Family Pride; Or, Purified by Suffering

PREPARING FOR THE VISIT.

"Of course he will not, for I shall ask Dr. Morris to go after him in his carriage," Katy said, as out in the orchard where she was gathering the early harvest apples she read the letter brought her by Uncle Ephraim, her face crimsoning all over with happy blushes as she saw the dear affixed to her name.

Katy had waited so anxiously for a letter, or some message which should say that she was not forgotten by Wilford Cameron, but as the weeks went by and it did not come, a shadow had fallen upon her spirits, and the family missed something from her ringing laugh and frolicsome ways, while she herself wondered why the household duties given to her should be so utterly distasteful. She used to enjoy them so much, but now she liked nothing except to go with Uncle Ephraim out into the fields where she could sit alone while he worked nearby, or to ride with Morris as she sometimes did when he made his round of calls. She was not as good as she used to be, she thought, and with a view of making herself better she took to teaching in Morris' and Helen's Sunday-school, greatly to the distress of Aunt Betsy, who groaned bitterly when both her nieces adopted the "Episcopal quirks," forsaking entirely the house where Sunday after Sunday her old-fashioned leghorn with its faded ribbon of green was seen, bending down in the humble worship which God so much approves. But teaching in Sunday-school, taken by itself, could not make Katy better, and the old restlessness remained until the morning when, sitting on the grass beneath the apple tree, she read that Wilford Cameron was coming. Then, as by magic, everything was changed, and Katy never forgot the brightness of that day when the robins sang so merrily above her head and all nature seemed to sympathize with her joy. Afterward there came to her dark, wretched hours, when in her young heart's agony she wished that day had never been, but there was no shadow around her now, nothing but hopeful sunshine, and with a bounding step she sought out Helen, to tell her the good news. Helen's first remark, however, was a chill upon her spirits.

"Wilford Cameron coming here? What will he think of us, we are so unlike him?"

This was the first time Katy had seriously considered the difference between her surroundings and those of Wilford Cameron, or how it might affect him. But Aunt Betsy, who had never dreamed of anything like Wilford's home, and who thought her own quite as good as they would average, comforted her, telling her how "if he was any kind of a chap he wouldn't be looking round, and if he did, who cared; she guessed they was as good as he, and as much thought of by the neighbors."

Wilford's letter had been delayed so that the morrow was the day appointed for his coming, and never sure was there a busier afternoon at the farmhouse than the one which followed the receipt of the letter. Everything that was not spotlessly clean before was made so now. Aunt Betsy in her petticoat and short gown going down upon her knees to scrub the door sill of the back room, as if the city guest were expected to sit in there. On Aunt Hannah and Mrs. Lennox devolved the duty of preparing for the wants of the inner man, while Helen and Katy bent their energies to beautifying their humble home and making the most of their plain furniture.

"If Uncle Ephraim had only let me move the chimney, we could have had a nice spare sleeping-room instead of this little tucked up hole," Mrs. Lennox said, coming in with her hands covered with flour, and casting a rueful look at the small room kept for company, and where Wilford was to sleep.

It was not very spacious, being only large enough to admit the high post bed, a single chair, and the old-fashioned washstand with the hole in the top for the bowl and a drawer beneath for towels, the whole presenting a most striking contrast to those handsome chambers on Fifth Avenue, or, indeed, to the one at the Ocean House where Wilford sat smoking and wishing the time away, while Helen and Katy held a consultation as to whether it would not be better to dispense with the parlor altogether and give that room to their visitor. But this was vetoed by Aunt Betsy, who, having finished the back door sill, had now come around to the front, and, with her scrubbing brush in one hand and her saucer of sand in the other, held forth upon the foolishness of the girls.

"Of course if they had a beau, they'd want a t'other room, else where would they do their sparkin'."

That settled it. The parlor should remain as it was, Katy said, and Aunt Betsy went on with her scouring, while Helen and Katy consulted together how to make the huge feather bed seem more like the mattresses such as Morris had, and such as Mr. Cameron must be accustomed to. Helen's mind being the most suggestive solved the problem first, and a large comfortable was brought from the box in the garret and folded carefully over the bed, which, thus hardened and flattened, "seemed like a mattress," Katy said, for she tried it, pronouncing it good, and feeling quite well satisfied with the room when it was finished. And certainly it was not wholly uninviting with its snowy bed, whose covering almost swept the floor, its strip of bright carpeting in front, its vase of flowers upon the stand and its white fringed curtain sweeping back from the narrow window.

"I'd like to sleep here myself. It looks real nice," was Katy's comment, while Helen offered no opinion, but followed her sister into the yard where they were to sweep the grass and prune the early September flowers.

This afforded Aunt Betsy a chance to reconnoiter and criticise, which last she did unsparingly.

"What have they done to that bed to make it look so flat? Put on a bed-quilt, as I'm alive! What children! It would break my back to lie there, and this Cannon is none the youngest, accordin' to their tell—nigh on to thirty, if not turned. It will make his bones ache, of course. I am glad I know better than to treat visitors that way. The comforter may stay, but I'll be bound I'll make it softer!" and stealing up the stairs, Aunt Betsy brought down a second feather bed, much lighter than the one already on, but still large enough to suggest the thought of smothering. This she had made herself, intending it as a part of Katy's "setting out," should she ever marry, and as things now seemed tending that way, it was only right, she thought, that Mr. Cannon, as she called him, should begin to have the benefit of it. Accordingly, the handiwork of the girls was destroyed, and two beds, instead of one, were placed beneath the comfortable, which Aunt Betsy permitted to remain.

"I'm mighty feared they'll find me out," she said, stroking, and patting, and coaxing the beds to lie down, taking great pains in the making, and succeeding so well that when her task was done there was no perceptible difference between Helen's bed and hers, except that the latter was a few inches higher than the former, and more nearly resembled a pincushion in shape.

Carefully shutting the door, Aunt Betsy hurried away, feeling glad that her nieces were too much engaged in training a vine over a frame to afford them time for discovering what she had done. Katy, she knew, was going to Linwood by and by, after various little things which Mrs. Lennox thought indispensable to the entertaining of so great a man as Wilford Cameron, and which the farmhouse did not possess, and as Helen too would be busy, there was not much danger of detection.

It was late when the last thing was accomplished, and the sun was quite low ere Katy was free to start on her errand, carrying the market basket in which she was to put the articles borrowed of Morris.

He was sitting out on his piazza enjoying the fine prospect he had of the sun shining across the pond, on the Silverton hill, and just gilding the top of the little church nestled in the valley. At sight of Katy he arose and greeted her with the kind, brotherly manner now habitual with him, for since we last looked upon Morris Grant he had fought a fierce battle with his selfishness, coming off conqueror, and learning to listen quite calmly while Katy talked to him, as she often did, of Wilford Cameron, never trying to conceal from him how anxious she was for some word of remembrance, and often asking if he thought Mr. Cameron would ever write to her. It was hard at first for Morris to listen, and harder still to hold back the passionate words of love trembling on his lips, to keep himself from telling her how improbable it was that one like Mr. Cameron should cherish thoughts of her after mingling again with the high-born city belles, and to beg of her to take him in Cameron's stead—him who had loved her so long, ever since he first knew what it was to love, and who would cherish her so tenderly, loving her the more because of the childishness which some men might despise. But Morris had kept silence, and, as weeks went by, there came insensibly into his heart a hope, or rather conviction, that Cameron had forgotten the little girl who might in time turn to him, gladdening his home just as she did every spot where her fairy footsteps trod. Morris did not fully know that he was hugging this fond dream, until he felt the keen pang which cut like a dissector's knife as Katy, turning her bright, eager face up to him, whispered softly: "He's coming to-morrow—he surely is; I have his letter to tell me so."

