Homestead on the Hillside

THE STEPMOTHER.

Rapidly the summer was passing away, and as autumn drew near the wise gossips of Glenwood began to whisper that the lady from the East was in danger of being supplanted in her rights by the widow, whose house Mr. Hamilton was known to visit two or three times each week. But Lenora had always some plausible story on hand. "Mother and the lady had been so intimate—in fact, more than once rocked in the same cradle—and 'twas no wonder Mr. Hamilton came often to a place where he could hear so much about her."

So when business again took Mr. Hamilton to Albany suspicion was wholly lulled, and Walter, on his return from college, was told by Mag that her fears concerning Mrs. Carter were groundless. During the spring Carrie had been confined to her bed, but now she seemed much better, and after Walter had been at home awhile he proposed that he and his sisters should take a traveling excursion, going first to Saratoga, thence to Lake Champlain and Montreal, and returning home by way of Canada and the Falls, This plan Mr. Hamilton warmly seconded, and when Carrie asked if he would not feel lonely he answered, "Oh, no; Willie and I will do very well while you are gone."

"But who will stay with Willie evenings, when you are away?" asked Mag, looking her father steadily in the face.

Mr. Hamilton colored slightly, but after a moment replied: "I shall spend my evenings at home."

"'Twill be what he hasn't done for many a week," thought Mag, as she again busied herself with her preparations.

The morning came at last on which our travelers were to leave. Kate Kirby had been invited to accompany them, but her mother would not consent. "It would give people too much chance for talk," she said; so Kate was obliged to content herself with going as far as the depot, and watching, until out of sight, the car which bore them away.

Upon the piazza stood the little group, awaiting the arrival of the carriage which was to convey them to the station. Mr. Hamilton seemed unusually gloomy, and with folded arms paced up and down the long piazza, rarely speaking or noticing any one.

"Are you sorry we are going, father?" asked Carrie, going up to him. "If you are I will gladly stay with you."

Mr. Hamilton paused, and pushing back the fair hair from his daughter's white brow, he kissed her tenderly, saying, "No, Carrie; I want you to go. The journey will do you good, for you are getting too much the look your poor mother used to wear."

Why thought he then of Carrie's mother? Was it because he knew that ere his child returned to him another would be in that mother's place? Anon, Margaret came near, and motioning Carrie away, Mr. Hamilton took his other daughter's hand, and led her to the end of the piazza, where could easily be seen the little graveyard and tall white monument pointing toward the bright blue sky where dwelt the one whose grave that costly marble marked.

Pointing out the spot to Margaret, he said, "Tell me truly, Maggie, did you love your father or your mother best?"

Mag looked wonderingly at him a moment, and then replied, "While mother lived I loved her more than you, but now that she is dead, I think of and love you as both father and mother."

"And will you always love me thus?" asked he.

"Always," was Mag's reply, as she looked curiously in her father's face, and thinking that he had not said what he intended to when first he drew her there.

Just then the carriage drove up, and after a few good-bys and parting words Ernest Hamilton's children were gone, and he was left alone.

"Why didn't I tell her, as I intended to?" thought he. "Is it because I fear her—fear my own child? No, it cannot be—and yet there is that in her eye which sometimes makes me quail, and which, if necessary, would keep at bay a dozen stepmothers. But neither she, nor either one of them, has aught to dread from Mrs. Carter, whose presence will, I think, be of great benefit to us all, and whose gentle manners, I trust, will tend to soften Mag!"

Meantime his children were discussing and wondering at the strange mood of their father. Walter, however, took no part in the conversation. He had lived longer than his sisters—had seen more of human nature, and had his own suspicions with regard to what would take place during their absence; but he could not spoil all Margaret's happiness by telling her his thoughts, so he kept them to himself, secretly resolving to make the best of whatever might occur, and to advise Mag to do the same.

Now for a time we leave them, and take a look into the cottage of Widow Carter, where, one September morning, about three weeks after the departure of the Hamiltons, preparations were making for some great event. In the kitchen a servant girl was busily at work, while in the parlor Lenora was talking and the widow was listening.

"Oh, mother," said Lenora, "isn't it so nice that they went away just now? But won't Mag look daggers at us when she comes home and finds us in quiet possession, and is told to call you mother!"

"I never expect her to do that," answered Mrs. Carter. "The most I can hope for is that she will call me Mrs. Hamilton."

"Now really, mother, if I were in Mag's place, I wouldn't please you enough to say Mrs. Hamilton; I'd always call you Mrs. Carter," said Lenora.

"How absurd!" was the reply; and Lenora continued:

"I know it's absurd, but I'd do it; though if she does, I, as the dutiful child of a most worthy parent, shall feel compelled to resent the insult by calling her father Mr. Carter!"

By this time Mrs. Carter was needed in the kitchen; so, leaving Lenora, who at once was the pest and torment of her mother's life, we will go into the village and see what effect the approaching nuptials was producing. It was now generally known that the "lady from the East" who had been "rocked in Mrs. Carter's cradle," was none other than Mrs. Carter herself, and many were the reproving looks which the people had cast toward Lenora for the trick she had put upon them. The little hussy only laughed at them good-humoredly, telling them they were angry because she had cheated them out of five months' gossip, and that if her mother could have had her way, she would have sent the news to the Herald and had it inserted under the head of "Awful Catastrophe!" Thus Mrs. Carter was exonerated from all blame; but many a wise old lady shook her head, saying, "How strange that so fine a woman as Mrs. Carter should have such a reprobate of a daughter."

When, this remark came to Lenora's ears she cut numerous flourishes, which ended in the upsetting of a bowl of starch on her mother's new black silk; then dancing before the highly indignant lady, she said, "Perhaps if they knew what a scapegrace you represent my father to have been, and how you whipped me once to make me say I saw him strike you, when I never did, they would wonder at my being as good as I am."

Mrs. Carter was too furious to venture a verbal reply; so seizing the starch bowl she hurled it with the remainder of the contents at the head of the little vixen, who, with an elastic bound not entirely unlike a somersault dodged the missile, which passed on and fell upon the hearthrug.

This is but one of a series of similar scenes which occurred between the widow and her child before the happy day arrived when, in the presence of a select few of the villagers, Luella Carter was transformed into Luella Hamilton. The ceremony was scarcely over when Mr. Hamilton, who for a few days had been rather indisposed, complained of feeling sick. Immediately Lenora, with a sidelong glance at her mother, exclaimed, "What, sick of your bargain so quick? It's sooner even than I thought 'twould be, and I'm sure I'm capable of judging."

"Dear Lenora," said Mrs. Carter, turning toward one of her neighbors, "she has such a flow of spirits that I am afraid Mr. Hamilton will find her troublesome."

"Don't be alarmed, mother; he'll never think of me when you are around," was Lenora's reply in which Mrs. Carter saw more than one meaning.

That evening the bridal party repaired to the homestead, where, at Mr. Hamilton's request, Mrs. Kirby was waiting to receive them. Willie had been told by the servants that his mother was coming home that night, and, with the trusting faith of childhood, he had drawn a chair to the window from which he could see his mother's grave; and there for more than an hour he watched for the first indications of her coming, saying occasionally, "Oh, I wish she'd come. Willie's so sorry here."

At last growing weary and discouraged, he turned away and said, "No, ma'll never come home again; Maggie said she wouldn't."

