CHAPTER XVII.

THE CRIPPLED BOY.

 

DURING Marion's call at the Home for the Sick in company with the pastor, they examined the record of patients, etc., and related to Dr. B— the singular circumstance of the brother and sister, natives of another country, being there at the same time, each longing to find the other, and remaining unknown. There were the names and dates fully recorded:—

 

"Men's Medical Ward, Harold Angus, New York, aged twenty-four. Disease, typhoid fever. Entered March 7, 18—. Discharged cured June 20, 18—. Address of friends, Mr. James Whitney, New York City."

 

"Women's Medical Ward, Stella Angus, Doncaster, England, aged twenty-two. Second admittance. Disease, consumption. Entered May 2, 18—. Died June 4, 18—. Place of burial, Greenwood. Address of friends, Miss Mary Angus, Leyden, England."

 

"I recollect perfectly," remarked Dr. B—, "that Stella, as we called her,—from Miss Howard introducing her by that name,—often spoke to the chaplain and to the nurses of one whom she had injured, and that she wished to atone for it. I never heard, Mr. Angus, that you mentioned her name."

 

"I never did. I supposed her to be in England. I can only believe that God, for His own wise purpose, kept the knowledge of her triumphant death from me till I could say, in regard to all His dealings, 'Thy will be done.'"

 

From the Home they drove at once to Greenwood. The lot was small and inexpensive, but it had been well cared for, and the grave, covered with myrtle, was green and beautiful.

 

Marion led the way to the spot and then retired to a distance, leaving the mourner alone with his sorrow. Not yet did she know how deeply Stella had injured her brother, and so she could not appreciate, as she did afterward, the abandonment of his grief as he fell on the grave, saying,—

 

"My sister! My sister! Is it thus we meet?"

 

Still, as she walked away, with bent head and fast-falling tears, she repeated to herself the familiar quotation,—

 

"To err is human, to forgive, divine."

 

At the head of the grave Marion had caused a simple stone to be erected, with merely these words,—

 

STELLA.

 

ASLEEP IN JESUS.

 

As they were turning to leave the sacred spot, he pointed to it, and tried to utter the words,—

 

"Thank you," but his voice choked.

 

Now, he in whom she had taken so deep an interest, whose happiness had for a time been so intimately interwoven with her own, had sailed for England. He had made a hasty call, on his return from Grantbury, and received from her the precious letters assuring him of his sister's affection. He had seemed ill at ease when she thanked him for allowing her to peruse them, pressed her hand warmly as he bade her farewell, took his hat from the table in the hall then suddenly threw it down again, exclaiming,—

 

"I cannot leave you without saying, if we never meet again, I shall die blessing you for your goodness to Stella and to me. Miss Howard, you have opened a new future before me. You—but I cannot,—I ought not to say more. Will you add one favor to the many I have received at your hands? Will you answer a letter from me? May I tell you of my visit to my native land, to the graves of my parents?"

 

He fixed his eyes full on hers, which at last fell before the ardor of his gaze, while she answered frankly,—

 

"Mr. Angus, for Stella's sake and for your own, I shall be very glad to hear from you. My time will be spent among my poor. If I find anything to interest you, I will certainly write in answer to yours."

 

Marion was practical rather than sentimental, and she plunged into the business of life as though nothing more than usual had occurred.

 

In one day, she visited Mary Falkner at the Home, gave music lessons to four pupils, went with Hepsey nearly a mile to inquire for one of her mission boys, and brought home for evening work one of the rolls from the mission chapel, in order to stencil an additional hymn upon it.

 

Still, wherever she went, however employed her thoughts were with a lonely traveller whom the waves were every hour carrying farther and farther away. While driving, with Hepsey by her side, through the thronged thoroughfares, or sitting at her own well-spread board, the question constantly recurred: "Why did he say, 'if we never meet again'? Does he not expect to return?" Then her pulse beat more warmly as she recalled the expression of his eye, and added, "I know he hoped we should meet again."

 

In the morning Mr. Lambert called, and found her leaning over the large table in the dining room, printing with the stencil plate the hymn, work which company had obliged her to postpone the previous evening.

 

He had scarcely taken his seat before he began to scold her.

 

"You ought to have a guardian," he began, in loud voice. "Pale as ashes,—taking work out of the printer's hands, too. Well, they may starve for all I care. World upside down, as usual."

 

"Will you please help me roll this?" asked Marion, turning an arch, smiling face full upon him. "It must be held very tight, or it will wrinkle. Mr. Lambert, why don't you help me in my mission school?"