Morris did not see the sunshine then upon the distant hills, although it lay there just as purple as before Katy came, bringing blackness and pain when heretofore she had only brought him joy and gladness. There was a moment of darkness, in which the hills, the pond, the sun setting, and Katy seemed a great ways off to Morris, trying so hard to be calm, and mentally asking for help to do so. But Katy's hat, which she swung in her hand, had become entangled in the vines encircling one of the pillars of the piazza, and so she did not notice him until all traces of his agitation were past, and he could talk with her concerning Wilford, and then playfully lifting her basket he asked what she had come to get.

This was not the first time the great house had rendered a like service to the little house, and so Katy did not blush when she explained how her mother wanted Morris' forks, and saltcellars, and spoons, and would he be kind enough to bring the castor over himself, and come to dinner to-morrow at two o'clock?—and would he go after Mr. Cameron? The forks, and saltcellars, and spoons, and castor were cheerfully promised, while Morris consented to go for the guest; and then Katy came to the rest of her errand, the part distasteful to her, inasmuch as it might look like throwing disrespect upon Uncle Ephraim—honest, unsophisticated Uncle Ephraim—who would come to the table in his shirt sleeves. This was the burden of her grief—the one thing she dreaded most, inasmuch as she knew by experience how such an act was looked upon by Mr. Cameron, who, never having lived in the country a day in his life, except as he was either guest or traveler, could not make due allowance for these little departures from refinement, so obnoxious to people of his training.

"What is it, Katy?" Morris asked, as he saw how she hesitated, and guessed her errand was not done.

"I hope you will not think me foolish or wicked," Katy began, her eyes filling with tears, as she felt that she might be doing Uncle Ephraim a wrong by even admitting that in any way he could be improved. "I certainly love Uncle Ephraim dearly, and I do not mind his ways, but Mr. Cameron may—that is, oh, Cousin Morris! did you ever notice how Uncle Ephraim will persist in coming to the table in his shirt sleeves."

"Persist is hardly the word to use," Morris replied, smiling comically, as he readily understood Katy's misgivings. "Persist would imply his having been often remonstrated with for that breach of etiquette; whereas I doubt much whether the idea that it was not in strict accordance with politeness was ever suggested to him."

"Maybe not," Katy answered. "It was never necessary till now, and I feel so disturbed, for I want Mr. Cameron to like him, and if he does that I am sure he won't."

"Why do you think so?" Morris asked, and Katy replied: "He is so particular, and was so very angry at a little hotel between Lakes George and Champlain, where we took our dinner before going on the boat. There was a man along—a real good-natured man, too, so kind to everybody—and, as the day was warm, he carried his coat on his arm, and sat down to the table that way, right opposite me. Mr. Cameron was so indignant, and said such harsh things, which the man heard, I am sure, for he put on his coat directly; and I saw him afterward on the boat, sweating like rain, and looking sorry as if he had done something wrong. I am sure, though, he had not?"

This last was spoken interrogatively, and Morris replied: "There is nothing wrong or wicked in going without one's coat. Everything depends upon the circumstances under which it is done. For me to appear at table in my shirt sleeves would be very impolite; but for an old man like Uncle Ephraim, who has done it all his life and who never gave it a thought, would, in my estimation, be a very different thing. Still, Mr. Cameron may see from another standpoint. But I would not distress myself. That love is not worth much which would think the less of you for anything _outré_ which Uncle Ephraim may do. If Mr. Cameron cannot stand the test of seeing your relatives as they are, he is not worth the long face you are wearing," and Morris pinched her cheek playfully.

"Yes, I know," Katy replied; "but if you only could manage Uncle Eph I should be so glad."

Morris had little hope of breaking a habit of years, but he promised to try if an opportunity should occur, and as Mrs. Hull, the housekeeper, had by this time gathered up the articles required for the morrow, Morris himself took the basket in his own hands and went back with Katy across the fields, which had never seemed so desolate as to-night, when he felt how vain were all the hopes he had been cherishing.

"God bless you, Katy, and may Mr. Cameron's visit bring you as much happiness as you anticipate," he said as he set her basket upon the doorstep and turned back without entering the house.

Katy noticed the peculiar tone of his voice, and again there swept over her the same thrill she had felt when Morris first said to her, "And did Katy like this Mr. Cameron?" but so far was she from guessing the truth that she only feared she might have displeased him by what she had said of Uncle Ephraim; and as an unkind word breathed against a dear friend, even to a mutual friend, always leaves a scar, so Katy, though saying nothing ill, still felt that in some way she had wronged her uncle; and the good old man, resting from his hard day's toil, in his accustomed chair, with not only his coat, but his vest and boots cast aside, little guessed what prompted the caresses which Katy bestowed upon him, sitting in his lap and parting lovingly his snowy hair, as if thus she would make amends for any injury done. Little Katy-did he called her, looking fondly into her bright, pretty face, and thinking how terrible it would be to see that face shadowed with pain and care. Somehow, of late, Uncle Ephraim was always thinking of such a calamity as more than possible for Katy, and when that night she knelt beside him, his voice was full of pleading earnestness as he prayed that God would keep them all in safety, and bring to none of them more grief, more suffering, than was necessary to purify them for His own. "Purified by suffering" came involuntarily into Katy's mind as she listened, and then remembered the talk down in the meadow, when she sat on the rock beneath the butternut tree. But Katy was far too thoughtless yet for anything serious to abide with her long; and the world, while it held Wilford Cameron as he seemed to her now, was too full of joy for her to be sad, and so she arose from her knees, thinking only how long it would be before to-morrow noon, wondering if Wilford would surely be there next time their evening prayers were said, and if he would notice Uncle Ephraim's shocking grammar!

WILFORD'S VISIT.

Much surprise was expressed by all the Cameron family, save the mother, when told that instead of accompanying them to New York, Wilford would take another route, and one directly out of his way; while, what was stranger than all, he did not know when he should be home; it would depend upon circumstances, he said, evincing so much annoyance at being questioned with regard to his movements, that the quick-witted Juno readily divined that there was some girl in the matter, teasing him unmercifully to tell her who she was, and what the fair one was like.

"Don't, for pity's sake, bring us a verdant specimen," she said, as she at last bade him good-by, and turned her attention to Mark Ray, her brother's partner, who had been with them at Newport, and whom she was bending all her energies to captivate.

With his sister's bantering words ringing in his ears, Wilford kept on his way until the last change was made, and when he stopped again it would be at Silverton. He did not expect any one to meet him, but as he remembered the man whom he had seen greeting Katy, he thought it not unlikely that he might be there now, laughing to himself as he pictured Juno's horror, could she see him driving along in the corn-colored vehicle which Uncle Ephraim drove. But that vehicle was safe at home beneath the shed, while Uncle Ephraim was laying a stone wall upon the huckleberry hill, and the handsome carriage waiting at Silverton depot was certainly unexceptionable; while in the young man who, as the train stopped and Wilford stepped out upon the platform, came to meet him, bowing politely, and asking if he were Mr. Cameron, Wilford recognized the true gentleman, and his spirits arose as Morris said to him: "I am Miss Lennox's cousin, deputed by her to meet and take charge of you for a time."