Upon the carriage road which wound from the street to the house there was the sound of coming wheels, and Rachel, seizing Willie, bore him to the front door, exclaiming, "An' faith, Willie, don't you see her? That's your mother, honey, with the black gown."

But Willie saw only the wild eyes of Lenora, who caught him in her arms, overwhelming him with caresses. "Let me go, Leno," said he, "I want to see my ma. Where is she?"

A smile of scorn curled Lenora's lips as she released him, and leading him toward her mother, she said, "There she is; there's your ma. Now hold up your head and make a bow."

Willie's lip quivered, his eyes filled with tears, and hiding his face in his apron, he sobbed, "I want my own ma—the one they shut up in a big black box. Where is she, Leno?"

Mr. Hamilton took Willie on his knee, and tried to explain to him how that now his own mother was dead, he had got a new one, who would love him and be kind to him. Then putting him down, he said, "Go, my son, and speak to her, won't you?"

Willie advanced rather cautiously toward the black silk figure, which reached out its hand, saying, "Dear Willie, you'll love me a little, won't you?"

"Yes, if you are good to me," was the answer, which made the new stepmother mentally exclaim, "A young rebel, I know," while Lenora, bending between the two, whispered emphatically:

"She shall be good to you!"

And soon, in due order, the servants were presented to their new mistress. Some were disposed to like her, others eyed her askance, and old Polly Pepper, the black cook, who had been in the family ever since Mr. Hamilton's first marriage, returned her salutation rather gruffly, and then, stalking back to the kitchen, muttered to, those who followed her, "I don't like her face nohow; she looks just like the milk snakes, when they stick their heads in at the door."

"But you knew how she looked before," said Lucy, the chambermaid.

"I know it," returned Polly; "but when she was here nussin' I never noticed her, more I would any on you; for who'd of thought that Mr. Hamilton would marry her, when he knows, or or'to know, that nusses ain't fust cut, nohow; and you may depend on't, things ain't a-goin' to be here as they used to be."

Here Rachel started up, and related the circumstance of Margaret's refusing to see "that little evil-eyed-lookin-varmint, with curls almost like Polly's." Lucy, too, suddenly remembered something which she had seen, or heard, or made up—so that Mrs. Carter had not been an hour in the coveted homestead ere there was mutiny against her afloat in the kitchen; "But," said Aunt Polly, "I 'vises you all to be civil till she sasses you fust!"

"My dear, what room can Lenora have for her own?" asked Mrs. Hamilton, as we must now call her, the morning following her marriage.

"Why, really, I don't know," answered the husband; "you must suit yourselves with regard to that."

"Yes; but I'd rather you'd select, and then no one can blame me," was the answer.

"Choose any room you please, except the one which Mag and Carrie now occupy, and rest assured you shall not be blamed," said Mr. Hamilton.

The night before Lenora had appropriated to herself the best chamber, but the room was so large and so far distant from any one, and the windows and fireboard rattled so, that she felt afraid, and did not care to repeat her experiment.

"I 'clar for't!" said Polly, when she heard of it. "Gone right into the best bed, where even Miss Margaret never goes! What are we all comin' to? Tell her, Luce, the story of the ghosts, and I'll be bound she'll make herself scarce in them rooms!"

"Tell her yourself," said Lucy; and when, after breakfast, Lenora, anxious to spy out everything, appeared in the kitchen, Aunt Polly called out, "Did you hear anything last night, Miss Lenora?"

"Why, yes—I heard the windows rattle," was the answer; and Aunt Polly, with an ominous shake of the head, continued:

"There's more than windows rattle, I guess. Didn't you see nothin', all white and corpse-like, go a-whizzin, and rappin' by your bed?"

"Why, no," said Lenora; "what do you mean?"

So Polly told her of the ghosts and goblins which nightly ranged the two chambers over the front and back parlors. Lenora said nothing, but she secretly resolved not to venture again after dark into the haunted portion of the house. But where should she sleep? That was now the important question. Adjoining the sitting-room was a pleasant, cozy little place, which Margaret called her music-room. In it she kept her piano, her music stand, books, and several fine plants, besides numerous other little conveniences. At the end of this room was a large closet where, at different seasons of the year, Mag hung away the articles of clothing which she and her sister did not need.

Toward this place Lenora turned her eyes; for, besides being unusually pleasant, it was also very near her mother, whose sleeping-room joined, though it did not communicate with it. Accordingly, before noon the piano was removed to the parlor; the plants were placed, some on the piazza, and some in the sitting-room window, while Margaret and Carrie's dresses were removed to the closet of their room, which chanced to be a trifle too small to hold them all conveniently; so they were crowded one above the other, and left for "the girls to see to when they came home!"

In perfect horror Aunt Polly looked on, regretting for once the ghost story which she had told.

"Why don't you take the chamber jinin' the young ladies? that ain't haunted," said she, when they sent for her to help move the piano. "Miss Margaret won't thank you for scattern' her things."

"You've nothing to do with Lenora," said Mrs. Hamilton; "you've only to attend to your own matters."

"Wonder then what I'm up here for a-h'istin this pianner," muttered Polly. "This ain't my matters, sartin'."

When Mr. Hamilton came in to dinner he was shown the little room with its single bed, tiny bureau, silken lounge and easy chair, of which the last two were Mag's especial property.

"All very nice," said he, "but where is Mag's piano?"

"In the parlor," answered his wife. "People often ask for music, and it is more convenient to have it there than to come across the hall and through the sitting-room."

Mr. Hamilton said nothing, but he secretly wished Mag's rights had not been invaded quite so soon. His wife must have guessed as much; for, laying her hand on his, she, with the utmost deference, offered to undo all she had done, if it did not please him.

"Certainly not—certainly not; it does please me," said he; while Polly, who stood on the cellar stairs listening, exclaimed, "What a fool a woman can make of a man!"

Three days after Mr. Hamilton's marriage he received a letter from Walter, saying that they would be at home on the Thursday night following. Willie was in, ecstasies, for though as yet he liked his new mother tolerably well, he still loved Maggie better; and the thought of seeing her again made him wild with delight. All day long on Thursday he sat in the doorway, listening for the shrill cry of the train which was to bring her home.

"Don't you love Maggie?" said he to Lenora, who chanced to pass him.

"Don't I love Maggie? No, I don't; neither does she love me," was the answer.

Willie was puzzled to know why any one should not like Mag; but his confidence in her was not at all shaken, and when, soon after sunset, Lenora cried, "There, they've come," he rushed to the door, and was soon in the arms of his sister-mother. Pressing his lips to hers, he said, "Did you 'know I'd got a new mother? Mrs. Carter and Leno—they are in there," pointing toward the parlor.

Instantly Mag dropped him. It was the first intimation of her father's marriage which she had received, and reeling backward, she would have fallen had not Walter supported her. Quickly rallying, she advanced toward her father, who came to meet her, and whose hand trembled in her grasp. After greeting each of his children he turned to present them to his wife, wisely taking Carrie first. She was not prejudiced, like Mag, and returned her stepmother's salutation with something like affection, for which Lenora rewarded her by terming her a "little simpleton."

But Mag—she who had warned her father against that woman—she who on her knees had begged him not to marry her—she had no word of welcome, and when Mrs. Hamilton offered her hand she affected not to see it, though with the most frigid politeness she said, "Good evening, madam; this is, indeed, a surprise!"

"And not a very pleasant one, either, I imagine," whispered Lenora to Carrie.