 

"Help—mission school—insane idea—couldn't get any scholars—pretty teacher, indeed!" He grumbled away for some time to himself, and finally ended with a fit of laughter. "All nonsense,—throwing away money on bummers, stuff and nonsense—embryo thieves and murderers." He walked to the window, pretended to be examining the flowers in the conservatory, pulled out his purse and quickly concealed a bill in his hand just as Marion, who had finished her work, said, pleasantly,—

 

"You needn't try to deceive me with your grumbling: I found you out long ago. You would go a mile any time to carry food to the hungry, only you would want the privilege of scolding them afterwards."

 

The eccentric old gentleman hung his head, too much confused even to grumble at her.

 

"How guilty you look!" laughed Marion. "You took me in, once upon a time."

 

"Aye! aye! Frightened you well, that's some comfort."

 

"I don't think I was much frightened, though I confess I considered your manner rather rough. I recollect well that I pitied you for being so suspicious of everybody."

 

He sprang from the floor, shouting,—

 

"Suspicious, eh? Suspicious, is it? Pitied me, did you? If any one else had dared,—well, I'm an old fool, anyway."

 

He sat down and wiped the perspiration from his forehead, looking so pale and hurt that Marion pitied him more than ever. She drew a chair close to his side and said, soothingly,—

 

"Now that we understand each other, I want to tell you a story,—a true one. You know Hepsey and I go out sometimes to see our friends in the back alleys."

 

"Humph! Yes,—and bring home fevers, and all that."

 

"One day I heard a woman crying,—and true enough she had cause. Her boy had been crushed by a wheel which ran over his legs; and there he lay on a pile of straw, in a fainting fit. I tried to bring him to while Hepsey went for an ambulance, and we soon had him in the care of the doctor, on his way to the hospital. Hepsey and I followed with the mother. To make a long story short, the injury was so great that Neddy—that's his name—had both his legs amputated just above the knees, and he is well again. Now the question is, What can he do to earn his living? He's a dear, patient little fellow, and he has made friends of everybody at the hospital. One of the doctors has given me five dollars for—"

 

Mr. Lambert threw down his cane, and pulled out his purse again.

 

"No, I don't want money now, I want advice. He can't earn his living yet awhile; but what can he be fitted for?"

 

"I'll get him a place in a printing-office." In his excitement, Mr. Lambert forgot to grumble.  His voice was natural and agreeable.

 

"Just the thing! But isn't he too young,—he's only nine?"

 

"That's a fault easily cured. He must be put into the Five Points Mission School till he's twelve,—learn to read and spell, and all that sort of thing. Where is he?"

 

"In the hospital. Will you go with me to see him?"

 

"Certainly not.  Why should I go? I've nothing to do with it, any way. You wanted advice and I gave it,—that's all. Don't be nonsensical now," putting another bill stealthily on the table. "What did you say the fellow's name is?"

 

"Neddy Carter. He isn't strong enough to be carried to that old, tumble-down attic, and so I have engaged a friend to take him home with her till he can have his artificial legs made. That's what the doctor subscribed five dollars for."

 

"Wooden legs, eh! That's the plan, is it? Five dollars! Tell this doctor to mind his own business. I know a man—that is, he owes me—that is, he will owe me—a bill, and I'll get the legs out of him—see if I don't. I'll"—grumbling. "Well, I'm going. I don't find your story very entertaining. It's lucky I'm forgetful: shan't know anything about it to-morrow. Good-day, Miss Howard. Don't make a fool of yourself more than you can help."

 

He caught his cane and was crossing the room when he saw the bill he had first taken from his pocket and forgotten lying on the floor.

 

"Pretty way to use good money," he said, with a sneer, pointing to it. "With all your teaching business, you'll never get rich that way, Miss Howard."

 

Page 207

[Illustration: MARION AND THE CRIPPLED BOY. Page 207]

 

"I saw that bill drop from your hand, sir." Marion laughed till all her dimples came into play. "But you can't have it," she insisted, as she saw his look of disappointment at being found out. "You've forfeited the right to it, and I shall add it to my fund for Neddy."

 

"Pretty sharp practice that," he grumbled, looking intensely relieved. "Well, good-day to you."

 

The next time Marion went to the hospital a singular circumstance occurred,—a circumstance which unravelled for her quite a mystery.

