Family Pride; Or, Purified by Suffering

FIRST MONTH OF MARRIED LIFE.

If Katy's letters, written, one on board the steamer and another from London, were to be trusted, she was as nearly perfectly happy as a young bride well can be, and the people at the farmhouse felt themselves more and more kindly disposed toward Wilford Cameron with each letter received. They were going soon into the northern part of England, and from thence into Scotland, Katy wrote from London, and two weeks after found them comfortably settled at the inn at Alnwick, near to Alnwick Castle. Wilford had seemed very anxious to get there, leaving London before Katy was quite ready to leave, and hurrying across the country until Alnwick was reached. He had been there before, years ago, he said, but no one seemed to recognize him, though all paid due respect to the distinguished-looking American and his beautiful young wife. An entrance into Alnwick Castle was easily obtained, and Katy felt that all her girlish dreams of grandeur and magnificence were more than realized here in this home of the Percys, where ancient and modern styles of architecture and furnishing were so blended together. She would never tire of that place, she thought, but Wilford's taste led him elsewhere, and he took more delight, it would appear, in wandering around St. Mary's Church, which stood upon a hill commanding a view of the castle and of the surrounding country for miles away. Here Katy also came, rambling with him through the village graveyard where slept the dust of centuries, the gray, mossy tombstones bearing date backward for more than a hundred years, their quaint inscriptions both puzzling and amusing Katy, who studied them by the hour.

One quiet summer morning, however, when the heat was unusually great, she felt too listless to wander about, and so sat upon the grass, listening to the birds as they sang above her head, while Wilford, at some distance from her, stood leaning against a tree and thinking sad, regretful thoughts, as his eye rested upon the rough headstone at his feet.

"Genevra Lambert, aged twenty-two," was the lettering upon it, and as he read it a feeling of reproach was in his heart, while he said: "I hope I am not glad to know that she is dead."

He had come to Alnwick for the sole purpose of finding that humble grave, of assuring himself that after life's fitful fever, Genevra Lambert slept quietly, forgetful of the wrong once done to her by him. It is true he had not doubted her death before, but as seeing was believing, so now he felt sure of it, and plucking from the turf above her a little flower growing there, he went back to Katy and sitting down beside her with his arm around her waist, tried to devise some way of telling her what he had promised himself he would tell her there in that very yard, where Genevra was buried. But the task was harder now than before. Katy was so happy with him, trusting his love so fully that he dared not lift the veil and read to her that page hinted at once before in Silverton, when they sat beneath the butternut tree, with the fresh young grass springing around them. Then, she was not his wife, and the fear that she would not be if he told her all had kept him silent, but now she was his alone; nothing could undo that, and there, in the shadow of the gray old church through whose aisles Genevra had been borne out to where the rude headstone was gleaming in the English sunlight, it seemed meet that he should tell her sad story. And Katy would have forgiven him then, for not a shadow of regret had darkened her life since it was linked with his, and in her perfect love she could have pardoned much. But Wilford did not tell. It was not needful; he made himself believe—not necessary for her ever to know that once he met a maiden called Genevra, almost as beautiful as she, but never so beloved. No, never. Wilford said that truly, when that night he bent over his sleeping Katy, comparing her face with Genevra's, and his love for her with his love for Genevra.

"That was a boyish fancy, this love of mature years," and Wilford pressed a kiss upon Katy's pure forehead, showing so white in the moonlight.

Wilford was very fond of his girlish wife and very proud of her, too, when strangers paused, as they often did, to look back after her. Thus far nothing had arisen to mar the happiness of his first weeks of married life; nothing except the letters from Silverton, over which Katy always cried, until he sometimes wished that the family could not write. But they could and they did; even Aunt Betsy inclosed in Helen's letter a note, wonderful both in orthography and composition, and concluding with the remark that she would be glad when Catherine returned and was settled in a home of her own, as she would then have a new place to visit.

There was a dark frown on Wilford's face, and for a moment he felt tempted to withhold the note from Katy, but this he could not do then, so he gave it into her hands, watching her as with burning cheeks, she read it through, and asking her at its close why she looked so red.

"Oh, Wilford," and she crept closely to him, "Aunt Betsy spells so queerly, that I was wishing you would not always open my letters first. Do all husbands do so?"

It was the only time Katy had ventured to question a single act of his, submitting without a word to whatever was his will. Wilford knew that his father would never have presumed to break a seal belonging to his mother, but he had broken Katy's and he should continue breaking them, so he answered, laughingly;

"Why, yes, I guess they do. My little wife has surely no secrets to hide from me?"

"No secrets," Katy answered, "only I did not want you to see Aunt Betsy's letter, that's all."

"I did not marry Aunt Betsy—I married you," was Wilford's reply; which meant far more than Katy guessed.

With three thousand miles between him and his wife's relatives, Wilford could endure to think of them; but whenever letters came to Katy bearing the Silverton postmark, he was conscious of a far different sensation from what he experienced when the postmark was New York and the handwriting that of his own family. But not in any way did this feeling manifest itself to Katy, who, as she always wrote to Helen, was very, very happy, and never more so, perhaps, than while they were at Alnwick, where, as if he had something for which to atone, he was unusually kind and indulgent, caressing her with unwonted tenderness, and making her ask him once if he loved her a great deal more now than when they were first married.