Wilford had heard of Dr. Morris Grant, for his name was often on Jamie's lips, while his proud Sister Juno, he suspected, had tried her powers of fascination in vain upon the grave American, met in the saloons of Paris; but he had no suspicion that his new acquaintance was the one until they were driving toward the farmhouse and Morris mentioned having met his family in France, inquiring after them all, and especially for Jamie. Involuntarily then Wilford grasped again the hand of Morris Grant, exclaiming: "And are you the doctor who was so kind to Jamie? I did not expect this pleasure?"

After that the ride seemed very short, and Wilford was surprised when as they turned a corner in the sandy road, Morris pointed to the farmhouse, saying: "We are almost there—that is the place."

"That!" and Wilford's voice indicated his disappointment, for in all his mental pictures of Katy Lennox's home he had never imagined anything like this:

Large, rambling and weird-like, with something lofty and imposing, just because it was so ancient, was the house he had in his mind, and he could not conceal his chagrin as his eye took in the small, low building, with its high windows and tiny panes of glass, paintless and blindless, standing there alone among the hills, Morris understood it perfectly; but, without seeming to notice it, remarked: "It is the oldest house probably in the country, and should be invaluable on that account. I think we Americans are too fond of change and too much inclined to throw aside all that reminds us of the past. Now I like the farmhouse just because it is old and unpretentious."

"Yes, certainly," Wilford answered, looking ruefully around him at the old stone wall, half tumbled down, the tall well-sweep, and the patch of sunflowers in the garden, with Aunt Betsy bending behind them, picking tomatoes for dinner, and shading her eyes with her hand to look at him as he drove up.

It was all very rural, no doubt, and very charming to people who liked it, but Wilford did not like it, and he was wishing himself safely in New York when a golden head flashed for an instant before the window and then disappeared as Katy emerged into view, waiting at the door to receive him and looking so sweetly in her dress of white with the scarlet geranium blossoms in her hair, that Wilford forgot the homeliness of her surroundings, thinking only of her and how soft and warm was the little hand he held as she led him into the parlor. He did not know she was so beautiful, he said to himself, and he feasted his eyes upon her, forgetful for a time of all else. But afterward when Katy left him for a moment he noticed the well-worn carpet, the six cane-seated chairs, the large stuffed rocking chair, the fall-leaf table, with its plain wool spread, and, lastly, the really expensive piano, the only handsome piece of furniture the room contained, and which he rightly guessed must have come from Morris.

"What would Juno or Mark say?" he kept repeating to himself, half shuddering as he recalled the bantering proposition to accompany him made by Mark Ray, the only young man whom he considered fully his equal in New York.

Wilford knew these feelings were unworthy of him and he tried to shake them off, listlessly turning over the books upon the table, books which betokened in some one both taste and talent of no low order.

"Mark's favorite," he said, lifting up a volume of Schiller, and turning to the fly-leaf he read, "Helen Lennox, from Cousin Morris," just as Katy returned and with her Helen, whom she presented to the stranger.

Helen was prepared to like him just because Katy did, and her first thought was that he was splendid-looking, but when she met fully his cold glance and knew how closely he was scrutinizing her, there arose in her heart a feeling of dislike for Wilford Cameron, which she could never wholly conquer. He was very polite to her, but something in his manner annoyed and provoked her, it was so cool, so condescending, as if he endured her merely because she was Katy's sister, nothing more.

"Rather pretty, more character than Katy, but odd, and self-willed, with no kind of style."

This was Wilford's running comment on Helen as he took her in from the plain arrangement of her dark hair to the fit of her French calico and the cut of her linen Collar.

Fashionable dress would improve her very much, he thought, turning from her with a feeling of relief to Katy, whom nothing could disfigure, and who was now watching the door eagerly for the entrance of her mother. That lady had spent a good deal of time at her toilet, and she came in at last, flurried, fidgety, and very red, both from exercise and the bright-hued ribbons streaming from her cap and sadly at variance with the color of her dress. Wilford noticed the discrepancy at once, and noticed too how little style there was about the nervous woman greeting him so deferentially and evidently regarding him as something infinitely superior to herself. Wilford had looked with indifference upon Helen, but it would take a stronger word to express his opinion of the mother. Had he come accidentally upon her without ever having met with Katy, he would have regarded her as a plain, common country woman, who meant well if nothing more; but now, alas! with Katy in the foreground, he was weighing her in a far different balance and finding her sadly wanting. He had not seen Aunt Hannah, nor yet Aunt Betsy, for they were in the kitchen, making the last preparations for the dinner to which Morris was to remain. He was in the parlor now and in his presence Wilford felt more at ease, more as if he had found an affinity. Uncle Ephraim was not there, having eaten his bowl of milk and gone back to his stone wall, so that upon Morris devolved the duties of host, and he courteously led the way to the little dining-room, which Wilford confessed was not uninviting, with its clean floor and walls, and the table so loaded with the good things Aunt Hannah had prepared, burning and browning her wrinkled face, which nevertheless smiled pleasantly upon the stranger presented as Mr. Cameron.

About Aunt Hannah there was something naturally ladylike, and Wilford saw it; but when it came to Aunt Betsy, of whom he had never heard, he felt for a moment as if by being there in such promiscuous company he had somehow fallen from the Cameron's high estate. By way of pleasing the girls and doing honor to their "beau," as she called Wilford, Aunt Betsy had donned her very best attire, wearing the slate-colored pongee dress, bought twenty years before, and actually sporting a set of Helen's cast off hoops, which being quite too large for the dimensions of her scanty skirt, gave her anything but the stylish appearance she intended.

"Oh, auntie!" was Katy's involuntary exclamation, while Helen bit her lip with vexation, for the hoop had been an after thought to Aunt Betsy just before going in to dinner.

But the good old lady never dreamed of shocking any one with her attempts at fashion; and curtseying very low to Mr. Cameron, she hoped for a better acquaintance, and then took her seat at the table, just where each movement could be distinctly seen by Wilford, scanning her so intently as scarcely to hear the reverent words with which Morris asked a blessing upon themselves and the food so abundantly prepared. They could hardly have gotten through that first dinner without Morris, who adroitly tried to divert Wilford's mind from what was passing around him. But with all his vigilance he could not prevent his hearing Aunt Betsy as, in an aside to Helen, she denounced the heavy fork she was awkwardly trying to use, first expressing her surprise at finding it by her plate instead of the smaller one to which she was accustomed.

"The land! if you didn't borry Morris' forks! I'd as soon eat with the toastin' iron," she said, in a tone of distress, but Helen's foot touching hers warned her to keep silence, which she did after that, and the dinner proceeded quietly, Wilford discovering ere its close that Mrs. Lennox, now that she was more composed, had really some pretensions to a lady, while Helen's dress and collar ceased to be obnoxious, as he watched the play of her fine features and saw her eyes kindle as she took a modest part in the conversation when it turned on books and literature.

Meanwhile Katy kept very still, her cheeks flushing and her eyes cast down whenever she met Wilford's gaze; but when, after dinner was over and Morris had gone, she went with him down to the shore of the pond, her tongue was loosed, and Wilford found again the little fairy who had so bewitched him a few weeks before. And yet there was a load upon his mind—a shadow made by the actual knowledge that between Katy's family and his there was a gulf which never could be crossed by either party. He might bear Katy over, it was true, but would she not look longingly back to the humble home, and might he not sometimes be greatly chagrined by the sudden appearing of some one of this old-bred family who did not seem to realize how ignorant they were, how far below him in the social scale? Poor Wilford! he winced and shivered when he thought of Aunt Betsy, in her antiquated pongee, and remembered that she was a near relative of the little maiden sporting so playfully around him, stealing his heart away in spite of family pride, and making him more deeply in love than ever. It was very pleasant down by the pond, and Wilford, who liked staying there better than at the house, kept Katy with him until the sun was going down and they heard in the distance the tinkle of a bell as the deacon's cows plodded slowly homeward. Supper was waiting for them, and with his appetite sharpened by his walk, Wilford found no cause of complaint against Aunt Hannah's viands, though he smiled mentally as he accepted the piece of apple pie Aunt Betsy offered him, saying by way of recommendation that "she made the crust but Catherine peeled and sliced the apples."