Walter came last, and though he took the lady's hand, there was something in his manner which plainly said she was not wanted there. Tea was now announced, and Mag bit her lip when, she saw her accustomed seat occupied by another.

Feigning to recollect herself, Mrs. Hamilton, in the blandest tones, said, "Perhaps, dear Maggie, you would prefer this seat?"

"Of course not," said Mag, while Lenora thought to herself:

"And if she does, I wonder what good it will do?"

That young lady, however, made no remarks, for Walter Hamilton's searching eyes were upon her and kept her silent. After tea, Walter said, "Come, Mag, I have not heard your piano in a long time. Give us some music."

Mag arose to comply with his wishes, but ere she had reached the door Mrs. Hamilton gently detained her, saying, "Maggie, dear, Lenora has always slept near me, and as I knew you would not object, if you were here, I took the liberty to remove your piano to the parlor, and to fit this up for Lenora's sleeping-room. See"—and she threw open the door, disclosing the metamorphose, while Willie, who began to get an inkling of matters, and who always called the piazza "outdoors," chimed in, "And they throw'd your little trees outdoors, too!"

Mag stood for a moment, mute with astonishment; then thinking she could not "do the subject justice," she turned silently away. A roguish smile from Walter met her eye, but she did not laugh, until, with Carrie, she repaired to her own room, and tried to put something in the closet. Then coming upon the pile of extra clothes, she exclaimed, "What in the world! Here's all our winter clothing, and, as I live, five dresses crammed upon one nail! We'll have to move to the barn next!"

This was too much, and sitting down, Mag cried and laughed alternately.

DOMESTIC LIFE AT THE HOMESTEAD.

For a few weeks after Margaret's return matters at the Homestead glided on smoothly enough, but at the end of that time Mrs. Hamilton began to reveal her real character. Carrie's journey had not been as beneficial as her father had hoped it would be, and as the days grew colder she complained of extreme languor and a severe pain in her side, and at last kept her room entirely, notwithstanding the numerous hints from her stepmother that it was no small trouble to carry so many dishes up and down stairs three times a day.

Mrs. Hamilton was naturally very stirring and active, and in spite of her remarkable skill in nursing, she felt exceedingly annoyed when any of her own family were ill. She fancied, too, that Carrie was feigning all her bad feelings, and that she would be much better if she exerted herself more. Accordingly, one afternoon when Mag was gone, she repaired to Carrie's room, giving vent to her opinion as follows: "Carrie," said she (she now dropped the dear when Mr. Hamilton was not by), "Carrie, I shouldn't suppose you'd ever expect to get well, so long as you stay moped up here all day. You ought to come down-stairs, and stir around more."

"Oh, I should be so glad if I could," answered Carrie.

"Could!" repeated Mrs. Hamilton; "you could if you would. Now, it's my opinion that you complain altogether too much, and fancy you are a great deal worse than you really are, when all you want is exercise. A short walk on the piazza, and a little fresh air each, morning, would soon cure you."

"I know fresh air does me good," said Carrie; "but walking makes my side ache so hard, and makes me cough so, that Maggie thinks I'd better not."

Mag, quoted as authority, exasperated Mrs. Hamilton who replied rather sharply, "Fudge on Mag's old-maidish whims! I know that any one who eats as much as you do can't be so very weak!"

"I don't eat half you send me," said poor Carrie, beginning to cry at her mother's unkind remarks; "Willie 'most always comes up here and eats with me."

"For mercy's sake, mother, let the child have what she wants to eat, for 'tisn't long she'll need it," said Lenora, suddenly appearing in the room.

"Lenora, go right down; you are not wanted here," said Mrs. Hamilton.

"Neither are you, I fancy," was Lenora's reply, as she coolly seated herself on the foot of Carrie's bed, while her mother continued:

"Really, Carrie, you must try and come down to your meals, for you have no idea how much it hinders the work, to bring them up here. Polly isn't good for anything until she has conjured up something extra for your breakfast, and then they break so many dishes!"

"I'll try to come down to-morrow," said Carrie meekly; and as the door-bell just then rang Mrs. Hamilton departed, leaving her with Lenora, whose first exclamation was:

"If I were in your place, Carrie, I wouldn't eat anything, and die quick."

"I don't want to die," said Carrie; and Lenora, clapping her hands together, replied:

"Why, you poor little innocent, who supposed you did? Nobody wants to die not even I, good as I am; but I should expect to, if I had the consumption."

"Lenora, have I got the consumption?" asked Carrie, fixing her eyes with mournful earnestness upon her companion, who thoughtlessly replied:

"To be sure you have. They say one lung is entirely gone and the other nearly so."

Wearily the sick girl turned upon her side; and, resting her dimpled cheek upon her hand, she said softly, "Go away now, Lenora; I want to be alone."

Lenora complied, and when Margaret returned from the village she found her sister lying in the same position in which Lenora had left her, with her fair hair falling over her face, which it hid from view.

"Are you asleep, Carrie?" said Mag; but Carrie made no answer, and there was something so still and motionless in her repose that Mag went up to her, and pushing back from her face the long silken hair, saw that she had fainted.

The excitement of her stepmother's visit, added to the startling news which Lenora had told her, was too much for her weak nerves, and for a time she remained insensible. At length, rousing herself, she looked dreamily around, saying, "Was it a dream, Maggie—- all a dream?"

"Was what a dream, love?" said Margaret, supporting her sister's head upon her bosom.

Suddenly Carrie remembered the whole, but she resolved not to tell of her stepmother's visit, though she earnestly desired to know if what Lenora had told her were true. Raising herself, so that she could see Margaret's face, she said, "Maggie, is there no hope for me; and do the physicians say I must die?"

"Why, what do you mean? I never knew that they said so," answered Mag; and then with breathless indignation she listened, while Carrie told her what Lenora had said. "I'll see that she doesn't get in here again," said Margaret. "I know she made more than half of that up; for, though the physicians say you lungs are very much diseased, they have never saw that you could not recover."

The next morning, greatly to Mag's astonishment Carrie insisted upon going down to breakfast.

"Why, you must not do it; you are not able," said Mag. But Carrie was determined; and, wrapping herself in her thick shawl, she slowly descended the stay though the cold air in the long hall made her shiver.

"Carrie, dear, you are better this morning, and there is quite a rosy flush on your cheek," said Mrs. Hamilton, rising to meet her. (Mr. Hamilton, be it remembered, was present.) But Carrie shrank instinctively from her stepmother's advances, and took her seat by the side of her father. After breakfast Mag remembered that she had an errand in the village, and Carrie, who felt too weary to return immediately to her room, said she would wait below until her sister returned. Mag had been gone but a few moments when Mrs. Hamilton, opening the outer door, called to Lenora, saying, "Come and take a few turns on the piazza with Carrie. The air is bracing this morning, and will do her good."

Willie, who was present, cried out, "No—Carrie is sick; she can't walk—Maggie said she couldn't," and he grasped his sister's hand to hold her. With a not very gentle jerk Mrs. Hamilton pulled him off, while Lenora, who came bobbing and bounding into the room, took Carrie's arm, saying.

"Oh, yes, I'll walk with you; shall we have a hop, skip, or jump?"

"Don't, don't!" said Carrie, holding back; "I can't walk fast, Lenora," and actuated by some sudden impulse of kindness, Lenora conformed her steps to those of the invalid. Twice they walked up and down the piazza, and were about turning for the third time, when Carrie, clasping her hand over her side, exclaimed, "No, no; I can't go again."

