Family Pride; Or, Purified by Suffering

AUNT BETSY CONSULTS A LAWYER.

Aunt Betsy did not rest well after her return from the opera. Novelty and excitement always kept her awake, while her mind was not wholly at ease with regard to what she had done. Not that she really felt she had committed a sin, except so far as the example might be bad, but she feared the result, should it ever reach the orthodox church at Silverton.

"There's no telling what Deacon Bannister would do—send a subpoena after me, for what I know," she thought, as she laid her tired head upon her pillow and went off into that weary state halfway between sleep and wakefulness, a state in which operas, play actors, Katy in full dress, Helen and Mark Ray, choruses, music by the orchestra, to which she had been guilty of beating her foot, Deacon Bannister and the whole offended brotherhood, with constable and subpoenas, were pretty equally blended together—the music which she liked, and the subpoena which she feared taking the precedence of the others.

But with the daylight her fears subsided, and at the breakfast table she was hardly less enthusiastic over the opera than Mattie herself, averring, however; that "once would do her and she had no wish to go again."

The sight of Katy looking so frail and delicate, but so beautiful withal, had awakened all the olden intense love she had felt for her darling, and she could not wait much longer without seeing her "in her own home and hearing her blessed voice."

"Hannah, and Lucy amongst 'em, advised me not to come," she said to Mrs. Tubbs, "hinting that I might not be wanted up there; but now I'm here I shall go if I don't stay more than an hour."

"Of course I should," Mattie answered, herself anxious to stand beneath Wilford Cameron's roof and see Mrs. Wilford at home. "She don't look as proud as Helen, and you are her aunt, her blood kin, so why shouldn't you go there if you like?"

"I shall—I am going," Aunt Betsy replied, feeling that to take Mattie with her was not quite the thing, and not exactly knowing how to manage, for the girl must of course pilot the way. "I'll risk it and trust to Providence," was her final decision, and so after an early lunch she started out with Mattie as her escort, suggesting that they visit Wilford's office first and get that affair out of her mind.

At this point Aunt Betsy began to look upon herself as a most hardened wretch, wondering at the depths of iniquity to which she had fallen. The opera was the least of her offenses, for she was not harboring pride and contriving how to be rid of 'Tilda Tubbs, as clever a girl as ever lived, hoping that if she found Wilford he would see her home, and so save 'Tilda the trouble? Playhouses, pride, vanity, subterfuge and deceit—it was a long catalogue she would have to confess to Deacon Bannister, if confess she did, and with a groan the conscience-smitten woman followed her conductor along the street, and at last into the stage which took them to Wilford's office.

Broadway was literally jammed that day, and the aid of two policemen was required to extricate the bewildered countrywoman from the mass of vehicles and horses' heads, which took all her sense away. Trembling like a leaf when Mattie explained that the "two nice men" who had dragged her to the walk were police officers, and thinking again of the subpoena, the frightened woman who had escaped such peril, followed up the two flights of stairs and into Wilford's office, where she sank breathless into a chair, while Mark, not in the least surprised, greeted her cordially, and very soon succeeded in getting her quiet, bowing so graciously to Mattie when introduced that the poor girl dreamed of him for many a night, and by day built castles of what might have been had she been rich, instead of only 'Tilda Tubbs, whose home was on the Bowery. Why need Aunt Betsy in her introduction have mentioned that fact? Mattie thought, her cheeks burning scarlet; or why need she afterward speak of her as 'Tilda, who was kind enough to come with her to the office where she hoped to find Wilford? Poor Mattie, she knew some things very well, but she had never yet conceived of the immeasurable distance between herself and Mark Ray, who cared but little whether her home were on the Bowery or on Murray Hill, after the first sight which told him what she was. He was very polite to her, however, for it was not in his nature to be otherwise, while the fact that she came with Helen's aunt gave her some claim upon him.

"Mr. Cameron had just left the office and would not return that day," he said to Aunt Betsy, asking if he could assist her in any way, and assuring her of his willingness to do so.

Aunt Betsy could talk with him better than with Wilford, and was about to give him the story of the sheep pasture in detail, when, motioning to a side door, he said, "Walk in here, please. You will not be liable to so many interruptions."

"Come, 'Tilda, it's no privacy," Aunt Betsy said; but Tilda felt intuitively that she was not wanted, and rather haughtily declined, amusing herself by the window, while Aunt Betsy in the private office told her troubles to Mark Ray; and received in return the advice to let the claimant go to law if he chose, he probably would make nothing by it, and even if he did, she would not sustain a heavy loss, according to her own statement of the value of the land.

"If I could keep the sweet apple-tree, I wouldn't care," Aunt Betsy said, "for, the rest ain't worth a lawsuit; though it's my property, and I have thought of willing it to Helen, if she ever marries."

Here was a temptation which Mark Ray could not resist. Ever since Mrs. General Reynolds' party Helen's manner had puzzled him; but her shyness only made him more in love than ever, while the rumor of her engagement with Dr. Morris tormented him continually. Sometimes he believed it, and sometimes he did not, wishing always that he knew for certain. Here then was a chance for confirming his fears or for putting them at rest, and blessing 'Tilda Tubbs for declining to enter his back office, he said in reply to Aunt Betsy's "If she ever marries," "And of course she will. She is engaged, I believe?"

"Engaged? Who to? When? Strange she never writ, nor Katy neither," Aunt Betsy exclaimed, while Mark, raised to an ecstatic state, replied, "I refer to Dr. Grant. Haven't they been engaged for a long time past?"

"Why—no—indeed," was the response, and Mark could have hugged the good old lady, who continued in a confidential tone: "I used to think they'd make a good match; but I've gin that up, and now I sometimes mistrust 'twas Katy, Morris wanted. Anyhow, he's mighty changed since she was married, and he never speaks her name. I never heard anybody say so, and maybe it's all a fancy, so you won't mention it."

"Certainly not," Mark replied, drawing nearer to her, and continuing in a low tone, "Isn't it possible that after all Helen is engaged to her cousin, and you do not know it?"

"No," and Aunt Betsy grew very positive. "I am sure she ain't, for only t'other day I said to Morris that I wouldn't wonder if Helen and another chap had a hankerin' for one another; and he said he wished it might be so, for you—no, that other chap, I mean—would make a splendid husband," and Aunt Betsy turned very red at the blunder, which made Mark Ray feel as if he walked on air, with no obstacle whatever in his path.

Still he could not be satisfied without probing her a little deeper, and so he said: "And that other chap? Does he live in Silverton?"

Aunt Betsy's look was a sufficient answer; for the old lady knew he was quizzing her, just as she felt that in some way she had removed a stumbling block from his path. She had—a very large stumbling block, and in the first flush of his joy and gratitude he could do most anything. So when she spoke of going up to Katy's, he set himself industriously at work to prevent it for that day at least. "They were to have a large dinner party," he said, "and both Mrs. Cameron and Miss Lennox would be wholly occupied. Would it not be better to wait until to-morrow? Did she contemplate a long stay in New York?"

"No, she might go back to-morrow—certainly the day after," Aunt Betsy replied, her voice trembling at this fresh impediment thrown in the way of her seeing Katy.

