I.

"Look here, Johnny Ludlow," said Darbyshire to me--Darbyshire being, as

you may chance to remember, our doctor at Timberdale--"you seem good

at telling of unaccountable disappearances: why don't you tell of that

disappearance which took place here?"

I had chanced to look in upon him one evening when he was taking rest in

his chimney-corner, in the old red-cushioned chair, after his day's work

was over, smoking his churchwarden pipe in his slippers and reading the

story of "Dorothy Grape."

"We should like to see that disappearance on paper," went on Darbyshire.

"It is the most curious thing that has happened in my experience."

True enough it was. Too curious for any sort of daylight to be seen

through it; as you will acknowledge when you hear its details; and far

more complicated than the other story.

The lawyer at Timberdale, John Delorane, was a warm-hearted and

warm-tempered man of Irish extraction. He had an extensive practice, and

lived in an old-fashioned, handsome red-brick house in the heart of

Timberdale, with his only daughter and his sister, Hester.

You may have seen prettier girls than Ellin Delorane, but never one

that the heart so quickly went out to. She was too much like her dead

mother; had the same look of fragile delicacy, the same sweet face with

its pensive sadness, the soft brown eyes and the lovely complexion. Mrs.

Delorane had died of decline: people would say to one another, in

confidence, they hoped Ellin might escape it.

The largest and best farm in the neighbourhood of Timberdale, larger

than even that of the Ashtons, was called the Dower Farm. It belonged

to Sir Robert Tenby, and had been occupied for many years by one Roger

Brook, a genial, pleasant gentleman of large private means apart from

his success in farming. Rich though he was, he did not disdain to see

practically after his work himself; was up with the lark and out with

his men, as a good farmer ought to be. Out-of-doors he was the keen,

active, thorough farmer; indoors he lived as a gentleman. He had four

children: three boys and one girl, who were all well and comprehensively

educated.

But he intended his sons to work as he had worked: no idleness for him;

no leading of indolent and self-indulgent lives. "Choose what calling

you please," he said to them; "but stick to it when chosen, and do your

very best in it." The eldest son, Charles, had no fancy for farming,

no particular head for any of the learned professions; he preferred

commerce. An uncle, Matthew Brook, was the head of a mercantile house in

New York; he offered a post in it to Charles, who went out to him. The

second son, Reginald, chose the medical profession; after qualifying

for it, he became assistant to a doctor in London to gain experience.

William, the third son, went to Oxford. He thought of the Church, but

being conscientious, would not decide upon it hastily.

"So that not one of you will be with me," remarked Mr. Brook. "Well, be

it so. I only want you to lead good and useful lives, striving to do

your duty to God and to man."

But one of those overwhelming misfortunes, that I'm sure may be compared

with the falling of an avalanche, fell on Mr. Brook. In an evil hour

he had become a shareholder in a stupendous undertaking which had

banking for its staple basis; and the thing failed. People talked of

"swindling." Its managers ran away; its books and money were nowhere;

its shareholders were ruined. Some of the shareholders ran away too;

Roger Brook, upright and honourable, remained to face the ruin. And

utter ruin it was, for the company was one of unlimited liability.

The shock was too much for him: he died under it. Every shilling he

possessed was gone; harpies (it is what Timberdale called them) came

down upon his furniture and effects, and swept them away. In less time

almost than it takes to tell of, not a vestige remained of what had

been, save in memory: Sir Robert Tenby had another tenant at the Dower

Farm, and Mrs. Brook had moved into a little cottage-villa not a stone's

throw from Darbyshire's. She had about two hundred a-year of her own,

which no adverse law could touch. Her daughter, Minnie, remained with

her. You will hardly believe it, but they had named her by the romantic

name of Araminta.

William Brook had come down from Oxford just before, his mind made up

_not_ to be a clergyman, but to remain on the farm with his father. When

the misfortunes fell, he was, of course, thrown out; and what to turn

his hand to he did not at once know. Brought up to neither profession

nor trade, no, nor to farming, it was just a dilemma. At present, he

stayed with his mother.

One day he presented himself to Mr. Delorane. "Can you give me some

copying to do, sir?" he asked: "either at your office here, or at home.

I write a good clear hand."

"What do you mean to do, Master William?" returned the lawyer, passing

over the question. The two families had always been intimate and much

together.

"I don't know what; I am waiting to see," said William. He was a slender

young fellow of middle height, with gentle manners, a very nice, refined

face, and a pair of honest, cheery, dark-blue eyes.