"Yes, darling, a great deal more," was Wilford's answer, as he kissed her upturned face, and then went for the last time to Genevra's grave; for on the morrow they were to leave the neighborhood of Alnwick for the heather blooms of Scotland.

There was a trip to Edinburgh, a stormy passage across the Straits of Dover, a two months' sojourn in Paris, and then they went to Rome, where Wilford intended to pass the winter, journeying in the spring through different parts of Europe. He was in no haste to return to America; he would rather stay where he could have Katy all to himself, away from her family and his own. But it was not so to be, and not very long after his arrival at Rome there came a letter from his mother apprising him of his father's dangerous illness, and asking him to come home at once. The elder Cameron had not been well since Wilford left the country, and the physician was fearful that the disease had assumed a consumptive form, Mrs. Cameron wrote, adding that her husband's only anxiety was to see his son again. To this there was no demur, and about the first of December, six months from the time he had sailed, Wilford arrived in Boston, having taken a steamer for that city. His first act was to telegraph for news of his father, receiving a reply that he was better; the alarming symptoms had disappeared, and there was now great hope of his recovery.

"We might have stayed longer in Europe," Katy said, feeling a little chill of disappointment—not that her father-in-law was better, but at being called home for nothing, when her life abroad was so happy and free from care.

Somehow the atmosphere of America seemed different from what it used to be. It was colder, bluer, the little lady said, tapping her foot uneasily and looking from her windows at the Revere out upon the snowy streets, through which the wintry wind was blowing in heavy gales.

"Yes, it is a heap colder," she sighed, as she returned to the large chair which Esther had drawn for her before the cheerful fire, charging her disquiet to the weather once, never dreaming of imputing it to her husband, who was far more its cause than was the December cold.

He, too, though glad of his father's improvement, was sorry to have been recalled for nothing to a country which brought his old life back again, with all its forms and ceremonies, reviving his dread lest Katy should not acquit herself as was becoming Mrs. Wilford Cameron. In his selfishness he had kept her almost wholly to himself, so that the polish she was to acquire from her travels abroad was not as perceptible as, now that he looked at her with his family's eyes, he could desire. Katy was Katy still, in spite of London, Paris, or Rome. To be sure there was about her a little more maturity and self-assurance, but in all essential points she was the same; and Wilford winced as he thought how the free, impulsive manner which, among the Scottish hills, where there was no one to criticise, had been so charming to him, would shock his lady mother and Sister Juno. And this it was which made him moody and silent, replying hastily to Katy when she said to him: "Please, Wilford, telegraph to Helen to be with mother at the West depot when we pass there to-morrow. The train stops five minutes, you know, and I want to see them so much. Will you, Wilford?"

She had come up to him now, and was standing behind him, with her hands upon his shoulder; so she did not see the expression of his face as he answered quickly;

"Yes, yes."

A moment after he quitted the room, and it was then that Katy, standing before the window, charged the day with what was strictly Wilford's fault. Returning at last to her chair she went off into a reverie as to the new home to which she was going and the new friends she was to meet, wondering much what they would think of her, and wondering most if they would like her. Once she had said to Wilford:

"Which of your sisters shall I like best?"

And Wilford had answered her by asking:

"Which do you like best, books or going to parties in full dress?"

"Oh, parties and dress," Katy had said, and Wilford had then rejoined:

"You will like Juno best, for she is all fashion and gayety, while Bluebell prefers her books and the quiet of her own room."

Katy felt afraid of Bell, and in fact, now that they were so near, she felt afraid of them all, notwithstanding Esther's assurances that they could not help loving her. During the six months they had been together Esther had learned to feel for her young lady that strong affection which sometimes exists between mistress and servant. Everything which she could do for her she did, smoothing as much as possible the meeting which she also dreaded, for though the Camerons were too proud to express before her their opinion of Wilford's choice, she had guessed it readily, and pitied the young wife brought up with ideas so different from those of her husband's family. More accustomed to Wilford's moods than Katy, she saw that something was the matter, and it prompted her to unusual attentions, stirring the fire into a still more cheerful blaze and bringing a stool for Katy, who in blissful ignorance of her husband's real feelings, sat waiting his return from the telegraph office, whither she supposed he had gone, and building pleasant pictures of to-morrow's meeting with her mother and Helen, and possibly Dr. Morris, if not Uncle Ephraim himself.

The voyage home had been long and wearisome, and Katy, who had suffered from seasickness, was feeling jaded and tired, wishing, as she told Esther, that instead of going to New York direct she could go straight to the farmhouse and "rest on mother's bed," that receptacle for all her childish ills.

"I mean to ask Wilford if I may," she said to herself, and her cheeks grew brighter as she thought of really going home to mother and Helen and the kind old people who would pet and love her so much.

So absorbed was she in her reverie as not to hear Wilford's step as he came in, but when he stood behind her and took her head playfully between his hands, she started up, feeling that the weather had changed; it was not as cold and dreary in Boston as she imagined, neither did mother's bed seem as desirable a place to rest upon as the shoulder where she laid her head, playing with Wilford's buttons, and saying to him at last:

"You went out to telegraph, didn't you?"

He had gone out with the intention of telegraphing as she desired, but in the hall below he had met with an old acquaintance who talked with him so long that he entirely forgot his errand until Katy recalled it to his mind, making him feel very uncomfortable as he frankly told her of his forgetfulness.