Little Willie, who fancied that his sister was being hurt, sprang toward Lenora, saying, "Leno, you mustn't hurt Carrie. Let her go; she's sick."

And now to the scene of action came Dame Hamilton, and seizing her young stepson, she tore him away from Lenora, administering at the same time a bit of a motherly shake. Willie's blood was up, and in return he dealt her a blow, for which she rewarded him by another shake, and by tying him to the table.

That Lenora was not all bad was shown by the unselfish affection she ever manifested for Willie, although her untimely interference between him and her mother oftentimes made matters worse. Thus, on the occasion of which we have been speaking, Mrs. Hamilton had scarcely left the room ere Lenora released Willie from his confinement, thereby giving him the impression that his mother alone was to blame. Fortunately, however, Margaret's judgment was better, and though she felt justly indignant at the cruelty practised upon poor Carrie, she could not uphold Willie in striking his mother. Calling him to her room, she talked to him until he was wholly softened, and offered, of his own accord, to go and say he was sorry, provided Maggie would accompany him as far as the door of the sitting-room, where his mother would probably be found. Accordingly, Mag descended the stairs with him, and meeting Lenora in the hall, said, "Is she in the sitting-room?"

"Is she in the sitting-room?" repeated Lenora; "and pray who may she be?" then quick as thought she added, "Oh, yes, I know. She is in there telling HE!"

Lenora was right in her conjecture, for Mrs. Hamilton, greatly enraged at Willie's presumption in striking her, and still more provoked at him for untying himself, as she supposed he had, was laying before her husband quite an aggravated case of assault and battery.

In the midst of her argument Willie entered the room, with tear-stained eyes, and without noticing the presence of his father, went directly to his mother, and burying his face in her lap, sobbed out, "Willie is sorry he struck you, and will never do so again, if you will forgive him."

In a much gentler tone than she would have assumed had not her husband been present, Mrs. Hamilton replied, "I can forgive you for striking me, Willie, but what have you to say about untying yourself?"

"I didn't do it," said Willie; "Leno did that."

"Be careful what you say," returned Mrs. Hamilton. "I can't believe Lenora would do so."

Ere Willie had time to repeat his assertion Lenora, who all the time had been standing by the door, appeared, saying, "You may believe him, for he has never been whipped to make him lie. I did do it, and I would do it again."

"Lenora," said Mr. Hamilton, rather sternly, "you should not interfere in that manner. You will spoil the child."

It was the first time he had presumed to reprove his stepdaughter, and as there was nothing on earth which Mrs. Hamilton so much feared as Lenora's tongue, she dreaded the disclosures which further remark from her husband might call forth. So, assuming an air of great distress, she said, "Leave her to me, my dear. She is a strange girl, as I always told you, and no one can manage her as well as myself." Then kissing Willie in token of forgiveness, she left the room, drawing Lenora after her and whispering fiercely in her ear, "How can you ever expect to succeed with the son, if you show off this way before the father."

With a mocking laugh Lenora replied, "Pshaw! I gave that up the first time I ever saw him, for of course he thinks me a second edition of Mrs. Carter, minus any improvements. But he's mistaken; I'm not half as bad as I seem. I'm only what you've made me."

Mrs. Hamilton turned away, thinking that if her daughter could so easily give up Walter Hamilton, she would not. She was resolved upon an alliance between him and Lenora. And who ever knew her to fail in what she undertook?

She had wrung from her husband the confession that "he believed there was a sort of childish affection between Walter and Kate Kirby, though 'twas doubtful whether it ever amounted to anything." She had also learned that he was rather averse to the match, and though Lenora had not yet been named as a substitute for Kate, she strove in many ways to impress her husband with a sense of her daughter's superior abilities, at the same time taking pains to mortify Margaret by setting Lenora above her.

For this, however, Margaret cared but little, and it was only when her mother ill-treated Willie, which she frequently did, that her spirit was fully roused.

At Mrs. Hamilton's first marriage she had been presented with a handsome glass pitcher, which she of course greatly prized. One day it stood upon the stand in her room, where Willie was also playing with some spools which Lenora had found and arranged for him. Malta, the pet kitten, was amusing herself by running after the spools, and when at last Willie, becoming tired, laid them on the stand, she sprang toward them, upsetting the pitcher, which was broken in a dozen pieces. On hearing the crash Mrs. Hamilton hastened toward the room, where the sight of her favorite pitcher in fragments greatly enraged her. Thinking, of course, that Willie had done it, she rudely seized him by the arm, administered a cuff or so, and then dragged him toward the china closet.

As soon as Willie could regain his breath he screamed, "Oh ma, don't shut me up; I'll be good; I didn't do it, certain true; kittie knocked it off."

"None of your lies," said Mrs. Hamilton. "It's likely kittie knocked it off!"

Lenora, who had seen the whole, and knew that what Willie said was true, was about coming to the rescue, when looking up, she saw Margaret, with dilated nostrils and eyes flashing fire watching the proceedings of her stepmother.

"He's safe," thought Lenora; "I'll let Mag fire the first gun, and then I'll bring up the rear."

Margaret had never known Willie to tell a lie, and had no reason for thinking he had done so in this instance. Besides, the blows her mother gave him exasperated her, and she stepped forward just as Mrs. Hamilton was about pushing him into the closet. So engrossed was that lady that she heard not Margaret's approach until a firm hand was laid upon her shoulder while Willie was violently wrested from her grasp, and ere she could recover from her astonishment she herself was pushed into the closet, the door of which was closed and locked against her.

"Bravo, Margaret Hamilton," cried Lenora, "I'm with you now, if I never was before. It serves her right, for Willie told the truth. I was sitting by and saw it all. Keep her in there an hour, will you? It will pay her for the many times she has shut me up for nothing."

Mrs. Hamilton stamped and pushed against the door, while Lenora danced and sang at the top of her voice:

At length the bolt, yielding to the continued pressure of Mrs. Hamilton's body, broke, and out came the termagant, foaming with rage. She dared not molest Margaret, of whose physical powers she had just received such mortifying proof, so she aimed a box at the ears of Lenora. But the lithe little thing dodged it, and with one bound cleared the table which sat in the center of the room, landing safely on the other side; and then, shaking her short, black curls at her mother, she said, "You didn't come it, that time, my darling."

Mr. Hamilton, who chanced to be absent for a few days, was, on his return, regaled with an exaggerated account of the proceeding, his wife ending her discourse by saying: "If you don't do something with your upstart daughter I'll leave the house; yes, I will."

Mr. Hamilton was cowardly. He was afraid of his wife, and he was afraid of Mag. So he tried to compromise the matter by promising the one that he surely would see to it, and by asking the other if she were not ashamed. But old Polly didn't let the matter pass so easily. She was greatly shocked at having "such shameful carryin's on in a decent man's house."

"'Clare for't," said she, "I'll give marster a piece of Polly Pepper's mind the fust time I get a lick at him."

In the course of a few days Mr. Hamilton had occasion to go for something into Aunt Polly's dominions. The old lady was ready for him. "Mr. Hampleton," said she, "I've been waitin' to see you this long spell."

"To see me, Polly?" said he; "what do you want?"