"Waiting for something to turn up, like our old friend Micawber!" said

the lawyer.

"If I could earn only a pound a-week while I am looking out, I should

not feel myself so much of a burden on my mother--though she will not

hear me say a word about that," the young man went on. "You would not

take me on as clerk and give me that sum, would you, Mr. Delorane?"

Well, they talked further; and the upshot was, that Mr. Delorane did

take him on. William Brook went into the office as a clerk, and was paid

a pound a-week.

The parish wondered a little, making sundry comments over this at its

tea-tables: for the good old custom of going out to real tea was not out

of fashion yet in Timberdale. Every one agreed that William Brook was to

be commended for putting his shoulder to the wheel, but that it was a

grave descent for one brought up to his expectations. Mr. St. George

objected to it on another score.

Years before, there had arrived in England from the West Indies a little

gentleman, named Alfred St. George. His father, a planter, had recently

died, and the boy's relatives had sent him home to be educated, together

with plenty of money for that purpose. Later, when of an age to leave

school, he was articled to Mr. Delorane, and proved an apt, keen pupil.

Next he went into the office of a renowned legal firm in London, became

a qualified lawyer and conveyancer, and finally accepted an offer made

him by Mr. Delorane, to return to Timberdale, as his chief and managing

clerk. Mr. Delorane paid him a handsome salary, and held out to him, as

report ran, hopes of a future partnership.

Alfred St. George had grown up a fine man; tall, strong, lithe and

active. People thought his face handsome, but it had unmistakably a

touch of the tar-brush. The features were large and well formed, the

lips full, and the purple-black hair might have been woolly but for

being drilled into order with oils. His complexion was a pale olive, his

black eyes were round, showing a great deal of the whites, and at times

they wore a very peculiar expression. Take him for all in all, he was a

handsome man, with a fluent tongue and persuasive eloquence.

It was Mr. St. George who spoke against William Brook's being taken on

as clerk. Not that his objection applied to the young man himself, but

to his probable capacity for work. "He will be of no use to us, sir,"

was the substance of his remonstrance to Mr. Delorane. "He has had no

experience: and one can hardly snub Brook as one would a common clerk."

"Don't suppose he will be of much use," carelessly acquiesced Mr.

Delorane, who was neither a stingy nor a covetous man. "What could I do

but take him on when he asked me to? I like the young fellow; always

did; and his poor father was my very good friend. You must make the best

of him, St. George: dare say he won't stay long with us." At which St.

George laughed good-naturedly and shrugged his shoulders.

But William Brook did prove to be of use. He got on so well, was so

punctual, so attentive, so intelligent, that fault could not be found

with him; and at the end of the first year Mr. Delorane voluntarily

doubled his pay--raising it to two pounds per week.

Timberdale wondered again: and began to ask how it was that young Brook,

highly educated, and reared to expect some position in the world, could

content himself with stopping on, a lawyer's clerk? Did he mean to

continue in the office for ever? Had he ceased to look out for that

desirable something that was to turn up? Was he parting with all

laudable ambition?

William Brook could have told them, had he dared, that it was not lack

of ambition chaining him to his post, but stress of love. He and Ellin

Delorane had entered a long while past into the mazes of that charming

dream, than which, as Tom Moore tells us, there's nothing half so sweet

in life, and the world was to them as the Garden of Eden.

It was close upon the end of the second year before Mr. Delorane found

it out. He went into a storm of rage and reproaches--chiefly showered

upon William Brook, partly upon Ellin, a little upon himself.

"I have been an old fool," he spluttered to his confidential clerk.

"Because the young people had been intimate in the days when the Brooks

were prosperous, I must needs let it go on still, and never suspect

danger! Why, the fellow has had his tea here twice a-week upon an

average!--and brought Ellin home at night when she has been at his

mother's!--and I--I--thought no more than if it had been her brother!

I could thrash myself! And where have her aunt Hester's eyes been, I

should like to know!"

"Very dishonourable of Brook," assented St. George, knitting his brow.

"Perhaps less harm is done than you fear, sir. They are both young, can

hardly know their own minds; they will grow out of it. Shall you part

them?"

"Do you suppose I shouldn't?" retorted the lawyer.

William Brook was discharged from the office: Ellin received orders to

give up his acquaintanceship; she was not to think of him in private or

speak to him in public. Thus a little time went on. Ellin's bright face

began to fade; Aunt Hester looked sick and sorry; the lawyer had never

felt so uncomfortable in his life.