"It is too late now," he added; "besides you could only see them for a moment, just long enough to make you cry—a thing I do not greatly desire, inasmuch as I wish my wife to look her best when I present her to my family, and with red eyes she couldn't, you know."

Katy knew it was settled, and choking back her tears she tried to listen, while Wilford, having fairly broken the ice with regard to his family, told her how anxious he was that she should make a good first impression upon his mother. Did Katy remember that Mrs. Morey whom they met at Paris, and could she not throw a little of her air into her manner—that is, could she not drop her girlishness when in the presence of others and be a little more dignified? When alone with him he liked to have her just what she was, a loving, affectionate little wife, but the world looked on such things differently. Would Katy try?

Wilford, when he commenced, had no definite idea as to what he should say, and without meaning it he made Katy moan piteously:

"I don't know what you mean. I would do anything if I knew how. Tell me, how shall I be dignified?"

She was crying so hard that Wilford, while mentally calling himself a fool and a brute, could only try to comfort her, telling her she need not be anything but what she was—that his mother and sisters would love her just as he did—and that daily association with them would teach her all that was necessary.

Katy's tears were stopped at last; but the frightened, anxious look did not leave her face, even though Wilford tried his best to divert her mind. A nervous terror of her new relations had gained possession of her heart, and nearly the entire night she lay awake, pondering in her mind what Wilford had said, and thinking how terrible it would be if he should be disappointed in her after all. The consequence of this was that a very white, tired face sat opposite Wilford next morning at the breakfast served in their private parlor; nor did it look much fresher even after they were in the cars and rolling out of Boston. But when Worcester was reached, and the old home waymarks began to grow familiar, the color came stealing back, until the cheeks burned with an unnatural red, and the blue eyes fairly danced as they rested on the hills of Silverton.

"Only three miles from mother and Helen! Oh, if I could go there!" Katy thought, working her fingers nervously; but the express train did not pause there, and it went so swiftly by the depot that Katy could hardly discover who was standing there, whether friend or stranger.

But when at last they came to West Silverton, and the long train slowly stopped, the first object she saw was Dr. Morris, driving down from the village. He had no intention of going to the depot, and only checked his horse a moment, lest it should prove restive if too near the engine; but when a clear young voice called from the window: "Morris! oh, Cousin Morris! I've come!" his heart gave a great heavy throb, for he knew whose voice that was and whose the little hand beckoning to him. He had supposed her far away beneath Italian skies, for at the farmhouse no intelligence had been received of her intended return, and in much surprise he reined up to the rear door, and throwing his lines to a boy, went forward to where Katy stood, her face glowing with delight as she flew into his arms, wholly forgetful of the last night's lecture on dignity, also forgetful of Wilford, standing close beside her. He had not tried to hold her back when, at the sight of Morris, she sprang away from him; but he followed after, biting his lip, and wishing she had a little more discretion. Surely it was not necessary to half strangle Dr. Grant as she was doing, kissing his hand even after she had kissed his face a full half dozen times, and all the people looking on. But Katy did not care for people. She only knew that Morris was there—the Morris whom, in her great happiness abroad, she had perhaps slighted by not writing directly to him but once. In Wilford's sheltering care she had not felt the need of this good cousin, as she used to do; but she was so glad to see him, wondering why he looked so thin and sad. Was he sick? she asked, gazing up into his face with a pitying look, which made him shiver as he answered:

"No, not sick, though tired, perhaps, as I have at present an unusual amount of work to do."

And this was true—he was usually busy. But that was not the cause of the thin face, which others than Katy remarked. Helen's words: "It might have been," spoken to him on the night of Katy's bridal, had never left his mind, much as he had tried to dislodge them. Some men can love a dozen times; but it was not so with Morris. He could overcome his love so that it should not be a sin, but no other could ever fill the place where Katy had been; and as he looked along the road through life he felt that he must travel it alone. Truly, if Katy were not yet passing through the fire, he was, and it had left its mark upon him, purifying as it burned, and bringing his every act into closer submission to his God. Only Helen and Marian Hazelton interpreted aright that look upon his face, and knew it came from the hunger of his heart, but they kept silence; while others said that he was working far too hard, urging him to abate his unwearied labors, for they would not lose their young physician yet. But Morris smiled his patient, kindly smile on all their fears and went his way, doing his work as one who knew he must render strict account for the popularity he was daily gaining, both in his own town and those around. He could think of Katy now without a sin, but he was not thinking of her when she came so unexpectedly upon him, and for an instant she almost bore his breath away in her vehement joy.

Quick to note a change in those he knew, he saw that her form was not quite so full, nor her cheeks so round; but she was weary with the voyage, she said, and knowing how seasickness will wear upon one's strength, Morris imputed it wholly to that, and believed she was, as she professed to be, perfectly happy.

"Come, Katy, we must go now," Wilford said, as the bell rang its first alarm, and the passengers, some with sandwiches and some with fried cakes in their hands, ran back to find their seats.

"Yes, I know, but I have not asked half I meant to. Oh, how I want to go home with you, Morris," Katy exclaimed, again throwing her arms around the doctor's neck as she bade him good-by, and sent fresh messages of love to the friends at home, who, had they known she was to be there at that time, would have walked the entire distance for the sake of looking once more into her dear face.