The deacon had not returned from his work, and so Wilford did not see him until he came suddenly upon him, seated in the woodshed door, washing his feet after the labor of the day. Ephraim Barlow was a man to command respect, and to a certain extent Wilford recognized the true worth embodied in that unpolished exterior. He did not, however, see much of him that night, for, as the deacon said, apologetically: "The cows is to milk and the chores all to do, for I never keep no boy," and when at last the chores were done the clock pointed to half-past eight, the hour for family worship. Unaccustomed as Wilford was to such things, he felt the influence of the deacon's voice as he read from the Word of God, and involuntarily found himself kneeling when Katy knelt, noticing the deacon's grammar, it is true, but still listening patiently to the rather lengthy prayer which included him as well as the rest of mankind.

There was no chance of seeing Katy alone, and so full two hours before his usual custom Wilford retired to the little room to which the deacon conducted him, saying as he put down the lamp: "You'll find it pretty snug quarters, I guess, for such a close, muggy night as this, but if you can't stand it you must lie on the floor."

And truly they were snug quarters, Wilford thought; but there was no alternative, and a few moments found him in the center of two feather beds, neither Helen nor Katy having discovered the addition made by Aunt Betsy, and which came near being the death of the New York guest, who, wholly unaccustomed to feathers, was almost smothered in them, besides being nearly melted. To sleep was impossible, as the September night was hot and sultry, and never for a moment did Wilford lose his consciousness or forget to accuse himself of being an idiot for coming into that heathenish neighborhood after a wife when at home there were so many girls ready and waiting for him.

"I'll go back to-morrow morning," he said, and, striking a match, he read in his Railway Guide when the first train passed Silverton, feeling comforted to think that only a few hours intervened between him and freedom.

But alas! for Wilford. He was but a man, subject to man's caprices, and when next morning he met Katy Lennox, looking in her light muslin as pure and fair as the white blossoms twined in her wavy hair, his resolution began to waver. Perhaps there was a decent hotel in Silverton; he would inquire of Dr. Grant; at all events he would not take the first train as he had intended doing; and so he stayed, eating fried apples and beefsteak, but forgetting to criticise, in his appreciation of the rich thick cream poured into his coffee, and the sweet, golden butter, which melted in soft waves upon the flakey rolls. Again Uncle Ephraim was absent, having gone to the mill before Wilford left his room, nor was he visible to the young man until after dinner, for Wilford did not go home, but drove instead with Katy in the carriage which Morris sent around, excusing himself from coming on the plea of being too busy, but saying he would join them at tea, if possible. Wilford's mind was not yet fully made up, so he concluded to remain another day and see more of Katy's family. Accordingly, after dinner, he bent his energies to read them all, from Helen down to Aunt Betsy, the latter of whom proved the most transparent of the four. Arrayed again in the pongee, but this time without the hoop, she came into the parlor, bringing her calico patchwork, which she informed him was pieced in the "herrin' bone pattern" and intended for Katy; telling him, further, that the feather bed on which he slept was also a part of "Catherine's setting out," and was made from feathers she picked herself, showing him as proof a mark upon her arm, left there by the gray goose, which had proved a little refractory when she tried to draw a stocking over its head.

Wilford groaned, and Katy's chance for being Mrs. Cameron was growing constantly less and less as he saw more and more how vast was the difference between the Barlows and himself. Helen, he acknowledged, was passable, though she was not one whom he could ever introduce into New York society; and he was wondering how Katy came to be so unlike the rest, when Uncle Ephraim came up from the meadow, and announced himself as ready now to visit, apologizing for his apparent neglect, and seeming so absolutely to believe that his company was, of course, desirable, that Wilford felt amused, wondering again what Juno, or even Mark Ray, would think of the rough old man, sitting with his chair tipped back against the wall, and going occasionally to the outside door to relieve himself of his tobacco juice, for chewing was one of the deacon's weaknesses. His pants were faultlessly clean, and his vest was buttoned nearly up to his throat, but his coat was hanging on a nail out by the kitchen door, and, to Katy's distress and Wilford's horror, he sat among them in his shirt sleeves, all unconscious of harm or of the disquiet awakened in the bosom of the young man, who on that point was foolishly fastidious, and who showed by his face how much he was annoyed. Not even the presence of Morris, who came in about tea time, was of any avail to lift the cloud from his brow, and he seemed moody and silent until supper was announced. This was the first opportunity Morris had had of trying his powers of persuasion upon the deacon, and now, at a hint from Katy, he said to him in an aside, as they were passing into the dining-room: "Suppose, Uncle Ephraim, you put on your coat for once. It is better than coming to the table so."

"Pooh," was Uncle Ephraim's innocent rejoinder, spoken loudly enough for Wilford to hear, "I don't need it an atom. I shan't catch cold, for I am used to it; besides that, I never could stand the racket this hot weather."

In his simplicity he did not even suspect Morris' motive, but imputed it wholly to his concern lest he should take cold. And so Wilford Cameron found himself seated next to a man who willfully trampled upon all rules of etiquette, shocking him in his most sensitive parts, and making him thoroughly disgusted with the country and country people generally. All but Morris and Katy—he did make an exception in their favor, leaning most to Morris, whom he admired more and more as he became better acquainted with him, wondering how he could content himself to settle down quietly in Silverton, when he would surety die if compelled to live there for a week. Something like this he said to Dr. Grant when that evening they sat together in the handsome parlor at Linwood, for Morris kindly invited him to spend the night with him:

"I stay at Silverton, first, because I think I can do more good here than elsewhere, and, secondly, because I really like the country and the country people, for, strange and uncouth as they may seem to you, who never lived among them, they have kinder, truer hearts beating beneath their rough exteriors, than are often found in the city."

This was Morris' reply, and in the conversation which ensued Wilford Cameron caught glimpses of a nobler, higher phase of manhood than he had thought existed, feeling an unbounded respect for one who, because he believed it to be his duty, was, as it seemed to him, wasting his life among people who could not appreciate his character, though they might idolize the man. But this did not reconcile Wilford one whit the more to Silverton. Uncle Ephraim had completed the work commenced by the two feather beds, and at the breakfast, spread next morning in the coziest of breakfast-rooms, he announced his intention of returning to New York that day. To this Morris offered no objection, but asked to be remembered to the mother, the sisters, and little Jamie, and then invited Wilford to stop altogether at Linwood when he came again to Silverton.

"Thank you; but it is hardly probable that I shall be here very soon," Wilford replied, adding, as he met the peculiar glance of Morris' eye: "I found Miss Katy a delightful traveling acquaintance, and on my way from Newport thought I would renew it and see a little of rustic life."

Poor Katy! how her heart would have ached could she have heard those words and understood their meaning, just as Morris did, feeling a rising indignation for the man with whom he could not be absolutely angry, he was so self-possessed, so pleasant and gentlemanly, while better than all, was he not virtually giving Katy up? and if he did, might she not turn at last to him?