Do what he would, he could not get out of his liking for William Brook,

and Ellin was dear to him as the apple of his eye. He had been in love

himself once, and knew what it meant; little as you would believe it of

a stout old red-faced lawyer; knew that both must be miserable. So much

the better for Brook--but what of Ellin?

"One would think it was you who had had your lover sent to the

right-about!" he wrathfully began to Aunt Hester, one morning when he

came upon her in tears as she sat at her sewing. "I'd hide my face if I

were you, unless I could show a better."

"It is that I am so sorry for Ellin, John," replied Aunt Hester, meekly

wiping her tears. "I--I am afraid that some people bear sorrow worse

than others."

"Now what do you mean by that?"

"Oh, not much," sighed Aunt Hester, not daring to allude to the dread

lying latent in her own mind--that Ellin might fade away like her

mother. "I can see what a sharp blow it has been to the child, John, and

so--and so I can but feel it myself."

"Sharp blow! Deuce take it all! What business had young Brook to get

talking to her about such rubbish as love?"

"Yes indeed, it is very unfortunate," said Aunt Hester. "But I do not

think he has talked to her, John; I imagine he is too honourable to have

said a single word. They have just gone on loving one another in secret

and in silence, content to live in the unspoken happiness that has

flooded their two hearts."

"Unspoken fiddlestick? What a simpleton you are, Hester!"

Mr. Delorane turned off in a temper. He knew it must have been a

"sharp blow" to Ellin, but he did not like to hear it so stated to his

face. Banging the door behind him, he was crossing the hall to the

office--which made a sort of wing to the house--when he met William

Brook.

"Will you allow me to speak to you, sir?" asked the young man in a tone

of deprecation. And, though the lawyer had the greatest mind in the

world to tell him NO and send him head-foremost out again, he thought of

Ellin, he thought of his dead friend, Roger Brook; so he gave a growl,

and led the way into the dining-room.

In his modest winning way, William Brook spoke a little of the trouble

that had come upon their family--how deeply sorry he was that Ellin and

he should have learnt to care for one another for all time, as it was

displeasing to Mr. Delorane----

"Hang it, man," interrupted the lawyer irascibly, too impatient to

listen further--"what on earth do you propose to yourself? Suppose I did

not look upon it with displeasure?--are you in a position to marry her?"

"You would not have objected to me had we been as we once

were--prosperous, and----"

"What the dickens has that to do with it!" roared the lawyer. "Our

business lies with the present, not the past."

"I came here to tell you, sir, that I am to leave for New York to-night.

My brother Charles has been writing to me about it for some time past.

He says I cannot fail to get on well in my uncle's house, and attain

to a good position. Uncle Matthew has no sons: he will do his best to

advance his nephews. What I wish to ask you, sir, is this--if, when my

means shall be good and my position assured, you will allow me to think

of Ellin?"

"The man's mad?" broke forth Mr. Delorane, more put about than he had

been at all. "Do you suppose I should let my only child go to live in a

country over the seas?"

"No, sir, I have thought of that. Charles thinks, if I show an aptitude

for business, they may make me their agent over here. Oh, Mr. Delorane,

be kind, be merciful: for Ellin's sake and for mine! Do not send me away

without hope!"

"Don't you think you possess a ready-made stock of impudence, William

Brook?"

The young man threw his earnest, dark-blue eyes into the lawyer's. "I

feared you would deem so, sir. But I am pleading for what is dearer to

me and to her than life: our lives will be of little value to us if we

must spend them apart. Only just one ray of possible hope, Mr. Delorane!

It is all I ask."

"Look here; we'll drop this," cried the lawyer, his hands in his

pockets, rattling away violently at the silver in them, his habit when

put out, but nevertheless calming down in temper, for in spite of

prejudice he did like the young man greatly, and he was not easy as to

Ellin. "The best thing you can do is to go where you are going--over the

Atlantic: and we'll leave the future to take care of itself. The money

you think to make may turn out all moonshine, you know. There; that's

every word I'll say and every hope I'll give, though you stop all day

bothering me, William Brook."

And perhaps it was as much as William Brook had expected: any way, it

did not absolutely forbid him to hope. He held out his hand timidly.

"Will you not shake hands with me, sir--I start to-night--and wish me

God speed."

"I'll wish you better sense; and--and I hope you'll get over safely,"

retorted Mr. Delorane: but he did not withhold his hand. "No

correspondence with Ellin, you understand, young man; no underhand

love-making."

"Yes, sir, I understand; and you may rely upon me."