"I intended to have brought them heaps of things," she said, "but we came home so suddenly I had no time. Here, take Helen this. Tell her it is real," and the impulsive creature drew from her finger a small diamond set in black enamel, which Wilford had bought in Paris. "She did not need it; she had two more, and she was sure Wilford would not mind," she said, turning to him for his approbation.

But Wilford did mind, and his face indicated as much, although he tried to be natural as he replied: "Certainly, send it if you like."

In her excitement Katy did not observe it, but Morris did, and he at first declined taking it, saying Helen had no use for it and would be better pleased with something not half as valuable. Katy, however, insisted, appealing to Wilford, who, ashamed of his first emotion, now seemed quite as anxious as Katy herself, until Morris placed the ring in his purse, and then bade Katy hasten or she would certainly be left. One more wave of the hand, one more kiss thrown from the window, and the train moved on, Katy feeling like a different creature for having seen some one from home.

"I am so glad I saw him—so glad I sent the ring, for now they will know I am the same Katy Lennox, and I think Helen sometimes feared I might get proud with you," she said, while Wilford pulled her rich fur around her, smiling to see how bright and pretty she was looking since that meeting with Dr. Grant. "It was better than medicine," Katy said, when beyond Springfield he referred to it a second time, and leaning her head upon his shoulder she fell into a refreshing sleep, from which she did not waken until New York was reached, and Wilford, lifting her gently up, whispered to her: "Come, darling, we are home at last."

KATY'S FIRST EVENING IN NEW YORK.

The elder Cameron was really better, and more than once he had regretted recalling his son, who he knew had contemplated a longer stay abroad. But that could not now be helped; Wilford had arrived in Boston, as his telegram of yesterday announced—he would be at home to-day; and No —— Fifth Avenue was all the morning and a portion of the afternoon the scene of unusual excitement, for both Mrs. Cameron and her daughters wished to give the six months' wife a good impression of her new home. At first they thought of inviting company to dinner, but to this the father objected. "Katy should not be troubled the first day," he said; "it was bad enough for her to meet them all; they could ask Mark if they chose, but no one else."

And so only Mark Ray was invited to the dinner, gotten up as elaborately as if a princess had been expected instead of little Katy, trembling in every joint, when, about four P.M., Wilford awoke her at the depot and whispered: "Come, darling, we are home at last."

"Why do you shiver so?" he asked, wrapping her cloak around her, and almost lifting her from the car.

"I don't—know. I guess—I'm cold," and Katy drew a long breath as she thought of Silverton and the farmhouse, wishing so much that she was going into its low-walled kitchen, where the cook-stove was, and where the chairs were all splint-bottomed, instead of into the handsome carriage, where the cushions were so soft and yielding, and the whole effect so grand.

She knew it was the Cameron carriage, for Wilford had said it would meet them; but she had not expected it to be just what it was, and she bowed humbly to the polite coachman greeting Wilford and herself so respectfully. "What would our folks say?" she kept repeating to herself as she drove along the streets, where they were beginning to light the street lamps, for the December day was dark and cloudy. It seemed so like a dream that she, who once had picked huckleberries on the Silverton hills, and bound coarse, heavy shoes to buy herself a pink gingham dress, should now be riding in her carriage toward the home which she knew was magnificent; and Katy's tears fell like rain as, nestling close to Wilford, who asked what was the matter, she whispered: "I can hardly believe that it is I—it is so unreal."

"Please don't cry," Wilford rejoined, brushing her tears away. "You know I don't like your eyes to be red."

With a great effort, Katy kept her tears back, and was very calm when they reached the brownstone front, far enough uptown to save it from the slightest approach to plebeianism from contact with its downtown neighbors. In the hall the chandelier was burning, and as the carriage stopped a flame of light seemed suddenly to burst from every window as the gas heads were turned up, so that Katy caught glimpses of rich silken curtains and costly lace as she went up the steps, clinging to Wilford and looking ruefully around for Esther, who had disappeared through the basement door. Another moment and they stood within the marbled hall, Katy conscious of nothing definite—nothing but a vague consciousness of refined elegance, and that a handsome, richly-dressed lady came out to meet them, kissing Wilford quietly, and calling him her son—that the same lady later turned to her, saying, kindly: "And this is my new daughter?"

Then Katy came to life, and did that at the very thought of which she shuddered when a few months' experience had taught her the temerity of the act—she wound her arms impulsively around Mrs. Cameron's neck, rumpling her point lace collar, and sadly displacing the coiffeur of the astonished lady, who had seldom received so genuine a greeting as that which Katy gave her, kissing her lips and whispering softly: "I love you now, because you are Wilford's mother, but by and by because you are mine. And you will love me some because I am his wife."

Wilford was horrified, particularly when he saw how startled his mother looked as she tried to release herself and adjust her tumbled headgear. It was not what he had hoped, nor what his mother had expected, for she was unaccustomed to such demonstrations; but under the circumstances Katy could not have done better. There was a tender spot in Mrs. Cameron's heart, and Katy touched it, making her feel a throb of affection for the childish creature suing for her love.