"What I wants is this," answered Polly, dropping into a chair. "I want to know what this house is a comin' to, with such bedivilment in it as there's been since madam came here with that little black-headed, ugly-favored, ill-begotten, Satan-possessed, shoulder-unj'inted young one of her'n. It's been nothin' but a rowdadow the whole time, and you hain't grit enough to stop it. Madam boxes Willie, and undertakes to shet him up for a lie he never told; Miss Margaret interferes jest as she or'to, takes Willie away, and shets up madam; while that ill-marnered Lenora jumps and screeches loud enough to wake the dead. Madam busts the door down, and pitches into the varmint, who jumps spang over a four-foot table, which Lord knows I never could have done in my spryest days."

"But how can I help all this?" asked Mr. Hamilton.

"Help it?" returned Polly. "You needn't have got into the fire in the fust place. I hain't lived fifty-odd year for nothin', and though I hain't no larnin', I know too much to heave myself away on the fust nussin' woman that comes along."

"Stop, Polly; you must not speak so of Mrs. Hamilton," said Mr. Hamilton; while Polly continued:

"And I wouldn't nuther, if she could hold a candle to the t'other one; but she can't. You'd no business to marry a second time, even if you didn't marry a nuss; neither has any man who's got grow'd-up gals, and a faithful critter like Polly in the kitchen. Stepmothers don't often do well, particularly them as is sot up by marryin'."

Here Mr. Hamilton, who did not like to hear so much truth, left the kitchen, while Aunt Polly said to herself, "I've gin it to him good, this time."

Lenora, who always happened to be near when she was talked about, had overheard the whole, and repeated it to her mother. Accordingly, that very afternoon word came to the kitchen that Mrs. Hamilton wished to see Polly.

"Reckon she'll find this child ain't afeared on her," said Polly, as she wiped the flour from her face and repaired to Mrs. Hamilton's room.

"Polly," began that lady, with a very grave face, "Lenora tells me that you have been talking very disrespectfully to Mr. Hamilton."

"In the name of the Lord, can't he fight his own battles?" interrupted Polly. "I only tried to show him that he was henpecked—and he is."

"It isn't of him alone I would speak," resumed Mrs. Hamilton, with stately gravity; "you spoke insultingly of me, and as I make it a practise never to keep a servant after they get insolent, I have——"

"For the dear Lord's sake," again interrupted Polly, "I 'spect we's the fust servants you ever had."

"Good!" said a voice from some quarter, and Mrs. Hamilton continued: "I have sent for you to give you twenty-four hours' warning to leave this house."

"I shan't budge an inch until marster says so," said Polly. "Wonder who's the best title deed here? Warn't I here long afore you come a nussin' t'other one?"

And Polly went back to the kitchen, secretly fearing that Mr. Hamilton, who she knew was wholly ruled by his wife, would say that she must go. And he did say so, though much against his will. Lenora ran with the decision, to Aunt Polly, causing her to drop a loaf of new bread. But the old negress chased her from the cellar with the oven broom, and then stealing by a back staircase to Margaret's room, laid the case before her, acknowledging that she was sorry and asking her young mistress to intercede for her. Margaret stepped to the head of the stairs, and calling to her father, requested him to come for a moment to her room. This he was more ready to do, as he had no suspicion why he was sent for, but on seeing old Polly, he half-resolved to turn back. Margaret, however, led him into the room, and then entreated him not to send away one who had served him so long and so faithfully.

Polly, too, joined in with her tears and prayers, saying, "She was an old black fool anyway, and let her tongue get the better on her, though she didn't mean to say more than was true, and reckoned she hadn't."

In his heart Mr. Hamilton wished to revoke what he had said, but dread of the explosive storm which he knew would surely follow made him irresolute, until Carrie said, "Father, the first person of whom I have any definite recollection is Aunt Polly, and I shall be so lonesome if she goes away. For my sake let her stay, at least until I am dead."

This decided the matter. "She shall stay," said Mr. Hamilton, and Aunt Polly, highly elated, returned to the kitchen with the news. Lenora, who seemed to be everywhere at once, overheard it, and, bent on mischief, ran with it to her mother. In the meantime Mr. Hamilton wished, yet dreaded, to go down, and finally, mentally cursing himself for his weakness, asked Margaret to accompany him. She was about to comply with his request, when Mrs. Hamilton came up the stairs, furious at her husband, whom she called "a craven coward, led by the nose by all who chose to lead him." Wishing to shut out her noise, Mag closed and bolted the door, and in the hall the modern Xantippe extended her wrath against her husband and his offspring, while poor Mr. Hamilton laid his face in Carrie's lap and wept. Margaret was trying to devise some means by which to rid herself of her stepmother, when Lenora was heard to exclaim:

"Shall I pitch her over the stairs, Mag? I will if you say so."

Immediately Mrs. Hamilton's anger took another channel, and turning upon her daughter, she said, "What are you here for, you prating parrot? Didn't you tell me what Aunt Polly said, and haven't you acted in the capacity of reporter ever since?"

"To be sure I did," said Lenora, poising herself on one foot, and whirling around in circles; "but if you thought I did it because I blamed Aunt Polly, you are mistaken."

"What did you do it for, then?" said Mrs. Hamilton; and Lenora, giving the finishing touch to her circles by dropping upon the floor, answered, "I like to live in a hurricane—so I told you what I did. Now, if you think it will add at all to the excitement of the present occasion, I'll get an ax for you to split the door down."

"Oh, don't, Lenora," screamed Carrie, from within, to which Lenora responded:

"Poor little simple chick bird, I wouldn't harm a hair of your soft head for anything. But there is a man in there, or one who passes for a man, that I think would look far more respectable if he'd come out and face the tornado. She's easy to manage when you know how. At least Mag and I find her so."

Here Mr. Hamilton ashamed of himself and emboldened, perhaps, by Lenora's words, slipped back the bolt of the door, and walking out, confronted his wife.

"Shall I order pistols and coffee for two?" asked Lenora, swinging herself entirely over the bannister, and dropping like a squirrel on the stair below.

"Is Polly going to stay in this house?" asked Mrs. Hamilton.

"She is," was the reply.

"Then I leave to-night," said Mrs. Hamilton.

"Very well, you can go," returned the husband, growing stronger in himself each moment.

Mrs. Hamilton turned away to her own room, where she remained until supper time, when Lenora asked "If she had got her chest packed, and where they should direct their letters!" Neither Margaret nor her father could refrain from laughter.

Mrs. Hamilton, too, who had no notion of leaving the comfortable Homestead, and who thought this as good a time to veer round as any she would have, also joined in the laugh, saying, "What a child you are, Lenora!"

Gradually the state of affairs at the homestead was noised throughout the village, and numerous were the little tea parties where none dared speak above a whisper to tell what they had heard, and where each and every one were bound to the most profound secrecy, for fear the reports might not be true. At length, however, the story of the china closet got out, causing Sally Martin to spend one whole day in retailing the gossip from door to door. Many, too, suddenly remembered certain suspicious things which they had seen in Mrs. Hamilton, who was unanimously voted to be a bad woman, and who, of course, began to be slighted.

The result of this was to increase the sourness of her disposition; and life at the Homestead would have been one continuous scene of turmoil had not Margaret wisely concluded to treat whatever her stepmother did with silent contempt. Lenora, too, always seemed ready to fill up all vacant niches, until even Mag acknowledged that the mother would be unendurable without the daughter.

LENORA AND CARRIE.