The quaver in her voice touched Mark's sympathy. "She was old and simple-hearted. She was Helen's aunt," and this, more than aught else, helped him to a decision. "She must be homesick in the Bowery; he should die if compelled to stay there long; he would take her to his mother's and keep her until the morrow, and perhaps until she left for home; telling Helen that night, of course, and then suffering her to act accordingly."

This he proposed to his client; assuring her of his mother's entire willingness to receive her, and urging so many reasons why she should go there, instead of "up to Katy's," where they were in such confusion that Aunt Betsy was at last persuaded, and was soon riding uptown in a Twenty-third Street stage, with Mark Ray her _vis-à-vis_ and Mattie at her right. Why Mattie was there Mark could not conjecture; and perhaps she did not know herself, unless it were that, disappointed in her call on Mrs. Cameron, she vaguely hoped for some redress by calling on Mrs. Banker. How then was she chagrined, when, as the stage left them at a handsome brownstone front, near Fifth Avenue Hotel, Mark said to her, as if she were not of course expected to go in, "Please tell your mother that Miss Barlow is stopping with Mrs. Banker to-day. Has she baggage at your house?—If so, we will send around for it at once. Your number, please?"

His manner was so offhand and yet so polite that Mattie could neither resist him, nor yet be angry, though there was a sad feeling of disappointment at her heart as she gave the required number, and then shook Aunt Betsy's hand, whispering in a choked voice:

"You'll come to us again before you go home?"

"Of course I shall," Aunt Betsy answered, feeling that something was wrong, and wondering if she herself were in fault.

With a good-by to Mark, whose bow atoned for a great deal, Mattie walked slowly away, leaving Mark greatly relieved. Aunt Betsy was as much as he cared to have on his hands at once, and as he led her up the steps, he began to wonder more and more what his mother would say to his bringing that stranger into her house, unbidden and unsought.

"I'll tell her just the truth," was his rapid decision, and assuming a manner which warned the servant who answered his ring neither to be curious nor impertinent, he conducted his charge into the parlor, and bringing her a chair before the grate, went in quest of his mother, who he found was out.

"Kindle a fire then in the front guest chamber," he said, "and see that it is made comfortable as soon as possible."

The servant bowed in acquiescence, wondering who had come, and feeling not a little surprised at the description given by John of the woman he had let into the house, and who now in the parlor was looking around her in astonishment and delight, thinking she had found New York at last, and condemning herself for the feeling of homesickness with which she remembered the Bowery, contrasting her "cluttered quarters" there with the elegance around her. "Was Katy's house as fine as this?" she asked herself, feeling intuitively that such as she might be out of place in it, just as she began to fear she was out of her place here, bemoaning the fact that she had forgotten her capbox, with its contents, and so could not remove her bonnet, as she had nothing with which to cover her gray head.

"What shall I do?" she was asking herself, when Mark appeared, explaining that his mother was absent, but would be at home in a short time.

"Your room will soon be ready," he continued, "and meantime you might lay aside your wrappings here if you find them too warm."

There was something about Mark Ray which inspired confidence, and in her extremity Aunt Betsy gasped, "I can't take off my bunnet till I get my caps down to Mrs. Tubbs'. Oh, what a trouble I be."

Not exactly comprehending the nature of the difficulty, Mark suggested that she go without a cap until he could send for them; but Aunt Betsy's assertion that "she was grayer than a rat," enlightened him with regard to her dilemma, and full permission was given for her "to sit in her bonnet" until such time as a messenger could go to the Bowery and back. In this condition she had better be in her own room, and as it was in readiness, Mark himself conducted her to it, the stern gravity of his face putting down the laugh which sprang to the waiting maid's eyes at the old lady's ejaculations of surprise and amazement that anything could be so fine as the house where she so unexpectedly found herself a guest.

"She is unaccustomed to the city, but a particular friend of mine; so see that you treat her with respect," was all the explanation he vouchsafed to the curious girl.

But that was enough. A friend of Mr. Ray's must be somebody, even if she sat with two bonnets on instead of one, and appeared ten times more rustic than Aunt Betsy, who breathed freer when she found herself alone upstairs, and knew her baggage would soon be there.

In some little trepidation Mark paced up and down the parlor waiting for his mother, who came ere long, expressing her surprise to find him there, and asking if anything had happened that he seemed so agitated.

"Yes, I'm in a deuced scrape," he answered, coming up to her with the saucy, winning smile she could never resist, and continuing, "To be in at the foundation, you know how much I am in love with Helen Lennox?"

"No, I don't," was the reply, as Mrs. Banker removed her fur with the most provoking coolness. "How should I know when you have never told me?"

"Haven't you eyes? Can't you see? Don't you like her yourself?"

"Yes, very much."

"And are you willing she should be your daughter?"

Mark had his arm around his mother's neck, and bending his face to hers, kissed her playfully as he asked her the last question.

"Say, mother, are you willing I should marry Helen Lennox?"

There was a struggle in Mrs. Banker's heart, and for a moment she felt jealous of the girl whom she had guessed was dearer to her son than ever his mother could be again, but she was a sensible woman. She knew that it was natural for another and a stronger love to come between her and her boy. She liked Helen Lennox. She was willing to take her as a daughter, and she said so at last, and listened half amazed and half amused to the story which had in it so much of Aunt Betsy Barlow, who had cleared away his doubts, and who at that very moment was an occupant of their best guest chamber, sitting with her bonnet on, and waiting for her cap from the Bowery.

"Perhaps it was wrong to bring her home," he added, "but I did it to spare Helen. I knew just what a savage Wilford would be if he found her there, where she would be in the way. Say, mother, was I wrong?"

He was not often wrong in his mother's estimation, and certainly he was not now, when he kissed her so often, begging her to say he had done right.

Certainly he had. Mrs. Banker was very glad to find him so thoughtful; few young men would do as much, she said, and from feeling a little doubtful, Mark came to look upon himself as a very nice young man, who had done a most unselfish act, for of course he had not been influenced by any desire to keep Aunt Betsy from the people who would be present at the dinner, neither had Helen been at all mixed up in the affair.

It was all himself, and he began to whistle "Annie Laurie" very complacently, thinking the while what a clever fellow he was, and meditating other dangerous acts toward the old lady overhead, standing by the window, and wondering what the huge building could be gleaming so white in the fading light.

"Looks as if it was made of stone cheena," she thought, just as Mrs. Banker appeared, her kind, friendly manner making Aunt Betsy feel wholly at ease, as she answered the lady's questions or volunteered remarks of her own.

Mrs. Banker had lived in the country, and had seen just such women as Aunt Betsy Barlow, understanding her intrinsic worth, and knowing how Helen Lennox, though her niece, could still be refined and cultivated. She could also understand how one educated as Wilford Cameron had been would shrink from coming in contact with her, and possibly be rude if she thrust herself upon him. Mark did well to bring her here, she thought, as she left the room to order the tea which the tired woman so much needed. The satchel, umbrella and capbox, with a note from Mattie, had by this time arrived, and in her Sunday cap, with the purple bows, Aunt Betsy felt much better, and enjoyed the tempting little supper, served on silver and Sèvres china, the attendant waiting in the hall instead of in her room, where her presence might embarrass one unaccustomed to such usages. They were thoughtful, very kind, and had Mark been her own son she could not have been more deferential than he appeared when just before starting for the dinner he went up to see her, asking what message he should take to Helen. Mrs. Banker, too, came in, her dress eliciting many compliments from her guest, who ventured to ask the price of the diamond pin which fastened the point lace collar. Five hundred dollars seemed an enormous sum, but Aunt Betsy was learning fast not to say all she thought, and merely remarked that Katy had some diamonds, too, which she presumed cost full as much as that.