 

She inquired for Neddy Carter, and was allowed to proceed at once to the convalescent ward. The boy was sitting in a low chair, which he had learned to wheel about with great rapidity. As soon as he saw her, his face brightened, and before he could reach her side he shouted,—

 

"Miss Howard! Miss Howard! Mr. Regy's been here!"

 

"And he's such a funny man," said one of the older boys.

 

"I wish I had seen him," was Marion's answer. "What did he come for?"

 

"To see me. He was awful cross at first, and scolded me for getting under the wheel like sixty; but I know him, and he's real good for all that; and I like him; and when I told him I didn't get under the wheel on purpose he gave me this," pulling a silver dollar from his pocket. "Will you please take it to help buy my wooden legs?"

 

"No, indeed; those will be ready when the doctor says you can wear them."

 

"Mr. Regy says I'm to be a printer," continued the boy, fixing his large brown eyes on hers; "and I'm to go to school at the Five Points, and learn to read and spell, and by-and-by, he says, there's no knowing but I may be a great man, and print newspapers."

 

Marion started. This was Mr. Lambert's plan. Had he told Mr. Regy of it?

 

"How does Mr. Regy look?" This inquiry was addressed to one of the nurses, who was passing.

 

"Very oddly," she replied, laughing. "He's about fifty or sixty years old, very gray hair, which he wears long, floating over his shoulders."

 

Marion laughed too as she said, "I've often heard of him, but I never saw him."

 

Mr. Lambert was over sixty; but his hair, naturally light, had not turned gray, and was cut short to his head.

 

"He stoops a little," added the nurse, "and makes frightful faces. Some of the little ones were afraid of him, but before he went away he coaxed them to sit in his lap and put their hands in his pockets, where they found nuts and raisins and candy in abundance. A lady came in to see a little cripple, and as she passed him surrounded by a group of them, Neddy's chair rolled as close as he could get it, she remarked, smiling, 'It's a blessed work, sir.'"

 

"Mr. Regy had not seen her before, and he started to his feet, looking very angry.

 

"'Troublesome little brats!' he shouted, pushing them away."

 

"Just like Mr. Lambert," was Marion's reflection. "How very strange there should be two such men!"

 

Just then she noticed that several of the boys were putting their heads together, whispering and gesturing as they looked toward her. Presently one came forward, and asked, timidly,—

 

"Will you please sing us a tune, Miss Howard?"

 

"How do you know I can sing?" she asked, with one of her brightest smiles.

 

"I heard you at the mission Sunday school. I'm Maurice Long, what used to be sent to the back seat for being allus in mischief."

 

Maurice looked anything but humble, as he confessed his faults.

 

"Why, Maurice!" exclaimed Marion, holding out her hand. "You have grown so much I did not know you,—and you are so pale, too."

 

"Yes, miss. Me and another boy got into a fight, and I had my head smashed in, and the p'lice brought me here. I'm going out next week."

 

"O Maurice!"

 

Marion was interrupted by several voices shouting, "He'd fight agin, ma'am. He'd oughter. It was ter save a feller littler than him. Hurrah for Maurice!"

 

"How was it, Nurse? I want to hear the story."

 

"Maurice had a chance to earn a dime carrying a bundle for a gentleman from the cars. A little fellow came along, leading a poor, half-starved dog of which he seemed very fond. Just then a big bully of a boy met them, and began to tease the dog. When his owner timidly begged to be let alone, the bully flew at him, and then Maurice thought it time to interfere. He caught the bully by the hair, and would not let go till he was terribly bruised. A policeman came up and arrested both the boys, just as Maurice fainted from loss of blood. The gentleman had seen the whole fight from beginning to end, and he followed the bully to the court-room and gave his testimony, and called Maurice a hero."

 

"And a good fighter, too," added Maurice, who had stood by, listening to all with a kind of proud humility.

 

"I am glad you were not fighting to defend your own rights," said Marion, approvingly. "But who was the gentleman?"

 

"He gave his name as Lambert," said the nurse. "There is a very curious sequel to the story," she added, in a low tone, as they turned away.

 

"Mr. Lambert came here twice before Maurice was well enough to know him, and showed a good deal of anxiety till he was out of danger, growling to himself that he ought to have stopped the fight earlier. He gave the doctor some money for Maurice when he goes away; but the boy knows nothing of that yet. When Mr. Lambert saw Maurice he scolded him well; said a street fighter was a mean fellow and ought to be arrested, and hoped he should never hear of his street brawls again.

 

"His voice was so loud that some of the little ones began to cry, but Maurice spoke up rather saucily,—

 

"I'd fight for you, sir, to-morrow, if you was hit. I know you're jolly, for all your scolding.'"

