Millbank;

Mr. Grey had heard from his sister that Magdalen came from Millbank, where she had lived in the Irving family until the finding of the will, and for a few moments he had felt as if he could not have her there at Beechwood, recalling by her presence what he would so gladly have forgotten. Why was it that the Irvings, or some one connected with them, were always crossing his path. Surely he had been sufficiently punished for poor Jessie’s death. His most implacable enemy could have asked no greater sorrow for him than he had experienced for years, save at times when in foreign scenes he forgot in part the horror and the burden which since his return to America had pressed heavier than before.

“The girl is a lady and very handsome too, though of a far different style from Alice. I hope you will try to like her, Arthur,” his sister had said to him, as she saw a shadow on his face and felt that in some way he was displeased.

“Of course I can have nothing against the girl,” Mr. Grey replied, “though there are reasons why any thing connected with the Irvings should be distasteful to me, and I would rather Miss Lennox had come from some other family.”

He left his sister then, and went to his own room, where on the wall was still hanging that little pencil sketch of the graveyard in Belvidere, and the barefoot girl standing in the grass with the basket of flowers on her arm. That Miss Lennox was the original of that picture, Mr. Grey did not doubt. She had told him that her name was Magdalen, and that she had always lived at Millbank, so there could be no mistake. He had scarcely thought of that incident for years, but it came back to him now and struck him as very strange that this same barefoot girl should have come there as companion to his daughter.

“Should she ever enter this room, and there’s no knowing where Alice may take her, she will see this picture and recognize it at once, and wonder where I found it and possibly recognize me as the stranger who talked with her in the graveyard. It is better out of sight,” he said, as he took the drawing from the wall and laid it away in the drawer where the lock of golden hair was, and the faded bouquet which the “wretch of a Jim Bartlett” once had the credit of stealing. And all this time the man trod softly, as if fearful of being heard and called for, and he looked often toward the door which opened into the adjoining room. But everything was still; the Burden was sleeping at last, lulled into quiet by the sweet music of “Allie’s” voice and the touch of “Allie’s” hands.

Having put the picture away, Mr. Grey made himself ready for dinner, and then going down to the parlor, he stood before the grate, waiting for his daughter and Miss Lennox. The door was open into the hall, and he saw them as they came, with their arms interlaced, and Magdalen’s head bent towards Alice, who was smiling up at her.

“Strong friendship at once,” he thought, feeling for a moment vexed that his high-bred daughter, should so soon have fallen in love with her hired companion.

But this emotion of pride passed away forever with Mr. Grey’s first full inspection of Magdalen Lennox, whose brilliant beauty startled and surprised him, and whose bright, restless eyes confounded and bewildered him, carrying him back to the Schodick hills, and the orchard where the apple blossoms were growing. But not there could he find the solution of the strange feeling which swept over him and kept him silent, even after Alice had introduced her friend.

“Miss Lennox, father,” Alice said, a second time, and then he came to himself, and said, “Excuse me, Miss Lennox, something about you, as you came in, sent me off into the fields of memory, in quest of some one who must have been like you. You are very welcome to Beechwood, and I am glad to see you here.”

With a courtly grace he offered her his arm, and led her to the dining-room, followed by Alice and his sister, both of whom were delighted to see him take so kindly to a stranger.