He quitted the room as he spoke, to make his way out as he came--through

the office. The lawyer stood in the passage and looked after him: and a

thought, that had forced itself into his mind several times since this

trouble set in, crossed it again. Should he make the best of a bad

bargain: give Brook a chief place in his own office and let them set up

in some pleasant little home near at hand? Ellin had her mother's money:

and she would have a great deal more at his own death; quite enough to

allow her husband to live the idle life of a gentleman--and William was

a gentleman, and the nicest young fellow he knew. Should he? For a full

minute Mr. Delorane stood deliberating--yes, or no; then he took a hasty

step forward to call the young man back. Then, wavering and uncertain,

he stepped back again, and let the idea pass.

"Well, how have you sped?" asked Mr. St. George, as William Brook

reappeared in the office. "Any hope?"

"Yes, I think so," answered William. "At least, it is not absolutely

forbidden. There's a line in a poem my mother would repeat to us when we

were boys--'God and an honest heart will bear us through the roughest

day.' I trust He, and it, will so bear me and Ellin."

"Wish I had your chance, old fellow!"

"My chance!" repeated William.

"To go out to see the world; to go out to the countries where gold and

diamonds are picked up for the stooping--instead of being chained, as I

am, between four confined walls, condemned to spend my life over musty

parchments."

William smiled. "I don't know where you can pick up gold and diamonds

for the stooping. Not where I am going."

"No, not in New York. You should make your way to the Australian

gold-fields, Brook, or to the rich Californian mines, or to the diamond

mountains in Africa, and come back--as you would in no time--with a sack

of money on your shoulders, large enough to satisfy even Delorane."

"Or lose my health, if not my life, in digging, and come home without

a shirt to my back; a more common result than the other, I fancy,"

remarked William. "Well, good-bye, old friend."

St. George, towering aloft in his height and strength, put his

arm around William's shoulder and walked thus with him to the

street-entrance. There they shook hands, and parted. Ellin Delorane,

her face shaded behind the drawing-room curtain from the October sun,

watched the parting.

There was to be no set farewell allowed to her. She understood that.

But she gathered from Aunt Hester, during the day, that her father had

not been altogether obdurate, and that if William could get on in the

future, perhaps things might be suffered to come right. It brought to

her a strange comfort. So very slight a ray, no bigger than one of the

specks that fall from the sky, as children say, will serve to impart a

most unreasonable amount of hope to the troubled heart.

Towards the close of the afternoon, Ellin went in her restlessness to

pay a visit to her friend Grace at the Rectory, who had recently become

Herbert Tanerton's wife, and sat talking with her till it was pretty

late. The moon, rising over the tops of the trees, caused her to start

up with an exclamation.

"What will Aunt Hester say?"

"If you don't mind going through the churchyard, Ellin," said Grace,

"you would cut off that corner, and save a little time." So Ellin took

that route.

"Ellin!"

"William!"

They had met face to face under the church walls. He explained that he

was sparing a few minutes to say farewell to his friends at the Rectory.

The moon, coming out from behind a swiftly passing cloud, for it was

rather a rough night, shone down upon them and upon the graves around

them. Wildly enough beat the heart of each.

"You saw papa to-day," she whispered unevenly, as though her breath were

short.

"Yes, I saw him. I cannot say that he gave me hope, Ellin, but he

certainly did not wholly deny it. I think--I believe--that--if I can

succeed in getting on, all may be well with us yet."

William Brook spoke with hesitation. He felt trammelled; he could not

in honour say what he would have wished to say. This meeting might be

unorthodox, but it was purely accidental; neither he nor Ellin had

sought it.

"Good-bye, my darling," he said with emotion, clasping her hands in his.

"As we have met, there cannot be much wrong in our saying it. I may

not write to you, Ellin; I may not even ask you to think of me; I may

not, I suppose, tell you in so many words that I shall think of you;

but, believe this: I go out with one sole aim and end in view--that of

striving to make a position sufficiently fair to satisfy your father."

The tears were coursing down her cheeks; she could hardly speak for

agitation. Their hearts were aching to pain.

"I will be true to you always, William," she whispered. "I will wait for

you, though it be to the end of life."

To be in love with a charming young lady, and to have her all to

yourself in a solitary graveyard under the light of the moon, presents

an irresistible temptation for taking a kiss, especially if the kiss

is to be a farewell kiss for days and for years. William Brook did not

resist it; very likely did not try to. In spite of Mr. Delorane and

every one else, he took his farewell kiss from Ellin's lips.

Then they parted, he going one way, she the other. Only those of

us--there are not many--who have gone through this parting agony can

know how it wrings the heart.