"She should do very well alone," she said, "she could read her Bible, and if she got too tired, go to bed, though she guessed she should stay up till they came home, so as to hear about the doin's," and with a good-by she sent them away, after saying to Mrs. Banker, "Maybe you ain't the kissin' kind, but if you be, I wish you would kiss Katy once for me."

There was a merry twinkle in Mark's eyes as he asked:

"And Helen, too?"

"I meant your marm, not you," Aunt Betsy answered; while Mrs. Banker raised her hand to her mischievous son, who ran lightly down the stairs, carrying a happier heart than he had known since Helen Lennox had first come to New York, and he had met her at the depot.

THE DINNER PARTY.

It was a very select party which Wilford Cameron entertained that evening; and as the carriages rolled to his door and deposited the guests, the cloud which had been lifting ever since he came home and found "no Barlow woman" there, disappeared entirely, leaving him the blandest, most urbane of hosts, pleased with everybody—himself, his guests, his sister-in-law, and his wife, who had never looked better than she did to-night, in pearls and light blue silk, which harmonized so perfectly with her waxlike complexion. Like some little fairy she flitted through the rooms, receiving, with a sweet childlike grace the kiss which Mrs. Banker gave her, but never dreaming from whom it came. Aunt Betsy's proximity was wholly unsuspected, both by her and Helen, who was very handsome to-night, in crimson and black, with lilies in her hair. Nothing could please Mark better than his seat at table, where he could look into her eyes, which dropped so shyly whenever they met his ardent gaze. Helen was beginning to doubt the story of his engagement with Juno, or at least to think that it might possibly have been broken off. Certainly she could not mistake the nature of the attentions he paid to her, especially to-night, when he hovered continually near her, totally ignoring Juno's presence, and conscious apparently of only one form, one face, and that the face and form of Helen Lennox.

There was another, too, who felt the influence of Helen's beauty, and that was Lieutenant Bob, who, after dinner, attached himself to her side, while around them gathered quite a group, all listening with peals of laughter as Bob, who was something of a mimic, related his adventure of two days before, with "the most rustic and charming old lady it was ever his fortune to meet." Told by Bob the story lost nothing of its freshness; for every particular, except indeed the kindness he had shown her, was related, even to the sheep pasture, about which she was going to New York to consult a lawyer.

"I thought once of referring her to you, Mr. Cameron," Bob said; "but couldn't find it in my heart to quiz her, she was so wholly unsuspicious. You have not seen her, have you?"

"No," came faintly from the lips which tried to smile; for Wilford knew who was the heroine of that story; wondering more and more where she was, and feeling a sensation of uneasiness as he thought, "Can any accident have befallen her?"

It was hardly probable; but Wilford felt very uncomfortable after hearing the story, which had brought a pang of doubt and fear to another mind than his. From the very first Helen feared that Aunt Betsy was the "odd woman" who had gotten upon the train at some station which Bob could not remember; while, as the story progressed, she was sure of it, for she had heard of the sheep-pasture trouble, and of Aunt Betsy's projected visit to New York, privately writing to her mother not to suffer it, as Wilford would be so greatly vexed. "Yes, it must be Aunt Betsy," she thought, and she turned so white that Mark, who was watching both her and Wilford, came as soon as possible to her side, and adroitly separating from the group around, said softly: "You look tired, Miss Lennox. Come with me a moment. I have something to tell you."

Alone with her in the hall, he continued, "I have the sequel of Bob Reynolds' story. That woman—"

"Was Aunt Betsy," Helen gasped. "But where is she now? That was two days ago. Tell me if you know. Mr. Ray, you do know," and in her agony of fear lest something dreadful had happened, she laid her hand on Mark's, beseeching him to tell her if he knew where Aunt Betsy was.

It was worth torturing her for a moment to see the pleading look in her eyes, and feel the soft touch of the hand which he took between both his own, holding it there while he answered her: "Aunt Betsy is at my house; kidnapped by me for safe keeping, until I could consult with you. Was that right?" he asked as a flush came to Helen's cheek, and an expression to her eye which told that his meaning was understood.

"Is she there willingly? How did it happen?" was Helen's reply, her hand still in those of Mark, who thus circumstanced grew very warm and eloquent with the sequel to Bob's story, making it as long as possible, telling what he knew, and also what he had done.

He had not implicated Wilford in any way; but Helen read it all, saying more to herself than him: "And she was at the opera. Wilford must have seen her, and that is why he left so suddenly, and why he has appeared so absent and nervous to-day, as if expecting something. Excuse me," she suddenly added, drawing her hand away and stepping back a little, "I forgot that I was talking as if you knew."

"I do know more than you suppose—that is, I know human nature—and I know Will better than I did that morning when I first met you," Mark said, glancing at the freed hand he wished so much to take again.

But Helen kept her hands to herself, and answered him.

"You did right under the circumstances. It would have been unpleasant for us all had she happened here to-night. I thank you, Mr. Ray—you and your mother, too—more than I can express. I will see her early to-morrow morning. Tell her so, please, and again I thank you."

There were tears in Helen's soft brown eyes, and they glittered like diamonds as she looked even more than spoke her thanks to the young man, who, for another look like that, would have driven Aunt Betsy amid the gayest crowd that ever frequented the Park, and sworn she was his blood relation! A few words from Mrs. Banker confirmed what Mark had said, and it was not strange if that night Miss Lennox, usually so entertaining, was a little absent, for her thoughts were up in that chamber on Twenty-third Street, where Aunt Betsy sat alone, but not lonely, for her mind was very busy with all she had been through since leaving Silverton, while something kept suggesting to her that it would have been wiser and better to have stayed at home than to have ventured where she was so sadly out of place. This last came gradually to Aunt Betsy as she thought the matter over, and remembered Wilford as he had appeared each time he came to Silverton.

"I ain't like him; I ain't like this Miss Banker; I ain't like anybody," she whispered. "I'm nothin' but a homely, old-fashioned woman, without larnin', without nothin'. I might know I wasn't wanted," and a rain of tears fell over the wrinkled face as she uttered this tirade against herself, standing before the long mirror and inspecting the image it gave back of a plain, unpolished countrywoman, not much resembling Mrs. Banker, it must be confessed, nor much resembling the gay young ladies she had seen at the opera the previous night. "I won't go near Katy," she continued; "it will only mortify her, and I don't want to make her trouble. The poor thing's face looked as if she had it now, and I won't add to it. I'll start for home to-morrow. There's Miss Smith, in Springfield, will keep me overnight, and Katy shan't be bothered."