"Yes, darling, I love you now," she said, removing Katy's clinging arms and taking care that they should not enfold her a second time. "You are tired and cold," she continued; "you had better go at once to your rooms. You will find them in order, and I will send Esther up. There is plenty of time to dress for dinner," and with a wave of her hand she dismissed Katy up the stairs, noticing as she went the exquisite softness of her fur cloak; but thinking it too heavy a garment for her slight figure, and noticing, too, the graceful ankle and foot which the little high-heeled gaiter showed to good advantage. "I did not see her face distinctly, but she has a well-turned instep and walks easily," was the report she carried to her daughters, who in their own room, over Katy's, were dressing for dinner.

"She will undoubtedly make a good dancer, then, unless like Dr. Grant, she is too blue for that," Juno said, while Bell shrugged her shoulders, congratulating herself that she had a mind above such frivolous matters as dancing and well-turned insteps, and wondering if Katy cared in the least for books.

"Couldn't you see her face at all, mother?" Juno asked.

"Scarcely; but the glimpse I did get was satisfactory. I think she is pretty."

And this was all the sisters could ascertain until their toilets were finished, and they went down into the library, where their brother waited for them. He had seen his father and Jamie, and now he arose to meet his sisters, kissing them both affectionately, and complimenting them on their good looks.

"I wish we could say the same of you," saucy Juno answered, playfully pulling his mustache; "but, upon my word, Will, you are fast settling down into an oldish married man, even turning gray," and she ran her fingers through his dark hair, where there was now and then a thread of silver. "Disappointed in your domestic relations, eh?" she continued, looking him archly in the face.

Wilford was rather proud of his good looks, and during his sojourn abroad, Katy had not helped him any in overcoming this weakness, but, on the contrary, had fed his vanity by constant flattery. And still he was himself conscious of not looking quite as well as usual just now, for the sea voyage had tired him as well as Katy, but he did not care to be told of it, and Juno's ill-timed remarks aroused him at once, particularly as they reflected somewhat on Katy.

"I assure you I am not disappointed," he answered, "and the six months of my married life have been the happiest I ever knew. Katy is more than I expected her to be."

Juno elevated her eyebrows slightly, but made no direct reply, while Bell began to ask about Paris and the places he had visited.

Meanwhile Katy had been ushered into her room, which was directly over the library and separated from Mrs. Cameron's only by a range of closets and presses, a portion of which were to be appropriated to her own use. Great pains had been taken to make her rooms attractive, and as the large bay window in the library below extended to the third story, it was really the pleasantest chamber in the house. To Katy it was perfect, and her first exclamation was one of delight.

"Oh, how pleasant, how beautiful," she cried, skipping across the soft carpet to the warm fire blazing in the grate. "A bay window, too, when I like them so much, and such handsome curtains and furniture. I shall be happy here."

But happy as she was, Katy could not help feeling tired, and she sank into one of the luxurious easy-chairs, wishing she could stay there all the evening, instead of going down to that formidable dinner with her new relations. How she dreaded it, especially when she remembered that Mrs. Cameron had said there would be plenty of time to dress, a thing which Katy hated, the process was so tiresome, particularly to-night. Surely, her handsome traveling dress, made in Paris, was good enough, and she was about settling in her own mind to venture upon wearing it, when Esther demolished her castle at once.

"Wear your traveling habit!" she exclaimed, "when the young ladies, especially Miss Juno, are so particular about their dinner costume? There would be no end to the scolding I should get for suffering it. So there's no help, you see," and she began good-naturedly to remove her mistress' collar and pin, while Katy, standing up, sighed as she said; "I wish I was in Silverton to-night. I could wear anything there. What must I put on? How I dread it!" and she began to shiver again.

Fortunately for Katy, Esther had been in the family long enough to know just what they regarded as proper, as by this means the dress selected, a delicate pearl-colored silk was sure to please. It was very becoming to Katy, and having been made in Paris, was not open to criticism. Esther's taste was perfect, so that Katy was never over-dressed, and she was very simple and pretty this night, with the rich, soft lace around her neck and around her white, plump arms, where the golden bands were shining.

"Very pretty, indeed," was Mrs. Cameron's verdict when at half-past five she knocked at the door and then came in to see her daughter, kissing her cheek and stroking her head, wholly unadorned, except by the short, silken curls which could not be coaxed to grow faster than they chose, and which had sometimes annoyed Wilford. They made his wife seem so young beside him. Mrs. Cameron was annoyed, too, for she had no idea of a head, except as it was connected with a hairdresser, and her annoyance showed itself as she asked:

"Did you have your hair cut on purpose?"

But when Katy explained, she answered, pleasantly:

"Never mind; it is a fault which will mend every day, only it makes you look like a child."

"I am eighteen and a half," Katy said, feeling a lump rising in her throat, for she guessed that her mother-in-law was not quite pleased with her hair.

For herself, she liked it; it was so easy to brush and fix. She should go wild if she had to submit to all Esther had told her of hairdressing and what it involved.

Mrs. Cameron had asked if she would not like to see Mr. Cameron, the elder, before going down to dinner, and Katy had answered that she would; so as soon as Esther had smoothed a refractory fold and brought her handkerchief, she followed to the room where Wilford's father was sitting. He might not have felt complimented could he have known that something in his appearance reminded Katy of Uncle Ephraim. He was not nearly as old or as tall, nor was his hair as white, but the resemblance, if there were any, lay in the smile with which he greeted Katy, calling her his youngest child, and drawing her closely to him.