But sundry superstitious gossips, hearing of this afterwards, assured

Ellin that it must be unlucky to say farewell amidst graves.

* * * * *

The time went on. William Brook wrote regularly to his people, and Minty

whispered the news to Ellin Delorane. He would send kind remembrances to

friends, love to those who cared for it. He did not dislike the work of

a mercantile life, and thought he should do well--in time.

In time. There was the rub, you see. We say "in time" when we mean next

Christmas, and we also say it when we mean next century. By the end of

the first year William Brook was commanding a handsome salary; but the

riches that might enable him to aspire to the hand of Miss Delorane

loomed obscurely in the distance yet. Ellin seemed strong and well, gay

and cheerful, went about Timberdale, and laughed and talked with the

world, just as though she had never had a lover, or was not waiting for

somebody over the water. Mr. Delorane thought she must have forgotten

that scapegrace, and he hoped it was so.

It was about this time, the end of the first year, that a piece of good

luck fell to Mr. St. George. He came into a fortune. Some relative in

the West Indies died and left it to him. Timberdale put it down at a

thousand pounds a-year, so I suppose it might be about five hundred. It

was thought he might be for giving up his post at Mr. Delorane's to

be a gentleman at large. But he did nothing of the kind. He quitted

his lodgings over Salmon's shop, and went into a pretty house near

Timberdale Court, with a groom and old Betty Huntsman as housekeeper,

and set up a handsome gig and a grey horse. And that was all the change.

As the second year went on, Ellin Delorane began to droop a little. Aunt

Hester did not like it. One of the kindest friends Ellin had was Alfred

St. George. After the departure of young Brook, he had been so tender

with Ellin, so considerate, so indulgent to her sorrow, and so regretful

(like herself) of William's absence, that he had won her regard. "It

will be all right when he comes back, Ellin," he would whisper: "only be

patient."

But in this, the second year, Mr. St. George's tone changed. It may be

that he saw no hope of any happy return, and deemed that, for her own

sake, he ought to repress any hope left in her.

"There's no more chance of his returning with a fortune than there is of

my going up to the moon," he said to Tod confidentially one day when we

met him striding along near the Ravine.

"Don't suppose there is--in this short time," responded Tod.

"I'm afraid Ellin sees it, too: she seems to be losing her spirits.

Ah, Brook should have done as I advised him--gone a little farther and

dug in the gold-fields. He might have come back a Croesus then. As it

is--whew! I wouldn't give a copper sixpence for his chance."

"Do you know what I heard say, St. George?--that you'd like to go in for

the little lady yourself."

The white eye-balls surrounding St. George's dark orbs took a tinge of

yellow as they rolled on Tod. "Who said it?" he asked quietly.

"Darbyshire. He says you are in love with her as much as ever Brook

was."

St. George laughed. "Old Darbyshire? Well, perhaps he is not far wrong.

Any way, love's free, I believe. Were I her father, Brook should prove

his eligibility to propose for her, or else give her up. Good-day,

Todhetley; good-day, Johnny."

St. George went off at a quick pace. Tod, looking after him, made his

comments. "Should not wonder but he wins her. He is the better man of

the two----"

"The better man!" I interrupted.

"As to means, at any rate: and see what a fine upright free-limbed

fellow he is! And where will you find one more agreeable?"

"In tongue, nowhere; I admit that. But I wouldn't give up William Brook

for him, were I Ellin Delorane."

That St. George was in love with her grew as easy to be seen as is the

round moon in harvest. Small blame to him. Who could be in the daily

companionship of a sweet girl like Ellin Delorane, and not learn to love

her, I should like to know? Tod told St. George he wished he had his

chance.

At last St. George spoke to her. It was in April, eighteen months after

Brook's departure. Ellin was in the garden at sunset, busy with the

budding flowers, when St. George came to join her, as he sometimes did,

on leaving the office for the day. Aunt Hester sat sewing at the open

glass-doors of the window.

"I have been gardening till I am tired," was Ellin's greeting to him, as

she sat down on a bench near the sweetbriar bush.

"You look pale," said Mr. St. George. "You often do look pale now,

Ellin: do you think you can be quite well?"

"Pray don't let Aunt Hester overhear you," returned Ellin in covert,

jesting tones. "She begins to have fancies, she says, that I am not as

well as I ought to be, and threatens to call in Mr. Darbyshire."

