could be that alone, aunt," Mildred returned in

surprise and disgust.

"What then?"

"Her relative's disgrace; the poverty and distress to herself and a

mother and sister dependent on her, consequent on being thrown out of

employment."

Then with a sudden recollection of that paper with its marked

paragraph, Mildred hastened from the room and went in search of it.

The patient had fallen asleep, Rachel watching at her side.

A glance showed Mildred the paper folded and laid upon the table. She

opened it cautiously, found the article she sought and read it.