Ever since the day on which Lenora had startled Carrie by informing her of her danger, she had been carefully kept from the room, or allowed only to enter it when Margaret was present. One afternoon, however, early in February, Mag had occasion to go to the village. Lenora, who saw her depart, hastily gathered up her work, and repaired to Carrie's room, saying, as she entered it, "Now, Carrie, we'll have a good time; Mag has gone to see old deaf Peggy, who asks a thousand questions, and will keep her at least two hours, and I am going to entertain you to the best of my ability."

Carrie's cheek flushed, for she felt some misgivings with regard to the nature of Lenora's entertainment; but she knew there was no help for it, so she tried to smile, and said, "I am willing you should stay, Lenora, but you mustn't talk bad things to me, for I can't bear it."

"Bad things!" repeated Lenora; "who ever heard me talk bad things! What do you mean?"

"I mean," said Carrie, "that you must not talk about your mother as you sometimes do. It is wicked."

"Why, you dear little thing," answered Lenora, "don't you know that what would be wicked for you isn't wicked for me?"

"No, I do not know so," answered Carrie; "but I know I wouldn't talk about my mother as you do about yours for anything."

"Bless your heart," said Lenora, "haven't you sense enough to see that there is a great difference between Mrs. Hamilton first, and Mrs. Hamilton second? Now, I'm not naturally bad, and if I had been the daughter of Mrs. Hamilton first instead of Widow Carter's young one, why, I should have been as good as you—no, not as good as you, for you don't know enough to be bad—but as good as Mag, who, in my opinion, has the right kind of goodness, for all I used to hate her so."

"Hate Margaret!" said Carrie, opening her eyes to their utmost extent. "What did you hate Margaret for?"

"Because I didn't know her, I suppose," returned Lenora; "for now I like her well enough—not quite as well as I do you, perhaps; and yet, when I see you bear mother's abuse so meekly, I positively hate you for a minute, and ache to box your ears; but when Mag squares up to her, shuts her in the china closet, and all that, I want to put my arms right round neck."

"Why, don't you like your mother?" asked Carrie, and Lenora replied:

"Of course I do; but I know what she is and I know she isn't what she sometimes seems. Why, she'd be anything to suit the circumstances. She wanted your father, and she assumed the character most likely to secure him; for, between you and me, he isn't very smart."

"What did she marry him for, then?" asked Carrie.

"Marry him! I hope you don't for a moment suppose she married him!"

"Why, Lenora, ain't they married? I thought they were. Oh, dreadful!" and Carrie started to her feet, while the perspiration stood thickly on her forehead.

Lenora screamed with delight, saying, "You certainly have the softest brain I ever saw. Of course the minister went through with the ceremony; but it was not your father that mother wanted; it was his house—his money—his horses—his servants, and his name. Now, maybe in your simplicity you have thought that mother came here out of kindness to the motherless children; but I tell you she would be better satisfied if neither of you had ever been born. I suppose it is wicked in me to say so, but I think she makes me worse than I would otherwise be; for I am not naturally so bad, and I like people much better than I pretend to. Anyway, I like you, and love little Willie, and always have, since the first time I saw him. Your mother lay in her coffin, and Willie stood by her, caressing her cold cheek, and saying, 'Wake up, mamma, it's Willie; don't you know Willie? I took him in my arms, and vowed to love and shield him from the coming evil; for I knew then, as well as I do now, that what has happened would happen. Mag wasn't there; she didn't see me. If she had, she might have liked me better; now she thinks there is no good in me; and if, when you die, I should feel like shedding tears, and perhaps I shall, it would be just like her to wonder 'what business I had to cry—it was none of my funeral!'"

"You do wrong to talk so, Lenora," said Carrie; "but tell me, did you never have any one to love except Willie?"

"Yes," said Lenora; "when I was a child, a little, innocent child, I had a grandmother—my father's mother—who taught me to pray, and told me of God."

"Where is she now?" asked Carrie.

"In heaven," was the answer. "I know she is there, because when she died there was the same look on her face that there was on your mother's—the same that there will be on yours, when you are dead."

"Never mind," gasped Carrie, who did not care to be so frequently reminded of her mortality, while Lenora continued:

"Perhaps you don't know that my father was, as mother says, a bad man; though I always loved him dearly, and cried when he went away. We lived with grandmother, and sometimes now, in my dreams, I am a child again, kneeling by grandma's side, in our dear old eastern home, where the sunshine fell so warmly, where the summer birds sang in the old maple trees, and where the long shadows, which I called spirits, came and went over the bright green meadows. But there was a sadder day; a narrow coffin, a black hearse, and a tolling bell, which always wakes me from my sleep, and I find the dream all gone, and nothing left of the little child but the wicked Lenora Carter."

Here the dark girl buried her face in her hands and wept, while Carrie gently smoothed her tangled curls. After a while, as if ashamed of her emotion, Lenora dried her tears, and Carrie said, "Tell me more of your early life. I like you when you act as you do now."

"There is nothing more to tell but wickedness," answered Lenora. "Grandma died, and I had no one to teach me what was right. About a year after her death mother wanted to get a divorce from father; and one day she told me that a lawyer was coming to inquire about my father's treatment of her. 'Perhaps,' said she, 'he will ask if you ever saw him strike me, and you must say that you have a great many times. 'But never did,' said I; and then she insisted upon my telling that falsehood, and I refused, until she whipped me, and made me promise to say whatever she wished me to. In this way I was trained to be what I am. Nobody loves me; nobody ever can love me; and sometimes when Mag speaks so kindly to you, and looks so affectionately upon you, I think, what would I not give for some one to love me; and then I go away to cry, and wish I had never been born."

Here Mrs. Hamilton called to her daughter, and gathering up her work, Lenora left the room just as Margaret entered it, on her return from the village.

DARKNESS.

As the spring opened and the days grew warmer Carrie's health seemed much improved; and, though she did not leave her room, she was able to sit up nearly all day, busying herself with some light work. Ever hopeful, Margaret hugged to her bosom the delusion which whispered, "She will not die," while even the physician was deceived, and spoke encouragingly of her recovery.

For several months Margaret had thought of visiting her grandmother, who lived in Albany; and as Mr. Hamilton had occasion to visit that city, Carrie urged her to accompany him saying, she was perfectly able to be left alone, and she wished her sister would go, for the trip would do her good.

For some time past Mrs. Hamilton had seemed exceedingly amiable and affectionate, although her husband appeared greatly depressed, and acted, as Lenora said, "Just as though he had been stealing sheep."

This depression Mag had tried in vain to fathom, and at last, fancying that a change of place and scene might do him good, she consented to accompany him, on condition that Kate Kirby would stay with Carrie. At mention of Kate's name Mr. Hamilton's eyes instantly went over to his wife, whose face wore the same stony expression as she answered, "Yes, Maggie, can come."

Accordingly, on the morning when the travelers would start, Kate came up to the homestead, receiving a thousand and one directions about what to do and when to do it, hearing not more than half the injunctions, and promising to comply with every one. Long before the door the carriage waited, while Margaret, lingering in Carrie's room, kissed again and again her sister's pure brow, and gazed into her deep blue eyes, as if she knew that it was the last time. Even when half way down the stairs she turned back again to say good-by, this time whispering, "I have half a mind not to go, for something tells me I shall never see you again."

"Oh, Mag," said Carrie, "don't be superstitious. I am a great deal better, and when you come home you will find me in the parlor."

In the lower hall Mr. Hamilton caressed his little Willie, who begged that he, too, might go. "Don't leave, me, Maggie, don't," said he, as Mag came up to say good-by.