"You need some one to take care of you; some one near and dear to you,

who would study your every look and action, who would not suffer the

winds of heaven to blow upon your face too roughly," went on St. George,

plunging into Shakespeare. "Oh, Ellin, if you would suffer me to be that

one----"

Her face turned crimson; her lips parted with emotion; she rose up to

interrupt him in a sort of terror.

"Pray do not continue, Mr. St. George. If--if I understand you rightly,

that you--that you----"

"That I would be your loving husband, Ellin; that I would shelter you

from all ill until death us do part. Yes, it is nothing less than that."

"Then you must please never to speak of such a thing again; never to

think of it. Oh, do not let me find that I have been mistaking you all

this time," she added in uncontrollable agitation: "that while I have

ever welcomed you as my friend--and his--you have been swayed by another

motive!"

He did not like the agitation; he did not like the words; and he bit his

lips, striving for calmness.

"This is very hard, Ellin."

"Let us understand each other once for all," she said--"and oh, I

am so sorry that there's need to say it. What you have hinted at is

impossible. Impossible: please not to mistake me. You have been my very

kind friend, and I value you; and, if you will, we can go on still on

the same pleasant terms, caring for one another in friendship. There

can be nothing more."

"Tell me one thing," he said: "we had better, as you intimate,

understand each other fully. Can it be that your hopes are still fixed

upon William Brook?"

"Yes," she answered in a low tone, as she turned her face away. "I hope

he will come home yet, and that--that matters may be smoothed for us

with papa. Whilst that hope remains it is simply treason to talk to me

as you would have done," she concluded with a spurt of anger.

"Ellin," called out Aunt Hester, putting her head out beyond the

glass-doors, "the sun has set; you had better come in."

"One moment, Ellin," cried Mr. St. George, preventing her: "will you

forgive me?"

"Forgive and forget, too," smiled Ellin, her brow smoothing itself.

"But you must never recur to the subject again."

So Mr. St. George went home, his accounts settled--as Tod would have

said: and the days glided on.

* * * * *

"What is it that ails Ellin?"

It was a piping-hot morning in July, in one of the good old hot

summers that we seem never to get now; and Aunt Hester sat in her

parlour, its glass-doors open, adding up the last week's bills of the

butcher and the baker, when she was interrupted by this question from

her brother. He had come stalking upon her, rattling as usual, though

quite unconsciously, the silver in his trousers pockets. The trousers

were of nankeen: elderly gentlemen wore them in those days for

coolness.

"What ails her!" repeated Aunt Hester, dropping the bills in alarm.

"Why do you ask me, John?"

"Now, don't you think you should have been a Quaker?" retorted Mr.

Delorane. "I put a simple question to you, and you reply to it by asking

me another. Please to answer mine first. What is it that is the matter

with Ellin?"

Aunt Hester sighed. Of too timid a nature to put forth her own opinion

upon any subject gratuitously in her brother's house, she hardly liked

to give it even when asked for. For the past few weeks Ellin had been

almost palpably fading; was silent and dispirited, losing her bright

colour, growing thinner; might be heard catching her breath in one

of those sobbing sighs that betoken all too surely some secret,

ever-present sorrow. Aunt Hester had observed this; she now supposed

it had at length penetrated to the observation of her brother.

"Can't you speak?" he demanded.

"I don't know what to say, John. Ellin does not seem well, and looks

languid: of course this broiling weather is against us all. But----"

"But what?" cried the lawyer, as she paused. "As to broiling weather,

that's nothing new in July."

"Well, John--only you take me up so--and I'm sure I shouldn't like to

anger you. I was about to add that I think it is not so much illness

of body with Ellin as illness of mind. If one's mind is ransacked with

perpetual worry----"

"Racked with perpetual worry," interrupted Mr. Delorane, unconsciously

correcting her mistake. "What has she to worry her?"

"Dear me! I suppose it is about William Brook. He has been gone nearly

two years, John, and seems to be no nearer coming home with a fortune

than he was when he left. I take it that this troubles the child: she

is losing hope."

Mr. Delorane, standing before the open window, his back to his sister,

turned the silver coins about in his pockets more vehemently than

before. "You say she is not ailing in body?"

"Not yet. She is never very strong, you know."

"Then there's no need to be uneasy."

"Well, John--not yet, perhaps. But should this state of despair, if I

don't use too strong a word, continue, it will tell in tune upon her

health, and might bring on--bring on----"

"Bring on what?" sharply asked the lawyer.

"I was thinking of her mother," said poor Aunt Hester, with as much

deprecation as though he had been the Great Mogul: "but I trust, John,

you won't be too angry with me for saying it."