To Mrs. Seymour it showed an acknowledgment on his part of her good taste and judgment in selecting so fitting a person for Alice’s companion, and a willingness to follow her advice, and make the best of it, even if Miss Lennox was connected with the Irvings. She knew something of Jessie’s story. She saw her once in Schodick, and she had done what she could to separate her brother from her, but she did not know of the tragic ending, and she gave no thought to the poor, drowned woman, who, all through the formal dinner, was so constantly in Magdalen’s mind. She had at once identified Mr. Grey with the stranger in Belvidere, though he seemed older than she had thought him then. Still, there was no mistaking him, and when his sister casually addressed him as “Arthur,” it came over her, with a great shock, that this man was none other than the “Arthur Grey” who had been poor Jessie’s ruin, and whom Roger hated so cordially. There could be no mistake; she was positive that she was right in her conclusions, and felt for a moment as if she were smothering. What strange fatality was it which had brought her into the very household of the man she had hated, for Roger’s sake, and longed to see that she might tell him so. She had seen him, at last! he was there, at her side, speaking to her so kindly, and making her feel so much at home, that she could not hate him, and before dinner was over she had ceased to wonder at Jessie’s infatuation, or to blame her for listening to him. He was very polite to her, but seemed to be studying her face as intently as Alice had done at first, and once, when she poised her head upon one side, while her eyes flashed suddenly upon him, and then were quickly withdrawn, the blood came rushing to his face and crept up under his hair, for he knew now of whom that motion reminded him. He had thought it so charming once, and the eyes which shone upon him as Magdalen’s did had been so beautiful, and soft, and liquid, and given no sign of the fierce wildness with which they had many a time glared on him since.

“It is only a resemblance, but I would rather it did not exist,” he thought, as he met that look again, and shivered as if he was cold.

Dinner being over they returned to the parlor, where, at Alice’s request, Magdalen seated herself at the piano. Her homesickness was passing away, and she no longer felt that a nightmare was oppressing her, but rather that she should find at Beechwood peace and quiet and a home, and she sang with her whole soul, and did not hear the sound outside, which caught Alice’s attention so quickly, and took her from the room. She knew, however, when Alice went out, and a moment after was conscious of some confusion by the door, and heard Alice’s voice, first in expostulation and entreaty, then calling hurriedly for her father to come. Then Mr. Grey went out, and Mrs. Seymour was left alone with Magdalen, who finished her song and left the piano, wondering what it was which had taken both Mr. Grey and Alice so suddenly from the room, and kept them away for half an hour or more. Indeed, Mr. Grey did not return at all, and when, at last, Alice came back, she was very white, and said something to her aunt, which sounded like, “It was the music, which affected her, I think.”

Was there a mystery at Beechwood, Magdalen thought; a something hidden from view, and was it this which made Alice look so sad even while she tried to smile, and appear gay and cheerful, by way of entertaining her new friend?

They had the parlor to themselves ere long, for Mrs. Seymour went out, and then Alice took her seat on the couch, where Magdalen was sitting, and nestled close to her, as a child nestles to its mother when it is tired and wants to be soothed.

Passing her arm around the slender waist, Magdalen drew the curly head down on her bosom, and gently smoothed the chestnut hair, and passed her hand caressingly across the forehead, where the blue veins showed so plainly.

Magdalen was not given to sudden friendships, and she could not account for the love and tenderness she felt growing so fast within her for this young girl, who lay encircled in her arms, and who she knew at last was crying, for she felt the hot tears dropping on her hand. She could not offer sympathy in words, for she did not know what to say, but she stooped and kissed the flushed cheek wet with tears. Alice understood her, and the silent crying became a low, piteous sobbing, which told how keenly her heart was wrung.

“Pray excuse me, for giving way so foolishly,” Alice said at last, as she lifted up her head. “I was ill so long in Europe, and the voyage home was rough and stormy, and I kept my berth the entire two weeks we were out at sea, so that by the time New York was reached I could not stand alone. I am better now; home scenes and mountain air have done me good, but—but—oh, Miss Lennox, I cannot tell you now of the shadow which has cast a gloom over my whole life. Why, I have seen the time when my beautiful home had scarcely a charm for me, and in my wickedness I accused God of dealing too harshly with me. But He has been so good to me, who do not deserve kindness from Him. When I knew you were coming I went away among the hills and prayed that I might like you,—that your presence would do me good,—and I am certain the prayer was answered. I do like you. I feel a firm conviction that in some way you are destined to do us all an untold good. You do not seem like a stranger, but rather like a familiar friend, or I should not be talking to you as I am. Have you sisters, Miss Lennox?”

The moment which Magdalen dreaded had come, when she was to be questioned by Alice with regard to her family, and she resolved to be perfectly frank, and keep nothing back which it was proper for her to tell.