These were Morris' thoughts as he walked with Wilford across the fields to the farmhouse, where Katy met them with her sunniest smile, singing to them, at Wilford's request, her sweetest song, and making him half wish he could revoke his hasty decision and tarry a little longer. But it was now too late for that; the carriage which would take him to the depot was already on its way from Linwood; and when the song was ended he told her of his intentions to leave on the next train, feeling a pang when he saw how the blood left her cheek and lip, and then came surging back as she said timidly: "Why need you leave so soon?"

"Oh, I have already outstayed my time. I thought of going yesterday, and my partner, Mr. Ray, will be expecting me," Wilford replied, involuntarily laying his hand upon Katy's shining hair, while Morris and Helen stole quietly from the room.

Thus left to himself, Wilford continued:

"Maybe I'll come again some time. Would you like to have me?"

"Yes," and Katy's blue eyes were lifted pleadingly to the young man, who had never loved her so well as that very moment when resolving to cast her off.

And as for Katy, she mentally called herself a fool for suffering Wilford Cameron to see what was in her heart; but she could not help it, for she loved him with all the strength of her impulsive nature, and to have him leave her so suddenly hurt her cruelly.

For a moment Wilford was strongly tempted to throw all family pride aside, and ask that young girl to be his; but thoughts of his mother, of Juno and Bell, and more than all, thoughts of Uncle Ephraim and his Sister Betsy, arose in time to prevent it, and so he only kissed her forehead caressingly as he said good-by, telling her that he should not soon forget his visit to Silverton, and then as the carriage drove up, going out to where the remainder of the family were standing together and commenting upon his sudden departure.

It was not sudden, he said, trying to explain. He really had thought seriously of going yesterday, and feeling that he had something to atone for, he tried to be unusually gracious as he shook their hands, thanking them for their kindness, but seeming wholly oblivious to Aunt Betsy's remark that "she hoped to see him again, if not at Silverton, in New York, where she wanted dreadfully to visit, but never had on account of the 'bominable prices charged to the taverns, and she hadn't no acquaintances there."

This was Aunt Betsy's parting remark, and after Katy, simple-hearted Aunt Betsy liked Wilford Cameron better than any one of the group which watched him as he drove rapidly from their door. Aunt Hannah thought him too much stuck up for farmer's folks, while Mrs. Lennox, whose ambition would have accounted him a most desirable match for her daughter, could not deny that his manner toward them, though polite in the extreme, was that of a superior to people greatly beneath him; while Helen, who saw clearer than the rest, read him tolerably aright, and detected the struggle between his pride and his love for poor little Katy, whom she found sitting on the floor, just where Wilford left her standing, her head resting on the chair and her face hidden in her hands as she sobbed quietly, hardly knowing why she cried or what to answer when Helen asked what was the matter.

"It was so queer in him to go so soon," she said; "just as if he were offended about something."

"Never mind, Katy," Helen said, soothingly. "If he's for you he will come back again. He could not stay here always, of course; and I must say I respect him for attending to his business, if he has any. He has been gone from home for weeks, you know."

This was Helen's reasoning; but it did not comfort Katy, whose face looked white and sad, as she moved listlessly about the house, almost crying again when she beard in the distance the whistle of the train which was to carry Wilford Cameron away, and end his first visit to Silverton.

IN THE SPRING.

Katy Lennox had been very sick, and the bed where Wilford slept had stood in the parlor during the long weeks while the obstinate fever ran its course; but she was better now, and sat nearly all day before the fire, sometimes trying to crochet a little, and again turning over the books which Morris had brought to interest her—Morris, the kind physician, who had attended her so faithfully, never leaving her while the fever was at its height, unless it was necessary, but staying with her day and night, watching her symptoms carefully, and praying so earnestly that she might not die—not, at least, until some token had been given that again in the better world he should find her, where partings were unknown and where no Wilford Camerons could contest the prize with him. Not that he was greatly afraid of Wilford now; that fear had mostly died away just as the hope had died from Katy's heart that she would ever meet him again.

Since the September morning when he left her, she had not heard from him except once, when in the winter Morris had been to New York, and having a few hours' leisure on his hands had called at Wilford's office, receiving a most cordial reception, and meeting with young Mark Ray, who impressed him as a man quite as highly cultivated as Wilford; and possessed of more character and principle. This call was not altogether of Morris' seeking, but was made rather with a view to pleasing Katy, who, when she learned that he was going to New York, had said inadvertently: "Oh, I do so hope you'll meet with Mr. Cameron, for then we shall know that he is neither sick nor dead, as I have sometimes feared."

And so, remembering this, Morris had sought out his rival, feeling more than repaid for the mental effort it had cost him, when he saw how really glad Wilford seemed to meet him. The first commonplaces over, Wilford inquired for Katy. Was she well, and how was she occupying her time this winter?

"Both Helen and Katy are pupils of mine," Morris replied, "reciting their lessons to me every day when the weather will admit of their crossing the fields to Linwood. We have often wondered what had become of you, that you did not even let us know of your safe arrival home," he added, looking Wilford fully in the eye, and rather enjoying his confusion as he tried to apologize.

He had intended writing, but an unusual amount of business had occupied his time. "Mark will tell you how busy I was," and he turned appealingly to his partner, in whose expressive eyes Morris read that Silverton was not unknown to him.

But if Wilford had told him anything derogatory of the farmhouse or its inmates, it did not appear in Mr. Ray's manner, as he replied that Mr. Cameron had been very busy ever since his return from Silverton, adding: "From what Cameron tells me of your neighborhood there must be some splendid hunting and fishing there, and I had last fall half a mind to try it."

This time there was something comical in the eyes turned so mischievously upon Wilford, who colored scarlet for an instant, but soon recovered his composure, and invited Morris home with him to dinner.

"I shall not take a refusal," he said, as Morris began to decline. "Mother and the young ladies will be delighted to see you again, while Jamie—well, Jamie, I believe, worships the memory of the physician who was so kind to him in France. You did Jamie a world of good, Dr. Grant, and you must see him. Mark will go with us, of course."

There was something so hearty in Wilford's invitation that Morris did not again object, and two hours later found him in the drawing-room at No. —— Fifth Avenue, receiving the friendly greetings of Mrs. Cameron and her daughter, each of whom vied with the other in their polite attentions to him, while little Jamie, to whose nursery he was admitted, wound his arms around his neck and laying his curly head upon his shoulder, cried quietly, whispering as he did so: "I am so glad, Dr. Grant, so glad to see you again. I thought I never should, but I've not forgotten the prayer you taught me, and I say it often when my back aches so I cannot sleep and there's no one around to hear but Jesus. I love Him now, if he did make me lame, and I know that He loves me."

Surely the bread cast upon the waters had returned again after many days, and Morris Grant did not regret the time spent with the poor crippled boy, teaching him the way of life and sowing the seed which now was bearing fruit. Nor did he regret having accepted Wilford's invitation to dinner, as by this means he saw the home which had well-nigh been little Katy Lennox's. She would be sadly out of place here with these people, he thought, as he looked upon all their formality and ceremony and then contrasted it with what Katy had been accustomed to. Juno would kill her outright, was his next mental comment, as he watched that haughty young lady, dressed in the extreme of fashion and dividing her coquetries between himself and Mr. Ray, who, being every way desirable both in point of family and wealth, was evidently her favorite. She had colored scarlet when first presented to Dr. Grant, and her voice had trembled as she took his offered hand, for she remembered the time when her liking had not been concealed, and was only withdrawn at the last because she found how useless it was to waste her affections upon one who did not prize them.