When this decision was reached Aunt Betsy felt a great deal better, and taking the Bible from the table, she sat down again before the fire, opening, as by a special Providence, to the chapter where hewers of wood and drawers of water are mentioned as being necessary to mankind, each filling his appointed place.

"That's me—that's Betsy Barlow," she whispered, taking off her glasses to wipe away the moisture gathering so fast upon them. Then resuming them, she continued: "I'm a hewer of wood—a drawer of water. God made me so, and shall the clay find fault with the potter for making it into a homely jug? No, indeed; and I was a very foolish old jug to think of sticking myself in with the chinaware. But I've larnt a lesson," and the philosophic woman read on, feeling comforted to know that though a vessel of the rudest make, a paltry jug, as she called herself, the promises were still for her as much as for the finer wares—ay, that there was more hope of her entering at last where "the walls are all of precious stones and the streets are paved with gold," than of those whose good things are given so abundantly during their lifetime.

Assured, comforted, and encouraged, she fell asleep at last, and when Mrs. Banker returned she found her slumbering quietly in her chair, the Bible open on her lap, and her finger upon the passage referring to the hewers of wood and drawers of water, as if that was the last thing read.

Next morning, at a comparatively early hour, Helen stood ringing the bell of Mrs. Banker's house. She had passed a restless, but not altogether wretched night, for the remembrance of Mark's kindness in keeping Aunt Betsy away, and his manner while telling her of it would not permit of her being more than anxious as she lay awake, wondering why Mark was so kind, and if it could be possible that he was free from Juno and cared for her. It made her happy to think so, and her face, as she stood upon the steps, looked bright and fresh, instead of pale and tired, as it usually did after a night of wakefulness. She had said to Katy that she was going out and could not tell just when she might return, and as Katy never questioned her acts, while Wilford was too intent upon his own miserable thoughts as to "where Aunt Betsy could be or what had befallen her," to heed any one else, no inquiries were made and no obstacles put in the way of her going to Mrs. Banker's, where Mark met her himself, holding her cold hand until he led her to the fire and placed her in a chair. He knew she would rather meet her aunt alone, and so when he heard her step in the hall he left the room, holding the door for Aunt Betsy, who wept like a little child at the sight of Helen, accusing herself of being a fool, an old fool, who ought to be shut up in the insane asylum, but persisting in saying she was going home that very day without seeing Katy at all. "If she was here I'd like it, but I shan't go there, for I know Wilford don't want me. Say, Helen, don't you think he'll be ashamed of me and wish I was in Guinea?" she asked as her desire to see Katy grew stronger, but was met and combated with her dread of Wilford!

Helen could not tell her he would be ashamed, but Aunt Betsy knew she meant it, and with a fresh gush of tears she gave the project up entirely, telling Helen all she did not already know of her trip to New York, her visit to the opera, her staying with the Tubbses and her meeting with Mark, the best young chap she ever saw, not even excepting Morris. "If he was my own son, he couldn't be kinder," she added, "and I mistrust he hopes to be my nephew. You can't do better, and if he offers, take him."

Helen's cheeks were crimson as she waived this part of the conversation and wished aloud that she had come around in the carriage, as she could thus have taken Aunt Betsy over the city before the train would leave.

"Mark spoke of that when he heard I was going to-day," Aunt Betsy said; "I'll warrant you he'll tend to it."

Aunt Betsy was right, for when Mark and his mother joined their guests and learned that Aunt Betsy's intention was unchanged, he suggested the ride and offered the use of their carriage. Helen did not decline the offer, and ere half an hour had passed, Aunt Betsy, with her satchel, umbrella and capbox, was comfortably adjusted in Mrs. Banker's carriage with Helen beside her, while Mark bade his coachman drive wherever Miss Lennox wished to go, taking care to reach the train in time.

They were tearful thanks which Aunt Betsy gave to her kind friends as she was driven away, going first to the Bowery to say good-by and leave the packages of fruits and herbs, lest the Tubbses should "think her suddenly stuck up."

"Would you mind taking 'Tilda in? It would please her mightily," Aunt Betsy whispered, as they were alighting in front of Mr. Peter Tubbs'; and as the result of this suggestion the carriage, when again it emerged into Broadway, held Mattie Tubbs, happier, prouder than she had been in all her life before, while the gratified mother at home felt amply repaid for all the trouble her visitor had made her.

And Helen enjoyed it, too, finding Mattie a little insipid and tiresome, it is true, but feeling happy in the consciousness that she was making others happy. It was a long drive they took, and Aunt Betsy saw so much that her brain grew giddy and she was glad when they started for the depot, taking Madison Square on the way and passing Katy's house.

"I dare say it is all grand and smart," Aunt Betsy said, leaning out to look at it, "but I feel best at hum where they are used to me."

And her face did bear a brighter look, when finally seated in the cars, than it had before since she left Silverton.

"You'll be home in April, and maybe Katy'll come, too," she whispered as she kissed Helen good-by and shook hands with Mattie Tubbs, thanking her for her kindness in seein' to an old woman, and charging her again never to let the folks in Silverton know that "Betsy Barlow had once been seen at a playhouse."

Slowly the cars moved away and Helen was driven home, leaving Mattie alone in her glory as she rolled down the Bowery, enjoying greatly the _éclat_ of her position, but feeling a little chagrined at not meeting a single acquaintance by whom to be envied and admired. Only Tom saw her alight, giving vent to a whistle, and asking if she didn't feel big, as he tried to hold out his pantaloons in imitation of her dress and walk as she disappeared through the door where the dry goods were swinging.

Katy did not ask where Helen had been, for she was wholly absorbed in Marian Hazelton's letter, telling how fast the baby improved, how pretty it was growing, and how fond both she and Mrs. Hubbell were of it, loving it almost as well as if it were their own.

"I know now it was best for it to go, but it was hard at first," Katy said, putting the letter away, and sighing wearily as she missed the clasp of the little arms and touch of the baby lips.

Several times Helen was tempted to tell her of Aunt Betsy's visit, but decided finally not to do so as it might distress her to know that strangers rendered the hospitalities it was her duty to give, and so Katy never guessed the truth, nor knew what it was which for many days made Wilford so nervous and uneasy, starting quickly at every sudden ring, going often to the window, and looking out into the street as if expecting some one who never came, while he grew strangely anxious for news from Silverton, asking when Katy had heard from home, and why she did not write. One there was, however, who knew and who enjoyed it vastly, watching Wilford closely, and guessing just how his anxiety grew as day after day went by; and she neither came nor was heard from in any way, for Helen did not show the letter apprising her of Aunt Betsy's safe arrival home, and so all in Wilford's mind was left a vague conjecture.

He had seen her, she had been in New York, as was proven by Bob Reynolds, but where was she now, and who were those people with her? Had they entrapped her into some snare, and possibly murdered her? It might be. Such things were not of rare occurrence, and Wilford actually grew poor with the uncertainty which hung over the fate of one whom in his present state of mind he would have warmly welcomed to his fireside, had there been a dozen dinner parties in progress. At last, as he sat one day in his office, with the same worried look on his face, Mark, who had also been watching him, said:

"By the way, Will, how did that sheep pasture come out, or didn't the client appear?"