 

"Well," said Marion, laughing heartily, "what did Mr. Lambert say to that?"

 

"Not a word that we could understand. He went away with his handkerchief to his face, but when he reached the street he shook all over with laughter."

 

"Shall I sing for the children now?"

 

"They will be delighted to hear you."

 

Standing in the midst of the ward, with the little ones pressing to her side, Marion sang the sweet melody set to the words,—

 

"Will you come where the sweet-briar grows,

Where the heath flower blossoms around?

Will you come where the hyacinth blows,

And the daisy just peeps from the ground?

There's a bower by the side of yon lake,

'Tis the chosen abode of the rose;

Where the wings of the linnet awake

The leaves from their calm repose."

 

Every word was distinctly enunciated, and the children, with bated breath and sparkling eyes, proved their appreciation by calling out, "More! Please, Miss Howard, sing more." Smiling, she gave them the mocking-bird, which was followed by shouts of applause.

 

 

 

CHAPTER XVIII.

A MYSTERY SOLVED.

 

MISS HOWARD was leaving the hospital when she met the doctor in charge, who invited her to his private parlor, as he wished to consult her in regard to her protégé Neddy Carter.

 

"I suppose you are acquainted with Mr. Regy,' he said. "He knew your wishes about the boy."

 

"I know him well by report," she answered, "but I have never seen him."

 

"Indeed! He is certainly the most eccentric individual I ever met. Benevolent and tender-hearted to an extreme, he seems to me like a man who has learned to mistrust humanity so generally that he hides every evidence of weakness as carefully as though it were a crime. Why, the good deeds that man does almost defy belief."

 

"I can easily credit your statement, doctor. In my visits to my poor friends, I am constantly hearing of him. I have known of his paying rent for a widow who had a sick daughter, month after month, and at the same time providing her with medicines and food. Yet he would talk to her about her untidyness till he made her cry; and then he would go away grumbling that all he could say did no good."

 

"I heard some facts concerning his eccentricities from a gentleman who owns the place next his in the country," continued the doctor, "which, if they had not come to me from the best authority I would not credit; but my friend vouches for the facts.

 

"Near them lives a woman whose husband was killed on the railroad. She has two young children, is pleasing in appearance, but wanting in force. They had always lived in comfort, on the wages her husband earned. When he was killed, she seemed crushed with grief. The neighbors made up a purse for her, and Mr. Regy, who had given generously, was requested to carry it to her. He learned that she owned her small cottage, to which a barn was attached, but had no money. He found she had no idea of earning her own living, but when he proposed that the children be sent to the asylum, and she go out to work in a mill or family, she cried herself into hysterics, calling him a cruel, hard-hearted brute for proposing it, wished he would go away and never come again.

 

"This is all my friend learned from Mr. Regy, who denounced her as ungrateful, unnatural as a mother, a pest to society. Her neighbors supposed, of course, he gave her up; but he never did, for a day. He went and berated her till he quite roused her into action; and finally she said she had been brought up on a farm, and knew how to make butter and cheese.

 

"'What good will that do you?' he asked her, with a sneer. 'Where are your cows, to make butter from?'"

 

"It was some time before she learned what a true friend he was; but two excellent milkers found their way to her barn, and, in time, pans and a churn. Then she complained that she was sure she never could sell her butter and pot-cheese and cried a whole day at the scolding he gave her. To make a long story short, he sold all her butter and cheese for her at the highest price, taking the basket on his own arm, and carrying it to the houses of the regular customers. A lady on Forty-Second Street told my friend that he brought butter there regularly every week for more than a year. She supposed it was from his own farm; and she has a pile of his receipts signed M. Regy. Once she remonstrated in person with him for his high prices, when he flew into such a rage that she never dared approach the subject again."

 

"Very, very strange," remarked Marion.  "I have a friend who is extremely odd and uncouth in manner, but is always doing kindnesses for the poor. His name is Lambert. In many respects your description of Mr. Regy would answer for both."

 

"Do you refer to Mr. M. R. Lambert, a rich old bachelor?  Why, I always thought him the most sarcastic, sour, crusty, old man in my acquaintance."

 

"Only in manner, doctor. He possesses the milk of human kindness in an uncommon degree. He is a second Mr. Regy. I am confident that any sum of money I would consent to ask him for in behalf of my protégés would not be refused; and all the time he would be grumbling that it was good money thrown away on a thankless class of vagrants."