When Wilford first returned from Silverton he had, as a sore means of forgetting Katy, told his mother and sisters something of the farmhouse and its inmates; and Juno, while ridiculing both Helen and Katy, had felt a fierce pang of jealousy in knowing they were cousins to Morris Grant, who lived so near that he could, if he liked, see them every day. In Paris Juno had suspected that somebody was standing between her and Dr. Grant and how with the quick insight of a smart, bright woman, she guessed that it was one of these same cousins, Katy most likely, her brother having described Helen as very commonplace, and for a time she had hated poor, innocent Katy most cordially for having come between her and the only man for whom she had ever really cared. Gradually, however, the feeling died away, but was revived again at sight of Morris Grant, and at the table she could not forbear saying to him:

"By the way, Dr. Grant, why did you never tell us of those charming cousins, when you were in Paris? Why, Brother Will describes one of them as a little water lily, she is so fair and pretty. Katy, I think is her name. Wilford, isn't it Katy Lennox whom you think so beautiful, and with whom you are more than half in love?"

"Yes, it is Katy," and Wilford spoke sternly, for he did not like Juno's bantering tone, but he could not stop her, and she went on:

"Are they your cousins, Dr. Grant?"

"No, they are removed from me two or three degrees, their father having been only my second cousin."

The fact that Katy Lennox was not nearly enough related to Dr. Grant to prevent his marrying her if he liked, did not improve Juno's amiability, and she continued to ask questions concerning both Katy and Helen, the latter of whom she persisted in thinking was strong-minded, until Mark Ray came to the rescue, diverting her attention by adroitly complimenting her in some way, and so relieving Wilford and Morris, both of whom were exceedingly annoyed.

"When Will visits Silverton again I mean to go with him," she said to Morris at parting, but he did not tell her that such an event would give him the greatest pleasure. On the contrary, he merely replied:

"If you do you will find plenty of room at Linwood for those four trunks which I remember seeing in Paris, and your brother will tell you whether I am a hospitable host or not."

Biting her lip with chagrin, Juno went back to the drawing-room, while Morris returned to his hotel, accompanied by Wilford, who passed the entire evening with him, appearing somewhat constrained, as if there was something on his mind which he wished to say; but it remained unspoken, and there was no allusion to Silverton until as Wilford was leaving, he said:

"Remember me kindly to the Silverton friends, and say I have not forgotten them."

And this was all there was to carry back to the anxious Katy, who on the afternoon of Morris' return from New York was over at Linwood waiting to pour his tea and make his toast, she pretended, though the real reason was shining all over her telltale face, which grew so bright and eager when Morris said:

"I dined at Mr. Cameron's, Kitty."

But the brightness gradually faded as Morris described his call and then repeated Wilford's message.

"And that was all," Katy whispered sorrowfully as she beat the damask cloth softly with her fingers, shutting her lips tightly together to keep back her disappointment.

When Morris glanced at her again there was a tear on her long eyelashes, and it dropped upon her cheek, followed by another and another, but he did not seem to see it, talking of New York and the fine sights in Broadway until Katy was herself again, able to take part in the conversation.

"Please don't tell Helen that you saw Wilford," she said to Morris as he walked home with her after tea, and that was the only allusion she made to it, never after that mentioning Wilford's name or giving any token of the wounded love still so strong within her heart, and waiting only for some slight token to waken it again to life and vigor.

This was in the winter, and Katy had been very sick since then—so sick that even to her the thought had sometimes come: "What if I should die?" but she was too weak, too nearly unconscious, to go further and reflect upon the terrible reality death would bring if it found her unprepared. She had only strength and sense enough to wonder if Wilford would care when he heard that she was dead; and once, as she grew better, she almost worked herself into a second fever with assisting at her own obsequies, seeing only one mourner, and that one Wilford Cameron. Even he was not there in time to see her in her coffin, but he wept over her little grave and called her "darling Katy." So vividly had Katy pictured all this scene, that Morris, when he called, found her flushed and hot, with traces of tears on her face.

In reply to his inquiries as to what was the matter, she had answered laughingly: "Oh, nothing much—only I have been burying myself," and so Morris never dreamed of the real nature of her reveries, or guessed that Wilford Cameron was mingled with every thought. She had forgotten him, he believed; and when, as she grew stronger, he saw how her eyes sparkled at his coming, and how impatient she seemed if he was obliged to hurry off, hope whispered that she would surely be his, and his usually grave face wore a look of happiness which even his patients noticed, feeling themselves better after one of his cheery visits. Poor Morris! he was little prepared for the terrible blow in store for him, when one day early in April he started, as usual, to visit Katy, saying to himself: "If I find her alone, perhaps I'll tell her of my love, and ask if she will come to Linwood this summer;" and Morris paused a moment beneath a beechwood tree to still the throbbings of his heart, which beat so fast as he thought of going home some day from his weary work and finding Katy there, his little wife—his own—whom he might caress and love all his affectionate nature would prompt him to. He knew that in some points she was weak—a silly little thing she called herself when comparing her mind with Helen's—but there was about her so much of purity, innocence, and perfect beauty, that few men, however strong their intellect, could withstand her, and Morris, though knowing her weakness, felt that in possessing her he should have all he needed to make this life desirable. She would improve as she grew older, and it would be a most delightful task to train her into what she was capable of becoming. Alas! for Dr. Morris! He was very near the farmhouse now, and there were only a few minutes between him and the cloud which would darken his horizon so completely. Katy was alone, sitting up in her pretty dressing gown of blue, which was so becoming to her pure complexion. Her hair, which had been all cut away during her long sickness, was growing out again somewhat darker than before, and lay in rings upon her head, making her look more childish than ever. But to this Morris did not object. He liked to have her a child, and he thought he had never seen her so wholly beautiful as she was this morning, when, with glowing cheek and dancing eyes, she greeted him as he came in.

"Oh, Dr. Morris!" she began, holding up a letter she had in her hand, "I am so glad you've come, for I wanted to tell you so badly Wilford has not forgotten me, as I used to think, and as I guess you thought, too, though you did not say so. He has written, and he is coming again, if I will let him; and, oh, Morris! I am so glad! Ain't you? Seeing you knew all about it, and never told Helen, I'll let you read the letter."

And she held it toward the young man leaning against the mantel and panting for the breath which came so heavily.

Something he said apologetically about being snow blind, for there was that day quite a fall of soft spring snow; and then with a mighty effort, which made his heart quiver with pain, Morris was himself once more, and took the letter in his hand.

"Perhaps I had better not read it," he said, but Katy insisted that he might, and thinking to himself: "It will cure me sooner perhaps," he read the few lines Wilford Cameron had written to his "dear little Katy."

That was the way he addressed her, going on to say that circumstances which he could not explain to her had kept him silent ever since he left her the previous autumn; but through all he never for a moment had forgotten her, thinking of her the more for the silence he had maintained. "And now that I have risen above the circumstances," he added, in conclusion, "I write to ask if I may come to Silverton again. If I may, just drop me one word, 'come,' and in less than a week I shall be there. Yours very truly, W. Cameron."

Morris read the letter through, feeling that every word was separating him further and further from Katy, to whom he said: "You will answer this?"

"Yes, oh yes; perhaps to-day."

"And you will tell him to come?"