"Mark," and Wilford's voice was husky with emotion; "you've stumbled upon the very thing which is tormenting my life out of me. Aunt Betsy has never turned up or been heard from since that night. For aught I know she was murdered, or spirited away, and I am half distracted. I'd give a thousand dollars to know what has become of her."

"Put down half that pile and I'll tell you," was Mark's nonchalant reply, while Wilford, seizing his shoulder and compelling him to look up, exclaimed:

"You know, then? Tell me—you do know? Where is she?"

"Safe in Silverton, I presume," was the reply, and then Mark told his story, to which Wilford listened, half incredulous, half indignant, and a good deal relieved.

"You are a splendid fellow, Mark, though I must say you meddled, but I know you did not do it unselfishly. Yes, on the whole, I thank you and Helen, too, for saving me that mortification. I feel like a new man, knowing the old lady is safe at home, where I trust she will remain. And that Tom, who called here yesterday, asking to be our clerk, is the youth I saw at the opera. I thought his face was familiar. Let him come of course. In my gratitude I feel like patronizing the entire Tubbs family."

And so it was this flash of gratitude for a peril escaped which procured for young Tom Tubbs the situation of clerk in the office of Cameron and Ray, the application for such situation having been urged by the ambitious Mattie, who felt her dignity considerably increased when she could speak of Brother Tom in company with Messrs. Cameron & Ray. And it was also a part of the same gratitude which suggested the huge package of merino and gingham, calico and linen, together with the handsome silk shawl and black lace veil, which a few days later was left by the express boy at the door of the farmhouse for Miss Betsy Barlow, who in a long letter overwhelmed Katy with her thanks, and nearly let out her visit to New York, as yet a secret to Mrs. Wilford.

THE SEVENTH REGIMENT.

Does the reader remember the pleasant spring days of four years ago, when the thunder of Fort Sumter's bombardment came echoing up to the Northern hills and across the Western prairies, stopping for a moment the pulses of the nation, but quickening them again with a mighty power as from Maine to California man after man arose to smite the maddened foe trailing our honored flag in the dust? Nowhere, perhaps, was the excitement so great or the feeling so strong as in New York, when the Seventh Regiment was ordered on to Washington, its members, who so often had trodden the streets with a proud step, never faltering or holding back, but with a nerving of the will and a putting aside of self, prepared to do their duty. Conspicuous among them was Mark Ray, who, laughing at his mother's fears, kissed her livid cheek, and then with a pang remembered Helen—dearer even than his mother—wondering how she would feel, and thinking the path to danger would be so much easier if he knew her love was his, that her prayers, her wishes would go with him, shielding him from harm and bringing him back again to the sunshine of her presence.

And before he went Mark must know this for certain, chiding himself for having put it off so long. True she had been sick and confined to her room for a long while after Aunt Betsy's memorable visit; and when she was able to go out, Lent had put a stop to her mingling in festive scenes, so that he had seen but little of her, and had never met her alone. But he would write that very day. She knew, of course, that he was going, bidding him Godspeed he was sure, for her whole heart was with the gallant men who had stood so nobly against the enemy, surrendering only because they must. She would say that he did well to go; and she would answer "yes" to the question he would ask her. Mark felt sure of that; but still the letter he wrote was eloquent with his pleadings for her love, while he confessed his own, and asked that she would be his wife—would give him the right to carry her in his heart—to think of her as his affianced bride—to know she waited for his return, and would crown it at last with the full fruition of her priceless love.

"I meet a few of my particular friends at Mrs. Grandon's to-night," he added, in conclusion. "Can I hope to see you there, taking your presence as a token that I may speak and tell you in words what I have so poorly written?"

"She surely will be there, as it is the last, perhaps, she'll ever see of some of us poor wretches," Mark said, his hand trembling a little as he sealed the note, which he would not trust to the post.

He would deliver it himself, avoiding the possibility of a mistake, he said, and half an hour later he rang the bell at No. ——, asking "If Miss Lennox was at home."

She was; and handing the girl the note, Mark ran down the steps, while the servant carried the missive to the library, where upon the table lay other letters received that morning by the penny post, and as yet unopened; for Katy was very busy, and Helen was dressing to go out with Juno Cameron, who had graciously asked her to drive with her that morning and look at a picture she had set her heart on having.

Juno had not yet appeared; but Mark was scarcely out of sight when she came in with the familiarity of a sister and entered the library to wait. Carelessly turning over the books upon the table, she stumbled over Mark's letter, which, through some defect in the envelope, had become unsealed, and lay with its edge lifted so that to peer at its contents was a very easy matter had she been so disposed. But Juno, though indignant and jealous—for she knew the handwriting—could not at first bring herself even to touch what was intended for her rival. But as she gazed the longing grew, until at last she took it in her hand, turning it to the light, and tracing distinctly the words "My dear Helen," while a storm of pain and passion swept over her, mingled with a feeling of shame that she had let herself down so far.

"It does not matter now," the tempter whispered. "You may as well read it and know the worst. Nobody will suspect it," and so, led on step by step, she was about to take the folded letter from the envelope, intending fully to replace it after it was read, when a rapid step warned her some one was coming, and hastily thrusting the letter in her pocket, she dropped her veil to cover her confusion, and then confronted Helen Lennox, ready for the drive, and all unconscious of the wrong which could not then be righted.

Juno was unusually kind and familiar that morning, delicately complimenting Helen's taste with regard to pictures, and trying in various ways to forget the letter which lay upon her conscience like a leaden weight, driving all other thoughts from her mind, and leaving only the torturing one, "How can I return it without detection?" Juno did not mean to keep the letter, and all that morning she was devising measures for making restitution, even thinking once to confess the whole, but shrinking from that as more than she could do. As they were driving home they met Mark Ray; but Helen, who chanced to be looking in an opposite direction, did not see the earnest look of scrutiny he gave her, scarcely heeding Juno, whose face was all ablaze with guilt as she returned his bow, and whose voice trembled as she spoke of him to Helen and his intended departure. Helen observed the tremor in her voice, and pitied the girl whose agitation she fancied arose from the fact that her lover was so soon to go where danger and possibly death were waiting. In Helen's heart, too, there was a cutting pang whenever she remembered Mark, and what had so recently passed between them, raising hopes which now were wholly blasted. For he was Juno's, she believed, and the grief at his projected departure was the cause of that young lady's softened and even humbled demeanor, as she insisted on Helen's stopping at her house for lunch before going home.

To this Helen consented—Juno still revolving in her mind how to return the letter, which grew more and more a horror to her. It was in her pocket yet, she knew, for she had felt it there when, after lunch, she went to her room for a fresh handkerchief. She would accompany Helen home, would manage to slip into the library alone, and put it partly under a book, so that it would appear to be hidden, and thus account for it not having been seen before; or better yet, she would catch it up playfully and banter Helen on her carelessness in leaving her love letters so exposed. This last seemed a very clever plan, and with her spirits quite elated, Juno drove around with Helen, finding no one in the parlor below, and felicitating herself upon the fact that Helen left her alone while she ran up to Katy.

"Now is my time," she thought, stealing noiselessly into the library and feeling for the letter.