“I have no sisters that I am aware of,” she said. “I was adopted, when a little baby, by Mr. Roger Irving, who lived at Millbank, and was himself a boy then. The circumstances of my adoption were very peculiar, and such as precluded the possibility of my knowing anything of my family friends, if I had any. I have never known a sister’s love or a brother’s, or a father’s or mother’s, though I have been as kindly and tenderly cared for as if I had been the petted child of fond parents, and only an adverse turn in the wheel of fortune sent me from the home I loved so much.”

She paused here, and Alice rejoined, “Mr. Irving? Millbank? Why, both are familiar names to me, and have been since I was a little girl at school in New Haven and knew Mr. Franklin Irving. And you,—why, yes,—” and Alice’s manner grew more and more excited, “you are the very Magdalen Frank used to tell me about and of whom I was sometimes jealous. You know Frank,” she continued, misconstruing the expression of Magdalen’s face.

“Yes, I know Frank,” Magdalen replied, “and I, too, have heard a great deal of you, and was jealous of you at one time, I believe.”

“You had no cause,” Alice replied, thinking of the “Piccola Sentinella,” rather than of New Haven; “I liked Mr. Irving very much as a boy, and when we met him abroad I was very glad to see him and rather encouraged his visits than otherwise, but father disliked him thoroughly, or seemed to, and treated him so cavalierly that I wondered he could come to us at all. But he did, and then father took me away, and I saw Mr. Irving no more till he called upon me in New York. I was sick then and did not go out, but I heard of a Miss Lennox who was with the Irvings and said to be very beautiful, and that was you.”

“I was with the Irvings,” Magdalen replied, and Alice continued: “I fancied, then, that Mr. Irving would eventually marry you and speculated a good deal upon the matter. It seems so funny that you are here! I do not understand it at all, or why you should leave Millbank. Mr. Frank Irving is the heir now, is he not?”

Magdalen hesitated a moment, and then thinking it better to do so, told briefly of her life at Millbank until that luckless day when she discovered the will.

“After that Roger went to Schodick,” she said, “and I—I might have stayed there, but I did not like Mrs. Irving’s manner towards me when she became the mistress, and I could not be dependent upon Frank, and so I came away.”

Alice knew that Magdalen was withholding something from her, and with a woman’s wit guessed that it concerned Frank; but she would not question her, and turned the conversation into another channel, and talked of the books she had read and the authors she liked best.

It was comparatively early when Magdalen went up to her room, a door of which communicated with Alice’s. This the latter desired should stand open.

“I like to feel that some one is near me when I wake in the night, as I often do,” Alice said, and then she added, “I shall be obliged to leave you for a time, but do you go straight to bed. I know you must be tired. I shall come in so softly that you will not hear me. Good-night.”

She kissed Magdalen and then went from the room and down the hall toward the door, which Magdalen had heard open and shut so many times. Magdalen was very tired, and was soon sleeping so soundly that she did not hear Alice when she came back, but she dreamed there were angels with her clad in white, and with a start she woke to find the moonlight streaming into her chamber, and making it so light that she could see distinctly the young girl in the adjoining room was kneeling by the bed, her hands clasped together and her upturned face bathed in the silvery light, which made it like the face of an angel. She was praying softly, and in the deep stillness of the night every whisper was audible to Magdalen, who heard her asking Heaven for strength to bear the burden patiently, and never to get tired and weary and wish it somewhere else. Then the nature of the prayer changed, and Magdalen knew that Alice was thanking Heaven for sending her to Beechwood. “And if anywhere in the world there are still living the friends she has never known, oh, Father, let her find them, especially her mother,—it is so terrible to have no mother.”

That was what Alice said, and Magdalen’s tears fell like rain to hear this young girl pleading for her as she had never pleaded for herself. She had prayed, it is true. She always prayed both morning and at night, but they were mere formal prayers, and not at all like Alice’s. Hers were earnest, hers were heartfelt, and Magdalen knew that she was speaking to a real, living presence; that the Saviour to whom she talked was there with her in the moonlit room as really as if she saw him bodily. Alice’s was a living faith, which brought Heaven down to her side, and Magdalen felt that there were indeed angels abiding round about her, and that Alice was one of them.