It was remarked of Mr. Cameron that since their babyhood he had never kissed one of his own children; but when Katy, who looked upon such a salutation as a matter of course, put up her rosy lips, making the first advance, he could not resist them, and he kissed her twice. Hearty, honest kisses they were, for the man was strongly drawn toward the young girl, who said to him, timidly:

"I am glad to have a father—mine died before I could remember him. May I call you so?"

"Yes, yes; God bless you, my child," and Mr. Cameron's voice shook as he said it, for neither Bell nor Juno were wont to address him just as Katy did—Katy, standing close to him, with her hand upon his shoulder and her kiss yet fresh upon his lips.

She had already crept a long way into his heart, and he took her hand from his shoulder and holding it between his own, said to her:

"I did not think you were so small or young. You are my little daughter, my baby, instead of my son's wife. How do you ever expect to fulfill the duties of Mrs. Wilford Cameron?"

"It's my short hair, sir. I am not so young," Katy answered, her eyes filling with tears as she began to wish back the heavy braids which Helen cut away when the fever was at its height.

"Never mind, child," Mr. Cameron rejoined, playfully. "Youth is no reproach; there's many a one would give their right hand to be young like you. Juno, for instance, who is—"

"Hus-band!" came reprovingly from Mrs. Cameron, spoken as only she could speak it, with a prolonged buzzing sound on the first syllable, and warning the husband that he was venturing too far.

"It is time to go down if Mrs. Cameron sees the young ladies before dinner," she said, a little stiffly; whereupon her better half startled Katy with the exclamation:

"Mrs. Cameron! Thunder and lightning, wife, call her Katy, and don't go into any nonsense of that kind."

The lady reddened, but said nothing until she reached the hall, when she whispered to Katy, apologetically:

"Don't mind it. He is rather irritable since his illness, and sometimes makes use of coarse language."

Katy had been a little frightened at the outburst, but she liked Mr. Cameron, notwithstanding, and her heart was lighter as she went down to the library, where Wilford met her at the door, and taking her on his arm led her in to his sisters, holding her back as he presented her, lest she should assault them as she had his mother. But Katy felt no desire to hug the tall, queenly girl whom Wilford introduced as Juno, and whose large, black eyes seemed to read her through as she offered her hand and very daintily kissed her forehead, murmuring something about a welcome to New York. Bell came next, broad-faced, plainer-looking Bell, who yet had many pretentions to beauty, but whose manner, if possible, was frostier, cooler, than her sister's. Of the two, Katy liked Juno best, for there was about her a flash and sparkle very fascinating to one who had never seen anything of the kind and did not know that much of this vivacity was the result of patient study and practice. Katy would have known they were high-bred, as the world defines high breeding, and something in their manner reminded her of the ladies she had seen abroad, ladies in whose veins lordly blood was flowing. She could not help feeling uncomfortable in their presence, especially as she felt that Juno's black eyes were on her constantly. Not that she could ever meet them looking at her, for they darted away the instant hers were raised, but she knew just when they returned to her again, and how closely they were scanning her.

"Your wife looks tired, Will. Let her sit down," Bell said, herself wheeling the easy-chair nearer to the fire, while Wilford placed Katy in it; then, thinking she would get on better if he were not there, he left the room, and Katy was alone with her new sisters.

Juno had examined her dress and found no fault with it, simply because it was Parisian make; while Bell had examined her head, deciding that there might be something in it, though she doubted it, but that, at all events, short hair was very becoming to it, showing all its fine proportions, and half deciding to have her own locks cut away. Juno had a similar thought, wondering if it were the Paris fashion, and if she would look as young in proportion as Katy did were her hair worn on her neck.

With their brother's departure, the tongues of both the girls were loosened, and standing near to Katy, they began to question her of what she had seen, Juno asking if she did not hate to leave Italy, and did not wish herself back again. Wholly truthful, Katy answered: "Oh, yes, I was very sorry, I would rather be there than here."

"Complimentary to us, very," Bell murmured audibly in French, blushing as Katy's eyes were lifted quickly to hers, and she knew she was understood.

If there was anything which Katy liked more than another in the way of study, it was French. She had excelled in it at Canandaigua, and while abroad had taken great pains to acquire a pure pronunciation, so that she spoke it with a good deal of fluency, and readily comprehended Bell.

"I did not mean to be rude," she said, earnestly. "I liked Italy so much, and we expected to stay longer; but that does not hinder my liking to be here. I hope I did not offend you."

"Certainly not; you are an honest little puss," Bell replied, placing her hand caressingly upon the curly head laying back so wearily on the chair. "Here in New York we have a bad way of not telling the whole truth, but you will soon be used to it."

"Used to not telling the truth! Oh, I hope not!" and this time the blue eyes lifted so wonderingly to Bell's face had in them a startled look.

"Simpleton," was Juno's comment, while Bell's was: "I rather like the child," as she continued to smooth the golden curls and wound them around her finger, wondering if Katy had a taste for metaphysics, that being the last branch of science which she had taken up.

"I suppose you will find Will a pattern husband," Juno said, after a moment's pause, and Katy replied: "There never could be a better, I am sure, and I have been very happy."

"Has he never said one cross word to you in all these six months?" was Juno's next question, to which Katy answered, truthfully: "Never."