But it was not there. It was missing, gone, and no amount of search, no shaking of handkerchief, or turning of pocket inside out could avail to find it. The letter was lost, and in the utmost consternation Juno returned to the parlor, still hunting for the letter, and appearing so abstracted as scarcely to be civil when Katy came down to see her; asking if she was going that night to Sybil Grandon's, and talking of the dreadful war, which she hoped would not be a war after all. Juno was too wretched to talk, and after a few moments she started for home, hunting in her own room and through the halls, but failing in her search, and finally giving it up, with the consoling reflection that were it found in the street, as seemed quite probable, no suspicion could fasten on her; and as fear of detection, rather than contrition for the sin, had been the cause of her distress, she grew comparatively calm, save when her conscience made itself heard and admonished confession as the only reparation which was now in her power. But Juno could not confess, and all that day she was absent-minded and silent, while her mother watched her closely, wondering what connection, if any, there was between her burning cheeks and the letter she had found upon the floor in her daughter's room just after she had left it; the letter, at whose contents she had glanced, shutting her lips firmly together as she saw that her plans had failed, and finally putting the document away where there was less hope of its ever finding its rightful owner than if it had remained with Juno. Had Mrs. Cameron supposed that Helen had already seen it, she would have returned it at once; but of this she had her doubts, after learning that "Miss Lennox did not go upstairs at all." Juno, then, must have been the delinquent; and though the mother shrank from the act as unladylike, if nothing more, she resolved to keep the letter till some inquiry was made for it at least. And so Helen, sitting by her window, and looking dreamily out into the street, with a feeling of sad foreboding as she thought of the dark cloud which had burst so suddenly upon the nation's horizon, enveloping Mark Ray in its dark fold, and bearing him away, possibly never to return again, had no suspicion of the truth, and did not guess how anxiously the young man was anticipating the interview at Sybil Grandon's, scarcely doubting that she would be there, and fancying just the expression of her eyes when they first met his. Alas for Mark, also for Helen, that both should be so cruelly deceived. Had the latter known of the loving words sent from the true heart which longed for some word of hers to lighten the long march and beguile the tedious days of absence, she would not have said to Katy, when asked if going to Mrs. Grandon's, "Oh, no; please don't urge me. I would so much rather stay at home."

Katy would not insist and so went alone with Wilford to the entertainment given to a few young men who seemed as heroes then, when the full meaning of that word had not been exemplified, as it has been since in the life so cheerfully laid down and the heart's blood poured so freely, by the tens of thousands who have won a martyr's and a hero's name. Curiously, eagerly Mark Ray scanned each new arrival, feeling his lips grow white and his pulses faint when he at last caught sight of Wilford's tall figure, and looked for what might be beside it. But only Katy was there. Helen had not come, and with a feeling of chill despair Mark listened while Katy explained to Mrs. Grandon that her sister had fully intended coming in the morning, but had suddenly changed her mind and begged to be excused.

"I am sorry," Sybil said, "and so I am sure is Mr. Ray," turning lightly to Mark, whose white face froze the gay laugh on her lips and made her try to shield him from observation until he had time to recover himself and appear as usual.

How Mark blessed Sybil Grandon for that kindness, and how wildly the blood throbbed through his veins as he thought "She would not come. She does not care. I have deceived myself in hoping that she did, and now welcome war, welcome anything which shall help me to forget."

Mark was very wretched, and his wretchedness showed itself upon his face, making more than one rally him for what they termed fear, while they tried to reassure him that to the Seventh there could be no danger after Baltimore was safely passed. This was more than Mark could bear, and at an early hour he left the house, bidding Katy good-by in the hall, and telling her he probably should not see her again, as he would not have time to call.

"Not call to say good-by to Helen," Katy exclaimed.

"Helen will not care," was Mark's reply as he hurried away into the darkness of the night, more welcome in his present state of mind than the gay scene he had left.

And this was all Katy had to carry to Helen, who beat the window pane nervously, fighting back the tears wrung out by her disappointment, for she had expected to see Mark once more, to bless him as a sister might bless a brother, speaking to him words of cheer and bidding him go on to where duty led. But he was not coming and she only saw him from the carriage window, as with proud step and head erect he passed with his regiment through the densely crowded streets, where the wailing cries and the loud hurrahs of the multitude, which no man could number, rent the air and told how terribly in earnest the great city was, and how its heart was with that gallant band, their pet, their pride, sent forth on a mission such as it had never had before. But Mark did not see Helen, and only his mother's white face as it looked when it said "God bless my boy" was clear before his eyes as he moved on through Broadway and down Cortlandt Street, until the ferryboat received him, and the crowd began to disperse.

There was more than one pillow wet with tears that night as mothers, wives and sisters wept for the loved ones gone, but nowhere were sadder, bitterer tears shed than in the silent chamber where Helen Lennox prayed that God would guard that regiment and bring it back again as full of life and vigor as it had gone away. For them all she prayed, in a general kind of way, but there was one whose image was in her heart, whose name was ever on her lip, breaking the silence of the room, which echoed the name of Mark, who, could he have heard that prayer, would have cast aside the heavy pain, so hard to bear during those first days when his cruel disappointment was fresh and the soldier duty new.

Now that Mark was gone, Mrs. Banker turned intuitively to Helen, finding greater comfort in her quiet sympathy than in the more wordy condolence offered by Juno, who as she heard nothing from the letter, began to lose her fears of detection and even suffer her friends to rally her upon the absence of Mark Ray and the anxiety she must feel on his account. Moments there were, however, when thoughts of the stolen letter brought a pang, while Helen's face was a continual reproach, and she was glad when toward the first of May her rival left New York for Silverton, where, as the spring and summer work came on, her services were needed.

KATY GOES TO SILVERTON.

A summer day in Silverton—a soft, bright August day, when the early rareripes by the well were turning their red cheeks to the sun, and the flowers in the garden were lifting their heads proudly and nodding to each other as if they knew the secret which made that day so bright above all others. Old Whitey, by the hitching post, was munching at his oats and glancing occasionally at the covered buggy standing on the greensward, fresh and clean as water from the pond could make it; the harness, new, not mended, lying upon a rock, where Katy used to feed the sheep with salt, and the whip standing upright in its socket, all waiting for the deacon, donning his best suit of clothes, even to a stiff shirt collar which almost cut his ears, his face shining with anticipations which he knew would be realized. Katy was really coming home, and in proof thereof there were behind the house and barn piles of rubbish, lath and plaster, moldy paper and broken bricks, the tokens and remains of the repairing process, which for so long a time had made the farmhouse a scene of dire confusion, driving its inmates nearly distracted, except when they remembered for whose sake they endured so much, inhaling clouds of lime, stepping over heaps of mortar, tearing their dress skirts on sundry nails projecting from every conceivable quarter, and wondering the while if the masons ever would finish or the carpenters be gone.

As a condition on which Katy might be permitted to come home, Wilford had stipulated an improvement in the interior arrangement of the house, offering to bear the expense even to the furnishing of the rooms. To this the family demurred at first, not liking Wilford's dictatorial manner, nor his insinuation that their home was not good enough for his wife, Mrs. Katy Cameron. But Helen turned the tide, appreciating Wilford's feelings better than the others could do, and urging a compliance with his request.