Long years after the golden curls which Mag pushed back from Willie's forehead were covered by the dark moist earth, did she remember her baby-brother's childish farewell, and oft in bitterness of heart she asked, "Why did I go—why leave my loved ones to die alone?"

Just a week after Mag's departure news was received at the homestead that Walter was coming to Glenwood for a day or two, and on the afternoon of the same day Kate had occasion to go home. As she was leaving the house Mrs. Hamilton detained her, while she said, "Miss Kirby, we are all greatly obliged to you for your kindness in staying with Carrie, although your services really are not needed. I understand how matters stand between you and Walter, and as he is to be here to-morrow; you of course will feel some delicacy about remaining, consequently I release you from all obligations to do so."

Of course there was no demurring to this. Kate's pride was touched; and though Carrie wept, and begged her not to go, she yielded only so far as to stay until the next morning, when, with a promise to call frequently, she left. Lonely and long seemed the hours to poor Carrie; for though Walter came, he stayed but two days, and spent a part of that time at the mill-pond cottage.

The evening after he went away, as Carrie lay, half-dozing, thinking of Mag, and counting the weary days which must pass ere her return, she was startled by the sound of Lenora's voice in the room opposite, the door of which was ajar. Lenora had been absent a few days, and Carrie was about calling to her, when some words spoken by her stepmother arrested her attention, and roused her curiosity. They were, "You think too little of yourself, Lenora. Now, I know there is nothing in the way of your winning Walter, if you choose."

"I should say there was everything in the way," answered Lenora. "In the first place, there is Kate Kirby, and who, after seeing her handsome face, would ever look at such a black, turned-up nose, bristle-headed thing as I am? But I perceive there is some weighty secret on your mind, so what is it? Have Walter and Kate quarreled, or have you told him some falsehood about her?"

"Neither," said Mrs. Hamilton. "What I have to say concerns your father."

"My father!" interrupted Lenora; "my own father! Oh, is he living?"

"No, I hope not," was the answer; "it is Mr. Hamilton whom I mean."

Instantly Lenora's tone changed, and she replied, "If you please you need not call that putty-headed man my father. He acts too much like a whipped spaniel to suit me, and I really think Carrie ought to be respected for knowing what little she does, while I wonder where Walter, Mag, and Willie got their good sense. But what is it? What have you made Mr. Hamilton do?—something ridiculous, of course."

"I've made him make his will," was the answer; while Lenora continued:

"Well, what then? What good will that do me?"

"It may do you a great deal of good," said Mrs. Hamilton; "that is, if Walter likes the homestead as I think he does. But I tell you, it was hard work, and I didn't know, one while, but I should have to give it up. However, I succeeded, and he has willed the homestead to Walter, provided he marries you. If not, Walter has nothing, and the homestead comes to me and my heirs forever!"

"Heartless old fool!" exclaimed Lenora, while Carrie, too, groaned in sympathy. "And do you suppose he intends to let it go so! Of course not; he'll make another when you don't know it"

"I'll watch him too closely for that," said Mrs. Hamilton and after a moment Lenora asked:

"What made you so anxious for a will? Have you received warning of his sudden demise?"

"How foolish!" said Mrs. Hamilton. "Isn't it the easiest thing in the world for me to let Walter know what's in the will, and I fancy that'll bring him to terms, for he likes money, no mistake about that."

"Mr. Hamilton is a bigger fool, and you a worse woman, than I supposed," said Lenora. "Do you think I am mean enough to marry Walter under such circumstances? Indeed, I'm not. But how is Carrie? I must go and see her."

She was about leaving the room, when she turned back, saying in a whisper, "Mother, mother, her door is wide open, as well as this one, and she must have heard every word!"

"Oh, horror!" exclaimed Mrs. Hamilton; "go in and ascertain the fact, if possible."

It took but one glance to convince Lenora that Carrie was in possession of the secret. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes wet with tears; and when Lenora stooped to kiss her, she said. "I know it all, I heard it all."

"Then I hope you feel better," said Mrs. Hamilton, coming forward. "Listeners never hear any good of themselves."

"Particularly if it's Widow Carter who is listened to," suggested Lenora.

Mrs. Hamilton did not reply to this, but continued speaking to Carrie. "If you have heard anything new you can keep it to yourself. No one has interfered with you, or intends to. Your father has a right to do what he chooses with his own, and I shall see that he exercises that right, too."

So saying she left the room, while Carrie, again bursting into tears, wept until perfectly exhausted. The next morning she was attacked with bleeding at the lungs, which in a short time reduced her so low that the physician spoke doubtfully of her recovery, should the hemorrhage again return. In the course of two or three days she was again attacked; and now, when there was no longer hope of life, her thoughts turned with earnest longings toward her absent father and sister, and once, as the physician was preparing to leave her, she said, "Doctor, tell me truly, can I live twenty-four hours?"

"I think you may," was the answer.

"Then I shall see them, for if you telegraph to-night they can come in the morning train. Go yourself and have it done, will you?"

The physician promised that he would, and then left the room. In the hall he met Mrs. Hamilton, who with the utmost anxiety depicted upon her countenance, said, "Dear Carrie is leaving us, isn't she? I have telegraphed for her father, who will be here in the morning. 'Twas right to do so, was it not?"

"Quite right," answered the physician. "I promised to see to it myself, and was just going to do so."

"Poor child," returned Mrs. Hamilton, "she feels anxious, I suppose. But I have saved you the trouble."

The reader will not, perhaps, be greatly surprised to learn that what Mrs. Hamilton had said was false. She suspected that one reason why Carrie so greatly desired to see her father was to tell him what she had heard, and beg of him to undo what he had done; and as she feared the effect which the sight and words of his dying child might have upon him, she resolved, if possible, to keep him away until Carrie's voice was hushed in death. Overhearing what had been said by the doctor, she resorted to the stratagem of which we have just spoken. The next morning, however, she ordered a telegram to be despatched, knowing full well that her husband could not reach home until the day following.

Meantime, as the hour for the morning train drew near, Carrie, resting upon pillows, and whiter than the linen which covered them, strained her ears to catch the first sound of the locomotive. At last, far off through an opening among the hills, was heard a rumbling noise, which increased each moment in loudness, until the puffing engine shot out into the long, green valley, and then rolled rapidly up to the depot.

Little Willie had seemed unwell for a few days, but since his sister's illness he had stayed by her almost constantly, gazing half-curiously, half-timidly into her face, and asking if she was going to the home where his mamma lived. She had told him that Margaret was coming, and when the shrill whistle of the eastern train sounded through the room he ran to the window, whither Lenora had preceded him, and there together they watched for the coming of the omnibus. A sinister smile curled the lips of Mrs. Hamilton who was present, and who, of course, affected to feel interested.

At last Willie, clapping his hands, exclaimed, "There 'tis! They're coming. That's Maggie's big trunk!" Then, noticing the glow which his announcement called up to Carrie's cheek, he said, "She'll make you well, Carrie, Maggie will. Oh, I'm so glad, and so is Leno."

Nearer and nearer came the omnibus, brighter and deeper grew the flush on Carrie's face, while little Willie danced up and down with joy.

"It isn't coming here," said Mrs. Hamilton; "it has gone by," and Carrie's feverish heat was succeeded by an icy chill.

"Haven't they come, Lenora?" she said.