"And lets you do as you please?"

"Yes, just as I please," Katy replied, while Juno continued: "He must have changed greatly, then, from what he used to be; but marriage has probably improved him. He tells you all his secrets, too, I presume?"

Anxious that Wilford should appear well in every light, Katy replied at random: "Yes, if he has any."

"Well, then," and in Juno's black eyes there was a wicked look, "perhaps you will tell me who was or is the original of that picture he guards so carefully?"

"What picture?" and Katy looked up inquiringly, while Juno, with a little sarcastic laugh, continued: "Oh, he has not told you, then. I thought he would not, he seemed so angry and annoyed when he saw me with it once three or four years ago. I found it in his room, where he had accidentally left it, and was looking at it when he came in. It was the picture of a young girl, who must have been very beautiful, and I did not blame Will for loving her, if he ever did, but he need not have been so indignant at me for wishing to know who it was. I never saw him so angry or so much disturbed. I hope you will ferret the secret out and tell me, for I have a great deal of curiosity, fancying that picture had something to do with his remaining so long a bachelor. I do not mean that he does not love you," she added, as she saw how white Katy grew. "It is not to be expected that a man can live to be thirty without loving more than one. There was Sybil Grey, a famous belle, whom I thought at one time he would marry; but when Judge Grandon offered she accepted, and Will was left in the lurch. I do not really believe he cared, though, for Sybil was too much of a flirt to suit his jealous lordship, and I will do him the justice to say that, however many fancies he may have had, he likes you best of all," and this Juno felt constrained to say because of the look in Katy's face, a look which warned her that in her thoughtlessness she had gone too far and pierced the young wife's heart with a pang as cruel as it was unnecessary.

Bell had tried to stop her, but she had rattled on until now it was too late, and she could not recall her words, however much she might wish to do so. "Don't tell Will," she was about to say, when Will himself appeared, to take Katy out to dinner. Very beautiful and sad were the blue eyes which looked up at him so wistfully, and nothing but the remembrance of Juno's words, "He likes you best of all," kept Katy from crying outright, when he took her hand, passing it between his own and asking if she was tired.

"Let us try what dinner will do for you," he said, and in silence Katy went with him to the pleasant dining-room, where the glare and the ceremony bewildered her, bringing a homesick feeling as she thought of Silverton, contrasting the elegance around her with the plain tea table, graced with the mulberry set instead of the costly china before her.

Never had Katy felt so embarrassed in her life as she did this night, when seated for the first time at dinner in her husband's home, with all those criticising eyes upon her, as she knew they were. She had been very hungry, but her appetite was gone, and she almost loathed the rich food offered her, feeling so glad when the dinner was ended, and Wilford asked if she would go then to Jamie's room. He was sitting in his wheel-chair when they went in, and his eyes turned eagerly toward them, lighting up with pleasure when Wilford said: "This is your Aunt Katy. You will love each other, I am sure."

That they would love each other was very apparent from the kisses Katy pressed upon his lips, and the way in which his arms clung around her neck as he said: "I am glad you have come, Aunt Katy, and you will tell me of the good doctor. He is your cousin, Uncle Wilford says."

With Jamie Katy was perfectly at her ease. There was some affinity between him and herself, and she was glad when Wilford left them alone, as he wisely did, going back to where his mother and sisters were freely discussing his bride, his mother calling her a mere child, who would improve, and Juno saying she had neither manner nor style, while Bell offered no opinion, except that she was pretty. A part of these criticisms Wilford heard, and they made his blood tingle, for he had great faith in their opinions, even though he sometimes savagely combated them, and into his heart there crept a slight feeling of dissatisfaction toward Katy, now kneeling on the floor by Jamie's side, and with her head almost in his lap, talking to him of Morris Grant, whose very name had a strange power to soothe her.

"You don't seem like an aunt," Jamie said at last, smoothing her short hair; "you look so like a girl. I wonder, must I call you so? I guess I must, though, for Uncle Will told me to, and we all mind him, grandma and all! Do you?" and the child looked curiously at her.

Had Jamie's question been put to her two weeks ago, she would have hesitated in her answer, and even now she had not waked to the fact that in all essential points her husband's wish was the law she could not help obey, but she replied, laughingly: "Yes, I mind him," while Jamie continued: "I love him so much, and he loves us and you. I heard him tell grandma so, and by his voice I knew he was in earnest. He never loved any one half so well before, he said, not even—somebody—I forget who—a funny name it was."

Katy felt almost as if she were doing wrong, but remembering what Juno had said of Sybil Grey, she faintly asked:

"Was Sybil the name?"

Jamie hardly thought it was. It seemed more like some town; still, it might have been, he said, and Katy's heart grew lighter, for Juno's idle words had troubled her, and Sybil Grey most of all; but if her husband now loved her best, she did not care so much; and when Wilford came for her to join them in the parlor, he found her like herself both in looks and spirits. Mark Ray had been obliged to decline Mr. Cameron's invitation to dinner, but he was now in the library, Wilford said, and Katy was glad, for she remembered how he had helped her during that week of gayety in Boston, when society was so new to her. As he had been then, so he was now, and his friendly, respectful manner put Katy as much at her ease as it was possible for her to be in the presence of Wilford's mother and sisters, who watched her so narrowly.