 

"What is Mr. Lambert's full address," inquired the doctor, rising in an excited manner.

 

"M. R. Lambert are his initials. I have scores of his cards."

 

"Regy is, I believe, his middle name, and he uses it for a nom de plume. It can scarcely be credited that there would be two so similar in their eccentricities. I am almost sure of it."

 

"Then he must disguise himself: Mr. Lambert's hair is short, and only beginning to turn gray."

 

"A gray wig is easy to procure. What can be his motive?"

 

"It is difficult to conceive, Doctor. I have sometimes imagined that Mr. Lambert had a motive in so constantly visiting the poorer classes; but it is only a suspicion. I feel sure, if it were true, it would do honor to the kindness of the man. I told him the story of Neddy Carter's injury. He entered into it with great interest,-said he would get him a place in a printing-office and was almost angry that any one else had thought of purchasing artificial legs for the boy."

 

"Just what I wished to tell you from Mr. Regy. They are one and the same. Mr. Regy I shall continue to call him. See, here is the address he gave me."

 

"M. REGY, P.O. BOX 1009."

 

On her way home, Marion's thoughts were absorbed in trying to solve the motives which could govern such a man as Mr. Lambert, and induce him to figure in so many different characters; for the more she reflected the more she felt assured that he and Mr. Regy were the same. It might be that some early disappointment had thus twisted and gnarled a naturally lovely character.  It might be that some one he had once loved and trusted had betrayed his confidence, and thus rendered him suspicious of all mankind. She resolved to watch him closely, and to endeavor to lighten his burden, whatever it might be.

 

Approaching her own door, she perceived a carriage standing there. With her thoughts still on the discovery she had made, she ran up the steps and encountered Eugene Cheriton struggling in the arms of James, who had been told to take him back to his mother in the parlor.

 

The boy readily yielded to her wish, and went upstairs with her, where she was both surprised and pleased to find not only Mrs. Cheriton but Mrs. Douglass awaiting her arrival.

 

The latter lady seemed to have taken out a new lease of life, since her return to the city. She acknowledged that she liked New York, and should leave it with reluctance.

 

"I hope you do not intend to leave it," urged Marion.

 

The lady glanced anxiously at her daughter before she answered. "Necessity may compel us to do so."

 

Mrs. Cheriton's countenance had no reflection of her mother's anxiety. She sat as usual, with her handsome head thrown a little back, her large, black eyes lustrous as ever, her lips wreathed in the same set smile; but there seemed no soul in her face. She appeared to have wrapped herself in a veil, which, in Marion's presence, had never been lifted for one instant.

 

Eugene, beautiful and restless as ever, ran here and there unrestrained, demanding the reason for this or that, preventing so effectually any attempt at conversation that Marion, who wished for an opportunity to talk with Mrs. Douglass, at last persuaded her to remain for the day, insisting that she herself had no engagements which would interfere with the pleasure of such a visit.

 

"While you are taking your siesta," she urged, "I can go to my pupils; and then we will have quiet chat, or drive in the park, as you prefer."

 

"This is just the opportunity I have long desired," remarked Mrs. Douglass, as after an hour's rest she had partaken of a nice lunch, and was seated in Marion's most comfortable chair. "I want to tell you some facts in my early life which will account for my being here in America."

 

"I shall feel honored by your confidence," returned Marion, gazing with affection into the still beautiful face, so like and yet unlike her daughter's. "Let me bring my crocheting, and we can be as cosey as we please."

 

"I told Mr. Angus some things about our history. He may have repeated them to you."

 

"Not a word, dear lady," bending over her work to conceal the rosy hue which colored her cheeks at the mention of his name.

 

"I told him, that, although Juliette and myself are living alone, we are neither of us widows,—at least we are not knowingly such,—but let me go back to early days.

 

"My father was an Englishman, and in his thirty-first year was sent to Spain as minister from the court of England. He was stationed at Madrid, where he met my mother, daughter of a nobleman in that city. The liking between them was mutual, and ended in marriage after an acquaintance of a few months. I have heard it said that seldom had a couple so distinguished for beauty, and every charm which makes life desirable, been witnessed in our proud old city.

 

"A year after their marriage a son was born, who was named Henreich, for my maternal grandfather. Three years later I appeared on the scene. As no other children followed, and we were the only grandchildren on the mother's side, you can easily imagine that our wishes, whims, and caprices ruled the entire household.