Lenora shook her head, and Willie, running to his sister, wound his arms around her neck, and for several minutes the two lone, motherless children wept.

"If Maggie knew how my head ached she'd come," said Willie; but Carrie thought not of her aching head, nor of the faintness of death which was fast coming on. One idea alone engrossed her. Her brother—how would he be saved from the threatened evil, and her father's name from dishonor?

At last Mrs. Hamilton left the room, and Carrie, speaking to Lenora and one of the villagers who was present, asked if they, too, would not leave her alone for a time with Willie. They complied with her request, and then asking her brother to bring her pencil and paper, she hurriedly wrote a few lines to her father telling him of what she had heard, and entreating him, for her sake, and the sake of the mother with whom she would be when those words met his eye, not to do Walter so great a wrong. "I shall give this to Willie's care," she wrote, in conclusion, "and he will keep it carefully until you come. And now, I bid you a long farewell, my precious father—my noble Mag—my darling Walter."

The note was finished, and calling Willie to her, she said, "I am going to die. When Maggie returns I shall be dead and still, like our own dear mother."

"Oh, Carrie, Carrie," sobbed the child, "don't leave me till Maggie comes."

There was a footstep on the stairs, and Carrie, without replying to her brother, said quickly, "Take this paper, Willie, and give it to father when he comes; let no one see it—Lenora, mother, nor any one."

Willie promised compliance, and had but just time to conceal the note in his bosom ere Mrs. Hamilton entered the room, accompanied by the physician, to whom she loudly expressed her regrets that her husband had not come, saying that she had that morning telegraphed again, although he could not now reach home until the morrow.

"To-morrow I shall never see," said Carrie, faintly. And she spoke truly, too, for even then death was freezing her life-blood with the touch of his icy hand. To the last she seemed conscious of the tiny arms which so fondly encircled her neck; and when the soul had drifted far out on the dark channel of death the childish words of "Carrie, Carrie, speak once more," roused her, and folding her brother more closely to her bosom, she murmured, "Willie, darling Willie, our mother is waiting for us both."

Mrs. Hamilton, who stood near, now bent down, and laying her hand on the pale, damp brow said gently, "Carrie, dear, have you no word of love for this mother?"

There was a visible shudder, an attempt to speak, a low moan, in which the word "Walter" seemed struggling to be spoken; and then death, as if impatient of delay, bore away the spirit, leaving only the form which in life had been most beautiful. Softly Lenora closed over the blue eyes the long, fringed lids, and pushed back from the forehead the sunny tresses which clustered so thickly around it; then, kissing the white lips and leaving on the face of the dead traces of her tears, she led Willie from the room, soothing him in her arms until he fell asleep.

Elsewhere we have said that for a few days Willie had not seemed well; but so absorbed were all in Carrie's more alarming symptoms that no one had heeded him, although his cheeks were flushed with fever, and his head was throbbing with pain. He was in the habit of sleeping in his parents' room, and that night his loud breathings and uneasy turnings disturbed and annoyed his mother, who at last called out in harsh tones, "Willie, Willie, for mercy's sake stop that horrid noise! I shall never get asleep this way. I know there's no need of breathing like that!"

"It chokes me so," sobbed little Willie, "but I'll try."

Then pressing his hands tightly over his mouth, he tried the experiment of holding his breath as long as possible. Hearing no sound from his mother, he thought her asleep, but not venturing to breathe naturally until assured of the fact, he whispered, "Ma, ma, are you asleep?"

"Asleep! no—and never shall be, as I see. What do you want?"

"Oh, I want to breathe," said Willie.

"Well, breathe then; who hinders you?" was the reply; and ere the offensive sound again greeted her ear, Mrs. Hamilton was too far gone in slumber to be disturbed.

For two hours Willie lay awake, tossing from side to side, scorched with fever and longing for water to quench his burning thirst. By this time Mrs. Hamilton was again awake; but to his earnest entreaties for water—"Just one little drop of water, ma"—she answered:

"William Hamilton, if you don't be still I'll move your crib into the room where Carrie is, and leave you there alone!"

Unlike many children, Willie had no fears of the cold white figure which lay so still and motionless upon the parlor sofa. To him it was Carrie, his sister; and many times that day had he stolen in alone, and laying back the thin muslin which shaded her face, he had looked long upon her—had laid his hand on her icy cheek, wondering if she knew how cold she was, and if the way which she had gone was so long and dark that he could never find it. To him there was naught to fear in that room of death, and to his mother's threat he answered eagerly, "Oh, ma, give me some water, just a little bit of water, and you may carry me in there, I ain't afraid and my breathing won't wake Carrie up;" but before he had finished speaking his mother was again dozing.

"Won't anybody bring me some water—Maggie, Carrie—Leno—nobody?" murmured poor Willie, as he Wet his pillow with tears.

At last he could bear it no longer. He knew where the water-bucket stood, and stepping from his bed, he groped his way down the long stairs to the basement. The spring moon was low in the western horizon, and shining through the curtained window, dimly lighted up the room. The pail was soon reached, and then in his eagerness to drink, he put his lips to the side. Lower, lower, lower it came, until he discovered, alas I that the pail was empty.

"What shall I do? what shall I do?" said he, as he crouched upon the cold hearthstone.

A new idea entered his mind. The well stood near the outer door; and, quickly pushing back the bolt, he went out, all flushed and feverish as he was, into the chill night air. There was ice upon the curbstone, but he did not mind it, although his little toes, as they trod upon it, looked red by the pale moonlight. Quickly a cup of the coveted water was drained; then, with careful forethought, he filled it again, and taking it back to his room, crept shivering to bed. Nature was exhausted, and whether he fainted or fell asleep is not known, for never again to consciousness in this world awoke the little boy.

The morning sunlight came softly in at the window, touching his golden curls with a still more golden hue. Sadly over him Lenora bent, saying, "Willie, Willie, wake up, Willie. Don't you know me?"

Greatly Mrs. Hamilton marveled whence came the cup of water which stood there, as if reproaching her for her cruelty. But the delirious words of the dreamer soon told her all. "Maggie, Maggie," he said, "rub my feet; they feel like Carrie's face. The curbstone was cold, but the water was so good. Give me more, more; mother won't care, for I got it myself, and tried not to breathe, so she could sleep—and Carrie, too, is dead—dead."

Lenora fiercely grasped her mother's arm, and said, "How could you refuse him water, and sleep while he got it himself?"

But Mrs. Hamilton needed not that her daughter should accuse her. Willie had been her favorite, and the tears which she dropped upon his pillow were genuine. The physician who was called pronounced his disease to be scarlet fever, saying that its violence was greatly increased by a severe cold which he had taken.

"You have killed him, mother; you have killed him!" said Lenora.

Twenty-four hours had passed since, with straining ear, Carrie had listened for the morning train, and again down the valley floated the smoke of the engine, and over the blue hills echoed the loud scream of the locomotive; but no sound could awaken the fair young sleeper, though Willie started, and throwing up his hands, one of which, the right one, was firmly clinched, murmured, "Maggie, Maggie."

Ten minutes more and Margaret was there, weeping in agony over the inanimate form of her sister, and almost shrieking as she saw Willie's wild eye, and heard his incoherent words. Terrible to Mr. Hamilton was this coming home. Like one who walks in sleep, he went from room to room, kissing the burning brow of one child, and then, while the hot breath was yet warm upon his lips, pressing them to the cold face of the other.