"I suppose you have not seen your Sister Helen? You know I called there, of course?" Mark said to Katy; but before she could reply, a pair of black eyes shot a keen glance at the luckless Mark, and Juno's sharp voice said, quickly: "Called on her! When, pray? I did not know you had the honor of Miss Lennox's acquaintance."

Mark was in a dilemma. He had kept his call at Silverton to himself, as he did not care to be questioned about Katy's family; and now, when it accidentally came out, he tried to make some evasive reply, pretending that he had spoken of it, and Juno had forgotten. But Juno knew better, and from that night dated a strong feeling of dislike, almost hatred, for Helen Lennox, whom she affected to despise, even though she could be jealous of her. Wisely changing the conversation, Mark asked Katy next to play, and as she seldom refused, she went at once to the piano, astonishing both Mrs. Cameron and her daughters with the brilliancy of her performance. Even Juno complimented her, saying she must have taken lessons very young.

"When I was ten," Katy answered. "Cousin Morris gave me my first exercises himself. He plays sometimes."

"Yes, I knew that," Juno replied. "Does your sister play as well as you?"

Katy knew that Helen did not, and she answered frankly: "Morris thinks she does not. She is not as fond of it as I am." Then feeling that she must in some way make amends for Helen, she added: "But she knows a great deal more than I do about books. Helen is very smart."

There was a smile on every lip at this ingenuous remark, but only Mark and Bell liked Katy the better for it. Wilford did not care to have her talking of her friends, and he kept her at the piano until she said her fingers were tired, and begged leave to stop.

It was late ere Mark bade them good-night; so late that Katy began to wonder if he would never go, yawning once so perceptibly that Wilford gave her a reproving glance, which sent the hot blood to her face and drove from her every feeling of drowsiness. Even after he had gone the family were in no haste to retire, but sat chatting with Wilford until the city clock struck twelve and Katy was actually nodding in her chair.

"Poor child, she is very tired," Wilford said, apologetically, gently waking Katy, who, really mortified, begged them to excuse her, and followed her husband to her room, where she was free to ask him what she must ask before she could ever be quite as happy as she had been before.

Notwithstanding what Jamie had said, Juno's words kept recurring to her mind, and going up to the chair where Wilford was sitting before the fire, and standing partly behind him, she said, timidly: "Will you answer me one thing truly?"

Alone with Katy, Wilford felt all his old tenderness returning, and drawing her into his lap, he asked her what it was she wished to know.

"Did you love anybody three or four years ago, or ever—that is, love them well enough to wish to make them your wife?"

Katy could feel how Wilford started, as he said: "What put that idea into your head? Who has been talking to you?"

"Juno," Katy answered. "She told me she believed that it was some other love which kept you a bachelor so long. Was it, Wilford?" and Katy's lips quivered in a grieved kind of way as she put the question.

"Juno be—"

Wilford did not say what, for he seldom swore, and never in a lady's presence, even if the lady were his wife. So he said, instead:

"It was very unkind in Juno to distress you thus with matters about which she knew nothing."

"But did you?" Katy asked again. "Was there not a Sybil Grey, or some one of that name?"

At mention of Sybil Grey, Wilford looked relieved, and answered her at once:

"Yes, there was a Sybil Grey, Mrs. Judge Grandon now, and a dashing widow. Don't sigh so wearily," he continued, as Katy drew a gasping breath. "Knowing she was a widow, I chose you, thus showing which I preferred. Few men live to be thirty without more or less fancies, which under some circumstances might ripen into something stronger, and I am not an exception. I never loved Sybil Grey, nor wished to make her my wife. I admired her very much. I admire her yet, and among all my acquaintances there is not one upon whom I would care to have you make so good an impression as upon her, nor one whose manner you could better imitate."

"Oh, will she call? Shall I see her?" Katy asked, beginning to feel alarmed at the very thought of Sybil Grey, with all her polish and manner.

"She is spending the winter in New Orleans with her late husband's relatives. She will not return till spring," Wilford replied. "But do not look so distressed, for I tell you solemnly that I never loved another as I love you, my wife. Do you believe me?"

"Yes," and Katy's head drooped upon his shoulder.

She was satisfied with regard to Sybil Grandon, only hoping she would not have to meet her when she came home. But the picture. Whose was that? Not Sybil's certainly, else Juno would have known. The picture troubled her, but she dared not speak of it, Wilford had seemed so angry at Juno. Still, she would probe him a little further, and so she continued:

"I do believe you, and if I ever see this Sybil I will try to imitate her; but tell me, if, after her, there was among your friends one better than the rest, one almost as dear as I am, one whom you sometimes remember even now—is she living, or is she dead?"

Wilford thought of that humble grave far off in St. Mary's churchyard, the grave whose headstone bore the inscription: "Genevra Lambert, aged 22," and he answered quickly:

"If there ever was such a one, she certainly is not living. Are you satisfied?"

Katy answered that she was, but perfect confidence in her husband's affection had been terribly shaken by Juno's avowal and his partial admission of an earlier love, and Katy's heart was too full to sleep, even after she had retired. Visions of Sybil Grey, blended with visions of another whom she called the "dead fancy," flitted before her mind, as she lay awake, while hour after hour went by, until tired nature could endure no longer, and just as the great city was waking up and the rattle of wheels was beginning to be heard upon the distant pavements, she fell away to sleep.