"Anything to get Katy home," she said, and so the chimney was torn away, a window was put here and an addition made there, until the house was really improved with its pleasant, modern parlor and the large airy bedroom, with bathing-room attached, the whole the idea of Wilford, who graciously deigned to come out once or twice from New London, where he was spending a few weeks, to superintend the work and suggest how it should be done.

The furniture, too, which he sent on from New York, was perfect in its kind, not elegant like Katy's, but well adapted to the rooms it was to adorn, and suitable in every respect. Helen enjoyed the settling very much, and when it was finished it was hard telling which was the more pleased, she or good Aunt Betsy, who, having confessed in a general kind of way at a sewing society that she did go to a playhouse, and was not so very sorry either, except as the example might do harm, had nothing on her conscience now, nothing to fear from New York, and was proportionately happy. At least she would have been if Morris had not seemed so off, as she expressed it, and evincing no pleasure at Katy's expected visit. He had been polite to Wilford, had kept him at Linwood, taking him to and from the depot, but even Wilford had thought him changed, telling Katy how very sober and grave he had become, rarely smiling, and not seeming to care to talk unless it were about his profession or on some religious topic. And Morris was greatly changed. The wound which in most hearts would have healed by this time had grown deeper with each succeeding year, while from all he heard he felt sure that Katy's marriage was a sad mistake, wishing sometimes that he had spoken, and so perhaps have saved her from the life in which she could not be wholly free. "She would be happier with me," he had said, with a sad smile to Helen, when once she told him of some things which she had not mentioned elsewhere, and there were great tears in Morris' eyes, tears of which he was not ashamed when Helen spoke of Katy's distress, and the look which crept into her face when baby was taken away. When Morris first heard of the baby he had hoped he might love Katy less; that she would seem to him as more a wife and less a girl, but she did not, and there were times when the silent doctor, living alone at Linwood, felt that his grief was too great to bear. But the deep, dark waters were always forded safely, and Morris' faith in God prevailed, so that only a dull, heavy pain remained, with the consciousness that it was no sin to remember Katy as she was remembered now. Oh, how he had longed to see her, and yet how he had dreaded it, lest poor weak human flesh should prove inadequate to the sight. But she was coming home; Providence had ordered that and he accepted it, looking eagerly for the time when he should see her again, but repressing his eagerness, so that not even Helen suspected how impatient he was for the day of her return. Four weeks she had been at the Pequot House in New London, occupying a little cottage and luxuriating in the joy of having her child with her almost every day. Country air and country nursing had wrought wonders in the baby, which had grown so beautiful and bright that it was no longer in Wilford's way save as it took too much of Katy's time, and made her careless for the gay crowd at the hotel.

Marian was working at her trade, and never came to the hotel except one day when Wilford was in New York, but that day sufficed for Katy to know that after herself it was Marian whom baby loved the best—Marian, who cared for it even more than Mrs. Hubbell. And Katy was glad to have it so, especially after Wilford and his mother decided that she must leave the child in New London while she made the visit to Silverton.

Wilford did not like her taking so much care of it as she was inclined to do. It had grown too heavy for her to lift; it was better with Mrs. Hubbell, he said, and so to the inmates of the farmhouse Katy wrote that baby was not coming.

They were bitterly disappointed, for Katy's baby had been anticipated quite as much as Katy herself, Aunt Betsy bringing from the woodshed chamber a cradle which nearly forty years before had rocked the deacon's only child, the little boy, who died just as he had learned to lisp his mother's name. As a momento of those days the cradle had been kept, Katy using it sometimes for her kittens and her dolls, until she grew too old for that, when it was put away beneath the eaves whence Aunt Betsy dragged it, scouring it with soap and sand, until it was white as snow. But it would not be needed, and with a sigh the old lady carried it back, thinking "things had come to a pretty pass when a woman who could dance and carouse till twelve o'clock at night was too weakly to take care of her child," and feeling a very little awe of Katy who must have grown so fine a lady.

But all this passed away as the time drew near when Katy was to come, and no one seemed happier than Aunt Betsy on the morning when Whitey was eating his oats, and the carriage stood on the greensward. The sky above and the earth beneath were much as they were that other day when they were expecting Katy, but Helen's face was not as bright, or her steps as buoyant. She could not forget who was there one year ago, and all the morning painful memories had been tugging at her heart as she remembered the past, and wondered at the gloomy silence which Mark Ray had maintained toward her ever since the day when the Seventh Regiment left New York, followed by so many prayers and tears. He had returned, she knew, but neither from his mother nor himself had there ever come a word or message for her, while Bell Cameron, who wrote to her occasionally, had spoken of his attentions to Juno as becoming more pointed than ever.

"I have strong hopes that in time Juno will be quite a woman," Bell added. "She is not so proud and sarcastic as she used to be, and all the while Mark was gone she seemed very much depressed, so that I began to believe she really liked him. You would hardly recognize her in her new phase, she acts so humble like, as if she were constantly asking forgiveness; and this, you know, is something novel for her."

After this letter Helen sat herself resolutely at work to forget all that had ever passed between herself and Mark, succeeding so well that Silverton and its duties ceased to be very irksome, until the anniversary of the morning when he had twined the lily in her hair, and looked such fancies in her heart. It was well for her that too many things were claiming her attention to allow of solitary regrets.

Katy's room was to be arranged, Katy's "box bed," as Aunt Betsy called it, to be fixed, flowers to be gathered for the parlor and vegetables for the dinner, so that her hands were full, up to the moment when Uncle Ephraim drove away from the door, setting old Whitey into a canter, which, by the time the "race" was reached, had become a rapid trot, the old man holding up his reins and looking proudly at the oat-fed animal, speeding along so fast.

He did not have long to wait this time, for the train came rolling across the meadow, and while his head was turned toward the car where he fancied she might be, a pair of arms were thrown impetuously around his neck, and a little figure, standing on tiptoe, almost pulled him down in its attempts to kiss him.

"Uncle Eph! oh, Uncle Eph, I've come! I'm here," a young voice cried; but the words the deacon would have spoken were smothered by the kisses which pressed upon his lips, kisses which only came to an end when a voice said, rather reprovingly: "There, Katy, that will do. You have almost strangled him."

Wilford had not been expected, and the expression of the deacon's face was not a very cordial greeting to the young man who hastened to explain that he should only stop till the next train, and then go on to Boston. In his presence the deacon was not quite natural, but he lifted in his arms his "little Katy-did," looking straight into her face, where there were as yet no real lines of care, only shadows, which told that in some respects she was not the same Katy he had parted with two years before. There was a good deal of the city about her dress and style, and the deacon felt a little overawed at first; but this wore off as on their way to the farmhouse, she, sitting partly in his lap and partly in her husband's, kept one hand upon his neck, her snowy fingers occasionally playing with his silvery hair, while she looked at him with her loving old smile, and asked questions about the people he supposed she had forgotten, nodding to everybody she met, whether she knew them or not, and at last, as the old house came in sight, hiding her face in a gush of happy tears upon his neck, not Wilford's. That gentleman was watching her in silence, wishing she were less impulsive, and wondering at the strong home-love he could not understand. To him there was nothing pleasant in that low, humble farmhouse, or in the rocks and hills which overshadowed it; while, with the exception of Helen, the women gathered at the door as they came up were very distasteful to him. But with Katy it was different. They were her rocks, her hills, her woods, and more than all, they were her folks into whose arms she threw herself with an impetuous rush, scarcely waiting for old Whitey to stop, but with one leap clearing the wheel and springing first to the embrace of her mother. It was a joyful meeting, and when the first excitement was over Katy inspected the improvements, approving all, and thanking Wilford for having done so much for her comfort.