 

"Henreich, beautiful, bold, wilful, and unrestrained, became at last a terror to both parents and servants. To me only was he loving and gentle; but even when in a fury of rage, he would yield to my entreaties and tears. I need not say that he was my idol. I loved him as sister never loved brother before. What I suffered when, unable longer to endure the anxieties and terror which his bold daring continually occasioned my parents, he was sent to England to be educated, I have no words to describe.

 

"It could scarcely be expected that a high-spirited lad, accustomed to have his own way, would yield at once to authority; at least Henreich did not, and soon fell into such disgrace that he was expelled from the school.  My uncle, to whose care he had been committed, wrote, resigning the charge. He reproached my father in the most unmeasured terms for neglecting to restrain the boy's temper, which had led him in an ungovernable fit of fury to attempt the life of one of his teachers, after which he fled, and nothing could be heard from him. Father went to England at once. I never knew what occurred there, but when he came home he said Henreich was dead to us, and forbade that his name ever be mentioned.

 

"You will see later why I dwell so long on these sad events. I mourned over my brother, and, not being allowed to speak of him, I brooded over his troubles until at last I forgot that he had been to blame for them. I even came to regard him as a hero, who had been unjustly treated.

 

"All the fond pride which would have been cherished for both of us was now lavished on me. I scarcely had a wish but it was gratified. With the exception of my trouble at the separation from my brother, I scarcely knew the meaning of the word, till in my fourteenth year I accompanied my parents to England, and they left me to finish my education.

 

"I was now in the same country where Henreich had been, but I never, except on one occasion, heard his name mentioned. I asked my uncle Douglass if he knew where my brother was, and was answered, with a terrible frown,—

 

"'No, I do not. He may be dead, for all I care.'

 

"I never inquired again.

 

"I was in England two years, and returned to Spain 'finished,' as my graduation from school with high honors was called. It was then I entered on a course of gayety, such as I had never even imagined. Though very young, my hand was asked frequently in marriage; but my heart was never touched till one evening, at a gay assembly, I met a young American, with whom I danced nearly all night. Only the third time we met he told me he loved me, and asked me to be his wife. I confessed that I returned his affection, and sent him to my father.

 

"But now, for the first time in my life, I met opposition. My father and mother, foolishly fond and proud of their only child, considered it quite beneath me to marry an untitled foreigner. They talked as though royalty itself might be honored by an alliance with me. This opposition naturally fixed my determination to marry the man of my choice, notwithstanding all obstacles. I instantly invested him with the whole catalogue of virtues and when, added to these, sadness on his part proved his undying attachment, I made a martyr of him,—a martyr dying for my love.

 

"Under these circumstances I gave my parents no rest. My lover offered letters to prove that he was worthy; and at length, worn out by my entreaties and my evident loss of bloom, father did secretly write to a friend in London, requesting him to ascertain from Mr. Post, banker in that city, in regard to his position and prospects.

 

"This it was easy to do through correspondents from the London Banking House, and the result was so satisfactory, both as to character and wealth, that my friend was allowed to renew his visits, which speedily terminated in my betrothal. I have often thought since, that, had my parents allowed the acquaintance to proceed at first without opposition, all would have ended differently; for as the intimacy advanced, even before our marriage, I discovered certain traits which greatly annoyed me.

 

"I had been accustomed to the expression of admiration, and enjoyed it; but I was faithful and true to my lover. He considered the looks and tones of flattery an insult both to me and to him. He constantly urged our immediate union; but to this my parents would not consent, except on one condition. Until I was twenty-one, my home must be with them. On my eighteenth birthday, with the reluctant consent of all my relatives, I became a wife. For a month or two I was very happy. I found my husband intelligent, with a cultivated mind, and a kind heart. We were alone in a villa belonging to my grandfather, and proved so sufficient for mutual happiness that I returned home with great regret. Oh, that we had never returned!"

 

Marion had been so absorbed in the recital that she had failed to notice the increasing pallor of the narrator. Struck with the intense sadness of the last tone, she started to find her visitor sinking back in her chair, her lips blanched, her hands trembling.

 

Throwing aside her work, she ran to her chamber for cologne, with which she bathed the forehead and hands of the lady, then rang for James to bring her a cup of fresh coffee.

 

She insisted that Mrs. Douglass should rest before she continued her interesting story; but the lady, with a sigh, urged,—

 

"I may never have so favorable an opportunity to finish. My sad tale is nearly ended, and I shall be greatly relieved when I have told my only American friend my folly and my punishment; so resume your work, and let me end the recital as briefly as possible."