Mr. Delorane did not say whether he was angry or not. He stood there,

fingering his sixpences and shillings, gazing apparently at the

grass-plat, in reality seeing nothing. He was recalling a past vision:

that of his delicate wife, dying of consumption before her time; he

seemed to see a future vision: that of his daughter, dying as she had

died.

"When it comes to dreams," timidly went on Aunt Hester, "I can't say I

like it. Not that I am one to put faith in the foolish signs old wives

talk of--that if you dream of seeing a snake, you've got an enemy; or,

if you seem to be in the midst of a lot of beautiful white flowers,

it's a token of somebody's death. I am not so silly as that, John. But

for some time past Ellin has dreamt perpetually of one theme--that of

being in trouble about William Brook. Night after night she seems to be

searching for him: he is lost, and she cannot tell how or where."

Had Aunt Hester suddenly begun to hold forth in the unknown tongue, it

could not have brought greater surprise to Mr. Delorane. He turned short

round to stare at her.

"Seeing what a wan and weary face the child has come down with of late,

I taxed her with not sleeping well," continued Aunt Hester, "and she

confessed to me that she was feeling a good bit troubled by her dreams.

She generally has them towards morning, and the theme is always the

same. The dreams vary, but the subject is alike in all--William Brook

is lost, and she is searching for him."

"Nonsense! Rubbish!" put in Mr. Delorane.

"Well, John, I dare say it is nonsense," conceded Aunt Hester meekly:

"but I confess I don't like dreams that come to you persistently night

after night and always upon one and the same subject. Why should they

come?--that's what I ask myself. Be sure, though, I make light of the

matter to Ellin, and tell her her digestion is out of order. Over and

over again, she says, they seem to have the clue to his hiding place,

but they never succeed in finding him. And--and I am afraid, John, that

the child, through this, has taken up the notion that she shall never

see him again."

Mr. Delorane, making some impatient remark about the absurdity of women

in general, turned round and stood looking into the garden as before.

Ellin's mind was getting unhinged with the long separation, she had

begun to regard it as hopeless, and hence these dreams that Brook was

"lost," he told himself, and with reason: and what was he to do?

How long he stood thus in perfect silence, no sound to be heard but

the everlasting jingling of the loose silver, Aunt Hester did not know;

pretty near an hour she thought. She wished he would go; she felt very

uncomfortable, as she always did feel when she vexed him--and here were

the bills waiting to be added up. At length he turned sharply, with the

air of one who has come to some decision, and returned to the office.

"I suppose I shall have to do it myself," he remarked to Mr. St. George.

"Do what, sir?"

"Send for that young fellow back, and let them set up in some little

homestead near me. I mean Brook."

"Brook!" stammered St. George.

"Here's Ellin beginning to fade and wither. It's all very well for her

aunt to talk about the heat! _I_ know. She is pining after him, and I

can't see her do it; so he must come home."

Of all the queer shades that can be displayed by the human countenance,

about the queerest appeared in that of Mr. St. George. It was not

purple, it was not green, it was not yellow; it was a mixture of all

three. He gazed at his chief and master as one gazes at a madman.

"Brook can come into the office again," continued Mr. Delorane. "I don't

like young men to be idle; leads 'em into temptation. We'll make him

head clerk here, next to you, and give him a couple of hundred a-year.

If--what's the matter?"

For the strange look on his manager's face had caught the eye of Mr.

Delorane. St. George drew three or four deep breaths.

"Have you thought of Miss Delorane, sir--of her interests--in planning

this?" he presently asked.

"Why, that's what I do think of; nothing else. You may be sure I

shouldn't think of it for the interest of Brook. All the same, I like

the young man, and always shall. The child is moping herself into a bad

way. Where shall I be if she should go into a decline like her mother?

No, no; she shall marry and have proper interests around her."

"She could do that without being sacrificed to Brook," returned St.

George in a low tone. "There are others, sir, of good and suitable

position, who would be thankful to take her--whose pride it would be

to cherish her and render every moment of her life happy."

"Oh, I know that; you are one of 'em," returned Mr. Delorane carelessly.

"It's what all you young sparks are ready to say of a pretty girl,

especially if she be rich as well. But don't you see, St. George, that

Ellin does not care for any of you. Her heart is fixed upon Brook, and

Brook it must be."

Of course this news came out to Timberdale. Some people blamed Mr.

Delorane, others praised him. Delorane must be turning childish in his

old age, said one; Delorane is doing a good and a wise thing, cried

another. Opinions vary in this world, you know, and ever will, as proved

to us in the fable of the old man and his ass.