"Why, yes—what else should I tell him?" and Katy's blue eyes looked wonderingly at Morris, who hardly knew what he was doing, or why he said to her next: "Listen to me, Katy. You know why Wilford Cameron comes here a second time, and what he will probably ask you ere he goes away; but, Katy, you are not strong enough yet to see him under so exciting circumstances, and, as your physician, I desire that you tell him to wait at least three weeks before he comes. Will you do so, Katy?"

"That is just as Helen talked," Katy answered, mournfully. "She said I was not able."

"And will you heed us?" Morris asked again, while Katy after a moment consented; and glad of this respite from what he knew to a certainty would be, Morris dealt out her medicine, and for an instant felt her rapid pulse, but did not retain her hand within his own, nor lay his other upon her head, as he had sometimes done.

He could not do that now, and so he hurried away, finding the world into which he went far different from what it had seemed an hour ago. Then all was bright and hopeful; but now, alas! a darker night was gathering around him than any he had ever known, and the patients visited that day marveled at the whiteness of his face, asking if he were ill? Yes, he answered them truly, and for two days he was not seen again, but remained at home alone, where none but his God was witness to what he suffered; but when the third day came he went again among his sick, grave, quiet and unchanged to outward appearance, unless it was that his voice, always so kind, had now a kinder tone and his manner was tenderer, more sympathizing. Inwardly, however, there was a change, for Morris Grant had lain himself upon the sacrificial altar, willing to be and to endure whatever God should appoint, knowing that all would eventually be for his good. To the farmhouse he went every day, talking most with Helen now, but never forgetting who it was sitting so demurely in the armchair, or flitting about the room, for Katy was gaining rapidly. Love perhaps had had nothing to do with her dangerous illness, but it had much to do with her recovery, and those not in the secret wondered to see how she improved, her cheeks growing round and full and her eyes shining with returning health and happiness.

At Helen's instigation Katy had deferred Wilford's visit four weeks instead of three, but in that time there had come two letters from him, letters so full of anxiety and sympathy for "his poor little Katy who had been so sick," that even Helen began to think she had done injustice to him, that he was not as proud and heartless as she supposed, and that he did love her sister after all.

"If I supposed he meant to deceive her I should wish I was a man to cowhide him," she said to herself, with flashing eye, as she heard Katy exulting that he was coming "to-morrow."

This time he would stop at Linwood, for Katy had asked Morris if he might, while Morris had told her "yes," feeling his heart wound throb afresh, as he thought how hard it would be to entertain his rival. Of himself Morris could do nothing, but with the help he never sought in vain he could do all things, and so he gave orders that the best chamber should be prepared for his guest, bidding Mrs. Hull, his housekeeper, see that no pains were spared for his entertainment, and then with Katy he waited for the day, the last one in April, which should bring Wilford Cameron a second time to Silverton.

WILFORD'S SECOND VISIT.

Wilford Cameron had tried to forget Katy Lennox, while his mother and sisters had done their best to help to forget, or at least sicken of her; and as the three, Juno, Bell and the mother, were very differently constituted, they had widely different ways of assisting him in his dilemma, the mother complimenting his good sense in drawing back from an alliance which could only bring him mortification; Bell, the blue sister, ignoring the idea of Wilford's marrying that country girl as something too preposterous to be contemplated for a moment, much less to be talked about; while Juno spared neither ridicule nor sarcasm, using the former weapon so effectually that her brother at one time nearly went over to the enemy; and Katy's tears, shed so often when no one could see her, were not without a reason. Wilford was trying to forget her, both for his sake and her own, for he foresaw that she could not be happy with his family, and he came to think it might be a wrong to her, transplanting her into a soil so wholly unlike that in which her habits and affections had taken root.

His father once had abruptly asked him if there was any truth in the report that he was about to marry and make a fool of himself, and when Wilford had answered "No," he had replied with a significant:

"Umph! Old enough, I should think, if you ever intend to marry. Wilford," and the old man faced square about: "I know nothing of the girl, except what I gathered from your mother and sisters. You have not asked my advice. I don't suppose you want it, but if you do, here it is. If you love the girl and she is respectable, marry her if she is poor as poverty and the daughter of a tinker; but if you don't love her, and she's rich as a nabob, for thunder's sake keep away from her."

This was the elder Cameron's counsel, and Katy's cause arose fifty per cent, in consequence. Still Wilford was sadly disquieted, so much so that his partner, Mark Ray, could not fail to observe that something was troubling him, and at last frankly asked what it was. Wilford knew he could trust Mark, and he confessed the whole, telling him far more of Silverton than he had told his mother, and then asking what his friend would do were the case his own.

Fond of fun and frolic, Mark laughed immoderately at Wilford's description of Aunt Betsy bringing her "herrin' bone" patchwork into the parlor, and telling him it was a part of Katy's "settin' out," but when it came to her hint for an invitation to visit in New York, the amused young man roared with laughter, wishing so much that he might live to see the day when poor Aunt Betsy Barlow stood ringing for admittance at No. —— Fifth Avenue.

"Wouldn't it be rich, though, the meeting between your Aunt Betsy and Juno?" and the tears fairly poured down the young man's face.

But Wilford was too serious for trifling, and after his merriment had subsided, Mark talked with him candidly, sensibly, of Katy Lennox, whose cause he warmly espoused, telling Wilford that he was far too sensitive with regard to family and position.

"You are a good fellow on the whole, but too outrageously proud," he said. "Of course this Aunt Betsy in her pongee, whatever that may be, and the uncle in his shirt sleeves, and this mother whom you describe as weak and ambitious, are objections which you would rather should not exist; but if you love the girl, take her, family and all. Not that you are to transport the whole colony of Barlows to New York," he added, as he saw Wilford's look of horror, "but make up your mind to endure what cannot be helped, resting yourself upon the fact that your position is such as cannot well be affected by any marriage you might make, provided the wife were right."

This was Mark Ray's advice, and it had great weight with Wilford, who knew that Mark came, if possible, from a better line of ancestry than himself, inasmuch as his maternal grandmother was a near relative of the English Percys, and the daughter of a lord. And still Wilford hesitated, waiting until the winter was over before he came to the decision which when it was reached was firm as a granite rock. He had made up his mind at last to marry Katy Lennox if she would accept him, and he told his mother so in the presence of his sisters, when one evening they were all kept at home by the rain. There was a sudden uplifting of Bell's eyelashes, a contemptuous shrug of her shoulders, and then she went on with the book she was reading, wondering if Katy was at all inclined to literature, and thinking if she were that it might be easier to tolerate her. Juno, who was expected to say the sharpest things, turned upon him with the exclamation:

"If you can stand those two feather beds, you can do more than I supposed," and as one means of showing her disapproval, she quitted the room, while Bell, who had taken to writing articles on the follies of the age, soon followed her sister to elaborate an idea suggested to her mind by her brother's contemplated marriage.

Thus left alone with her son, Mrs. Cameron tried all her powers of persuasion upon him in vain. But nothing she said influenced him in the least, seeing which she suddenly confronted him with the question: "Shall you tell her all? A husband should have no secrets of that kind from his wife."

Wilford's face was white as ashes, and his voice trembled as he replied: "Yes, mother, I shall tell her all; but, oh! you do not know how hard it has been for me to bring my mind to that, or how sorry I am that we ever kept that secret—when Genevra died—"

"Hush-h!" came warningly from the mother as Juno reappeared, the warning indicating that Genevra, whoever she might be, was a personage never mentioned, except by mother and son.