"I shall sleep so nicely here," she said, tossing her hat into Helen's lap, and lying down at once upon the bed it had taken so long to make. "Yes, I shall rest so nicely, knowing I can wear my wrapper all day long. Don't look so horrified, Wilford," she added, as she caught his eye. "I shall dress me sometimes; but you don't know what a luxury it is to feel that I need not unless I like."

"Didn't you rest at New London?" Helen asked, when Wilford had left the room.

"Yes, some," Katy replied; "but there were dances every night, or sails upon the bay, and I had to go, for many of our friends were there, and Wilford was not willing for me to be quiet."

This, then, was the reason why Katy came home so weary and pale, and craving so much the rest she had not had in more than two years. But she would get it now, and before the first dinner was eaten some of her old color came stealing back to her cheeks, and her eyes began to dance just as they used to do, while her merry voice rang out in silvery peals at Aunt Betsy's quaint remarks, which struck her so forcibly from not having heard them for so long a tune. A hit of a lecture Wilford deemed it his duty to give her when after dinner they sat together alone for half an hour. "She must restrain herself. Surely she was old enough to be more womanly, and she would tire herself out with her nervous restlessness, besides giving the people a bad opinion of Mrs. Wilford Cameron."

To this Katy listened quietly, breathing freer when it was over, and breathing freer still when Wilford was gone, even though her tears did fall as she watched him out of sight, and knew it would be at least four weeks before she saw him again. To the entire family his departure brought relief; but they were not prepared for the change it produced in Katy; who, freed from all restraint, came back so soon to what she was when a young, careless girl she sat upon the doorsteps and curled the dandelion stalks. She did not do this now, for there were none to curl; but she strung upon a thread the delicate petals of the phlox growing by the door, and then bound it as a crown about the head of her mother, who could not yet quite recognize her Katy in the elegant Mrs. Wilford Cameron, with rustling silk, and diamonds flashing on her hands every time they moved. But when she saw her racing with the old brown goat and its little kid out in the apple orchard, her head uncovered, and her bright curls blowing about her face, the feeling disappeared, and she felt that Katy had indeed come back again.

And where all the while was Morris? Were his patients so numerous that he could not find time to call upon his cousin? Katy had inquired for him immediately after her arrival, but in her excitement she had forgotten him again, until Wilford was gone and tea was over, when, just as she had done on the day of her return from Canandaigua, she took her hat and started on the well-worn path toward Linwood. She was not going there, she said, she only wanted to try the road and see if it had changed since she used to go that way to gather butternuts in the autumn or berries in the summer. Airily she tripped along, her light plaid silk gleaming through the deep green of the trees and revealing her coming to the tired man sitting upon a little rustic seat, beneath a chestnut tree, where he once had sat with Katy, and extracted a cruel sliver from her hand, kissing the place to make it well as she told him to. She was a child then, a little girl of twelve, and he was twenty, but the sight of her pure face lifted confidingly to his had stirred his heart as no other face had stirred it since, making him look forward to a time when the hand he kissed would be his own, and his the fairy form he watched so carefully as it expanded day by day into the perfect woman. He was thinking of that time now, and how different it had all turned out, when he heard the bounding step and saw her coming toward him, swinging her hat in childish abandon, and warbling a song she had learned from him.

"Morris, oh, Morris!" she cried, as she ran eagerly forward; "I am so glad to see you. It seems so nice to be with you once more here in the dear old woods. Don't get up—please don't get up," she continued, as he started to rise.

She was standing before him, a hand on either side of his face, into which she was looking quite as wistfully as he was regarding her. Something she missed in his manner, something which troubled her; and thinking she knew what it was, she said to him: "Why don't you kiss me, Morris? You used to. Ain't you glad to see me?"

"Yes, very glad," he answered, and drawing her down to the bench beside him, he kissed her twice, but so gravely, so quietly, that Katy was not satisfied at all, and tears gathered in her eyes as she tried to think what it was ailed Morris.

He was very thin, and there were a few white hairs about his temples, so that, though four years younger than her husband, he seemed to her much older, quite grandfatherly in fact, and this accounted for the liberties she took, asking what was the matter, and trying to make him like her again, by assuring him that she was not as vain and foolish as he must suppose from what Helen had probably told him of her life since leaving Silverton.

"I do not like it at all," she said. "I am in it, and must conform; but, oh Morris! you don't know how much happier I should be if Wilford were just like you, and lived at Linwood instead of New York. I should be so happy here with baby all the time."

It was well she spoke that name, for Morris, listening to her as she charged him with indifference, could not have borne much more; but the mention of her child had a strange power over him, of quieting him at once, so that he could calmly tell her that she was the same to him that she had always been, while with his next breath he asked: "Where is your baby, Katy?" adding with a smile: "I can remember when you were a baby, and I held you in my arms."

"Can you really?" Katy said; and as if that remembrance made him older than the hills, she nestled her curly head against his shoulder, while she told him of her bright-eyed darling, and as she talked the mother-love which spread itself over her girlish face made it more beautiful than anything Morris had ever seen.

"Surely an angel's countenance cannot be fairer, purer than hers," he thought, listening while she talked of the only thing which had a power to separate her from him, making her seem as a friend, or at most as a beloved sister.

A long time they talked together, and the sun was setting ere Morris rose, suggesting that she go home, as the night dew would soon be falling.

"And you are not as strong as you once were," he added, pulling her shawl around her shoulders with careful solicitude, and thinking how slender she had become.

From the back parlor Helen saw them coming up the path, detecting the changed expression of Morris' face, and feeling a pang of fear when as he left them after nine o'clock she heard her mother say that he had not appeared so natural since Katy went away as he had done that night. Knowing what she did, Helen trembled for Morris, with this terrible temptation before him, and Morris trembled for himself as he went back the lonely path, and stopped again beneath the chestnut tree where he had so lately sat with Katy. There was a great fear at his heart, and it found utterance in words as kneeling by the rustic bench with only the lonely night around him and the green boughs overhead, he asked that he might be kept from sin, both in thought and deed, and be to Katy Cameron just what she took him for, her friend and elder brother. And God, who knew the sincerity of the heart thus pleading before him, heard and answered the prayer, so that after that first night of trial Morris could look on Katy without a wish that she were otherwise than Wilford Cameron's wife and the mother of his child. He was happier because of her being at the farmhouse, though he did not go there one-half as often as she came to him. She seemed to prefer Linwood to the farmhouse, staying there hours, both when he was at home and when he was away, strolling through his garden, or sitting quietly in the pleasant summer-house which looked out upon the pond.