But now--and it was a strange thing to happen the very next day Mr.

Delorane received a letter from William Brook, eight closely written

pages. Briefly, this was its substance. The uncle, Matthew Brook of New

York, was about to establish a house in London, in correspondence with

his own; he had offered the managership of it to William, with a small

share of profits, guaranteeing that the latter should not be less than

seven hundred a-year.

"And if you can only be induced to think this enough for us to begin

upon, sir, and will give me Ellin," wrote the young man, "I can but say

that I will strive to prove my gratitude in loving care for her; and I

trust you will not object to her living in London. I leave New York next

month, to be in England in September, landing at Liverpool, and I shall

make my way at once to Timberdale, hoping you will allow me to plead my

cause in person."

"No no, Master William, you won't carry my daughter off to London,"

commented Mr. Delorane aloud, when he had read the letter--not but that

it gratified him. "You must give up your post, young man, and settle

down by me here, if you are to have Ellin. I don't see, St. George, why

Brook should not make himself into a lawyer, legal and proper," added he

thoughtfully. "He is young enough--and he does not dislike the work. You

and he might be associated together after I am dead: 'Brook and St.

George.'"

Mr. St. George's face turned crusty: he did not like to hear his name

put next to Brook's. "I never feel too sure of my own future," he said

in reply. "Now that I am at my ease in the world, tempting visions come

often enough across me of travelling out to see it."

Mr. Delorane wrote a short, pithy note in answer to the appeal of

William Brook, telling him he might come and talk to him as soon as he

returned. "The young fellow may have left New York before it can reach

him," remarked the lawyer, as he put the letter in the post; "but if so,

it does not much matter."

So there was Timberdale, all cock-a-hoop at the prospect of seeing

William Brook again, and the wedding that was to follow. Sam Mullet,

the clerk, was for setting the bells to ring beforehand.

* * * * *

Some people think September the pleasantest month in the year, when the

heats of summer have passed and the frosts of winter have not come.

Never a finer September than we had that autumn at Timberdale; the skies

looked bright, the leaves of the trees were putting on their tints of

many colours, and the land was not yet quite shorn of its golden grain.

All the world was looking out for William Brook. He did not come.

Disappointment is the lot of man. Of woman also. When the third week

was dragging itself along in expectancy, a letter came to Mrs. Brook

from William. It was to say that his return home was somewhat delayed,

as he should have to take Jamaica en route, to transact some business

at Kingston for his uncle. He should then proceed direct from Kingston

by steamer to Liverpool, which place he hoped to reach before the

middle of October. "Tell all my friends this, that they may not wonder

at my delay," the letter concluded; but it contained no intimation

that he had received the answer written by Mr. Delorane.

A short postscript was yet added, in these words: "Alfred St. George

has, I know, some relatives living in, or near Kingston--planters, I

believe. Tell him I shall call upon them, if I can make time, to see

whether they have any commands for him."

Long before the middle of October, Ellin Delorane became obviously

restless. A sort of uneasy impatience seemed to have taken possession

of her: and without cause. One day, when we called at Mr. Delorane's

to take a message from home, Ellin was in the garden with her outdoor

things on, waiting to go out with her aunt.

"What a ridiculous goose you are!" began Tod. "I hear you have taken up

the notion that Sweet William has gone down in the Caribbean Sea."

"I'm sure I have not," said Ellin. "Aunt Hester must have told you that

fable when she was at Crabb Cot yesterday."

"Just so. She and the mater laid their gossiping caps together for the

best part of an hour--and all about the foolishness of Miss Ellin

Delorane."

"Why, you know, Ellin," I put in, "it is hardly the middle of October

yet."

"I tell myself that it is not," she answered gravely. "But, somehow,

Johnny, I don't--don't--expect--him."

"Now, what on earth do you mean?"

"I wish I knew what. All I can tell you is, that when his mother

received that letter from William last month, saying his return was

delayed, a sort of foreboding seized hold of me, an apprehension that

he would never come. I try to shake it off, but I cannot. Each day, as

the days come round, only serves to make it stronger."

"Don't you think a short visit to Droitwich would do you good, Ellin?"

cried Tod, which was our Worcestershire fashion of recommending people

to the lunatic asylum.

"Just listen to him, Johnny!" she exclaimed, with a laugh.

"Yes, 'just listen to him'--and just listen to yourself, Miss Ellin, and

see which talks the most sense," he retorted. "Have you got over those

dreams yet?"

Ellin turned her face to him quickly. "Who told you anything about that,

Aunt Hester?"