As Juno remained the conversation was not resumed, and the next morning Wilford wrote to Katy Lennox the letter which carried to her so much of joy, and to Dr. Grant so much of grief. To wait four weeks, as Katy said he must, was a terrible trial to Wilford, who counted every moment which kept him from her side. It was all owing to Dr. Grant and that perpendicular Helen, he knew, for Katy in her letter had admitted that the waiting was wholly their suggestion; and Wilford's thoughts concerning them were anything but complimentary, until a new idea was suggested, which drove every other consideration from his mind.

Wilford was naturally jealous, but that fault had once led him into so deep a trouble that he had struggled hard to overcome it, and now, at its first approach, after he thought it dead, he tried to shake it off—tried not to believe that Morris cared especially for Katy. But the mere possibility was unendurable, and in a most feverish state of excitement he started again for Silverton.

As before, Morris was waiting for him at the station, his cordial greeting and friendly manner disarming him from all anxiety in that quarter, and making him resolve anew to trample the demon jealousy under his feet, where it could never rise again. Katy's life should not be darkened by the green monster, he thought, and her future would have been bright indeed had it proved all that he pictured it as he drove along with Morris in the direction of the farmhouse, for he was to stop there first and then at night go over to sleep at Linwood.

Katy was waiting for him, and as he met her alone, he did not hesitate to kiss her more than once as he kept her for a moment in his arms, and then held her off to see if her illness had left any traces upon her. It had not, except it were in the increased delicacy of her complexion and the short hair now growing out in silky rings. She was very pretty in her short hair, but Wilford felt a little impatient as he saw how childish it made her look, and thought how long it would take for it to attain its former length. He was already appropriating her to himself, and devising ways of improving her. In New York, with Morris Grant standing before his jealous gaze, he could see no fault in Katy, and even now, with her beside him, and the ogre jealousy gone, he saw no fault in her; it was only her dress, and that could be so easily remedied. Otherwise she was perfect, and in his delight at meeting her again he forgot to criticise the farmhouse and its occupants, as he had done before.

They were very civil to him—the mother overwhelmingly so—insomuch that Wilford could not help detecting her anxiety that all should be settled this time. Helen, on the contrary, was unusually cool, confirming him in his opinion that she was strong-minded and self-willed, and making him resolve to remove Katy as soon as possible from her strait-laced influence. When talking with his mother he had said that if Katy had told him "yes," he should probably place her at some fashionable school for a year or two; but on the way to Silverton he had changed his mind. He could not wait a year, and if he married Katy at all, it should he immediately. He would then take her to Europe, where she could have the best of teachers, besides the advantage of traveling; and it was a very satisfactory picture he drew of the woman whom he should introduce into New York society as his wife, Mrs. Wilford Cameron. It is true that Katy had not yet said the all-important word, but she was going to say it, and when late that afternoon they came up from the walk he had asked her to take, she was his promised wife.

They had sat together on the very rock where Katy sat that day when Uncle Ephraim told her of the different paths there were through life, some pleasant and free from care, some thorny and full of grief. Katy had never forgotten the conversation, and, without knowing why, she had always avoided that rock beneath the butternut as a place where there had been revealed to her a glimpse of something sad; and so, when Wilford proposed resting there, she at first objected, but yielded at last, and, with his arm around her, listened to the story of his love. It was what she had expected and thought herself prepared for, but when it came it was so real, so earnest, that she could only clasp her hands over her face, which she hid on Wilford's shoulder, weeping passionately as she thought how strange it was for a man like Wilford Cameron to seek her for his wife. Katy was no coquette; whatever she felt she expressed, and when she could command herself she frankly confessed to Wilford her love for him, telling him how the fear that he had forgotten her had haunted her all the long, long winter; and then with her clear, truthful blue eyes looking into his, asking him why he had not sent her some message if, as he said, he loved her all the time.

For a moment Wilford's lip was compressed and a flush overspread his face, as, drawing her closer to him, he replied: "My little Katy will remember that in my first note I spoke of certain circumstances which had prevented my writing earlier. I do not know that I asked her not to seek to know those circumstances; but I ask it now. Will Katy trust me so far as to believe that all is right between us, and never allude to these circumstances?"

He was kissing her fondly, and his voice was so winning that Katy promised all that was required; and then came the hardest, the trying to tell her all, as he had said to his mother he would. Twice he essayed to speak, and as often something sealed his lips, until at last he began: "You must not think me perfect, Katy, for I have faults, and perhaps if you knew my past life you would wish to revoke your recent decision and render a different verdict to my suit. Suppose I unfold the blackest leaf for your inspection?"

"No, no, oh, no," and Katy playfully stopped his mouth with her hand. "Of course you have some faults, but I would rather find them out myself. I could not hear anything against you now. I am satisfied to take you as you are."

Wilford felt his heart throb wildly with the feeling that he was in some way deceiving the young girl; but if she would not suffer him to tell her, he was not to be censured if she remained in ignorance. And so the golden moment fled, and when he spoke again he said: "If Katy will not now read that leaf I offered to show her, she must not shrink back in horror if ever it does meet her eye."

"I don't, I promise," Katy answered, a vague feeling of fear creeping over her as to what the reading of that mysterious page involved. But this was soon forgotten, as Wilford, remembering his suspicions of Dr. Grant, thought to probe a little by asking if she had ever loved any one before himself?

"No, never," she answered. "I never dreamed of such a thing until I saw you, Mr. Cameron;" and Wilford believed the trusting girl, whose loving nature shone in every lineament of her face, upturned to receive the kisses he pressed upon it, resolving within himself to be to her what he ought to be.

"By the way," he continued, "don't call me Mr. Cameron again, as you did just now. I would rather be your Wilford. It sounds more familiar. And still," he added, "it may be better at present to reserve that name for the time when we are alone. To your family I may as well remain Mr. Cameron."

This was an after thought, suggested by his knowing how he should shiver to hear Aunt Betsy call him "Wilford," as she surely would if Katy did. Then he told her of his projected tour to Europe, and Katy felt her pulses quicken as she thought of London, Paris and Rome, as places which her plain country eyes might yet look upon. But when it came to their marriage, which Wilford said must be soon—within a few weeks—she demurred, for this arrangement was not in accordance with her desires. She should so much enjoy a long courtship with Wilford coming often to Silverton, and such quantities of letters passing between them as should make her the envy of all Silverton. This was Katy's idea, and she opposed her lover with all her strength, telling him she was so young, not eighteen till July, and she knew so little of housekeeping. He must let her stay at home until she learned at least the art of making bread!

Poor, ignorant Katy! Wilford could not forbear a smile as he thought how different were her views from his, and tried to explain that the art of bread-making, though very desirable in most wives, was not an essential accomplishment for his. Servants would do that; besides he did not intend to have a house of his own at once; he should take her first to live with his mother, where she could learn what was necessary much better than there in Silverton.

Wilford Cameron expected to be obeyed in every important matter by the happy person who should be his wife, and as he possessed the faculty of enforcing perfect obedience without seeming to be severe, so he silenced Katy's arguments, and when they left the shadow of the butternut tree she knew that in all human probability six weeks' time would find her on the broad ocean alone with Wilford Cameron. So perfect was Katy's faith and love that she had no fear of Wilford now, but as his affianced wife walked confidently by his side, feeling fully his equal, nor once dreaming how great the disparity his city friends would discover between the fastidious man of fashion and the unsophisticated country girl. And Wilford did not seek to enlighten her, but suffered her to talk of the delight it would be to live in New York, and how pleasant for mother and Helen to visit her, especially the latter, who would thus have a chance to see something of the world.