The breach of trust

CHAPTER XVI.

A DISCOVERY.

"IT is not wrong, Helen," remarked Mr. Knowles, "to hate injustice, oppression, and crime, wherever you see them, but you must try to forgive your enemies, whoever they are. Mr. Tracy, in his letter, speaks of you with great tenderness. Indeed, he seemed desirous of making up to you the loss you have met with by the sudden fall in the value of some of your stocks, by the fortune he should settle on you is the wife of his only son."

"I wont touch a cent of his property," sobbed the excited girl. "I never will see Roswell if I can help it. But Mr. Knowles, what if I can't help it? If you know Mr. Tracy as I do, you wouldn't wonder that I'm afraid. I've heard him boast, time and again, that he never gives up any purpose. He hangs to it till he has accomplished it. There is only one thing that would stop him, and that is if I were married to another man."

Helen glanced timidly in her companion's face as she said this, and her heart grew warm as he answered gently:

"That's so, child! That's so!"

"Would it be wicked for me to tell you some things I know about him?" she asked, eagerly. "Things I heard him tell himself, laughing and joking meanwhile."

"I don't know that it would be wicked."

"He had a party of gentlemen one night. They sat down to dinner at seven, and afterwards they drank a great deal of liquor. When we went back to the parlor, the company were all in gay spirits, and began to talk over their youthful pranks, as they called them. I wanted to retire, but Mrs. Tracy, and the wife of one of the visitors bogged me to stay. They said our presence was a restraint on the men. I wont call them gentlemen. I never shall forget the disgust, the loathing I had of my guardian, after that.

"Why, Mr. Knowles, he confessed that all the while he was pretending in papa's presence to be religious, while he went regularly to church, and discussed religious subjects because he saw it fell in with the weakness of his 'boss,' as he called papa, he was acting exactly contrary to his wishes.

"Several nights every week, after the store had been locked, a company of boon companions met there, and carefully securing the shutters to exclude every ray of light, gambled until the small hours. Sometimes the debating club met there, and caroused till morning.

"One of the company asked how he obtained possession of the keys; and he shouted with mirth as he answered:

"'Oh, it was the easiest thing in the world to humbug the boss! He had such an exalted opinion of me that he would have suspected any of the clerks sooner. When I told him that I wanted to balance my accounts for the month, and would like the store key, he gave it out at once. Sometimes I hinted that my boarding house was so noisy, I couldn't meditate and pray as I wished. On these occasions, he would offer me the key with tears in his eyes.'

"This confession was received with repeated shouts of laughter, while I, mortified beyond measure at finding myself in such company, could only wish that my papa would appear bodily and accuse Mr. Tracy of his perfidy."

"I am very sorry to hear this," said Mr. Knowles, "sorry for many reasons."

"I might possibly have concluded that these confessions were the result of the liquor," continued Helen, "but unfortunately I heard other confessions equally disgraceful. And then Mr. Tracy often boasts that he can drink any amount without showing the effects.

"You know, perhaps, that he has another ward, a young man who has gone into business with Roswell. I have listened with dreadful heart-burnings to the fatherly advice given the young partners, advice which, if followed, without the skill in evading law he himself possesses, would lead them to prison."

"That is a grave charge, Helen."

"Please listen. I am not exaggerating in one particular.

"You know that he used to import coffee, tea and liquors of various sorts. He instructed them in watering their liquors, boasting, with a laugh, that he had watered many a hogshead of New England rum or many a pipe of brandy, while in the employ of Mr. Edmond, and then pocketed the money the extra liquor brought."

Mr. Knowles groaned.

"Do you wonder now that I have no respect for the man? Is it strange I could not endure to live under his roof? Do you think I would connect myself with him by marrying his son?"

"When do you expect your brother, Helen. I wish to see him as soon as may be."

"Not until Christmas, unless something unusual occurs."

The clergyman seemed to be absorbed in thought, but as they drew near their destination, said suddenly:

"I must write him to meet me in the city."

The family who needed the pastor's services consisted of a widow and four children. The oldest boy had found for himself a situation in a store, but the others were dependent on their mother.

When Mr. Knowles and Helen knocked at the door of a neat one-story house, they were shown into a small parlor plainly furnished, but bearing the marks of taste and refinement.

Presently Mrs. Russel, the widow, entered, and apologized for having taken the liberty to summon the clergyman by saying:

"I heard from my neighbors that you were a friend to the poor and afflicted; and I am in great trouble."

She then went on to state that while her husband lived, though not rich, she didn't know the meaning of the word poverty. When he died, it was her great desire, the one she insisted on when her relatives urged her to break up, to keep her family together, certainly until her children's characters were more formed than at present. She had a rich brother in the city, she said, who urged her to give away her two youngest, put the others out at service, and find a place for herself as housekeeper.

"Abominable!" exclaimed Helen, greatly excited by the simple story.

"I wrote him I was willing to work hard, to deny myself of every luxury, even to live on two meals a day, but I could not consent to throw a mother's holy duties upon another."

"You did right," said the young listener.

"At last after many changes, I heard of this place, and with the advice of a younger unmarried sister who has been like an angel of mercy to me, I made the move with the idea of taking table—boarders from the factory. There are four overseers who have already engaged to come, and they promise to bring me as many others as I want. But last week, just as my hopes were raised to the utmost, my landlord decided to sell this house, and move to one of the Western States. In consequence of my disappointment, he offers to sell it to me for one thousand dollars, one half of which can lie at interest for a year or two.

"After consulting my neighbors here, and finding that without doubt property would rise, I went at once to the city, though I could poorly afford the expense, to plead with my rich brother to buy the house for me and let me pay him by instalments. This would have been a safe speculation for him, and have given me perfect relief. But he would not advance one dollar, though I told him that our sister was willing to risk one hundred dollars which she had earned as school teacher. He said he could speculate with his money more to his advantage than buying country houses."

Mrs. Russel wept as she added: "I remember the time, and I reminded him of it, when but for the kindness of a good Christian gentleman, he would have starved while trying to procure work."

"And did not that recollection soften him?" inquired Mr. Knowles.

"He made no reply, sir, except that he had plenty of use for his money, that his taxes and church subscriptions were enough to ruin any man. And, to prove what he said, he brought me a newspaper wherein a large subscription had been noticed. I think I have the paper now."

She opened a drawer in the worktable and took thence a copy of the — Journal, which, with flushed cheeks, she unfolded, and gave to the clergyman, placing her finger on the paragraph.

While he was deliberately putting on his glasses, Helen seized it, and with a scream of astonishment read aloud:

   "We are gratified to notice among the liberal contributors to the new orphan asylum, the name of one of our princely merchants, MONSON P. TRACY. This noble and large-hearted gentleman has added one thousand dollars to the sum already raised. A few more similar donations, and the entire amount will be made up."

"Shameful! I wish everybody knew that he refused to help his own sister to a shelter for herself and children. Mr. Knowles, is it wicked for me to hate such a man?"

"Hush, my child, let charity have its perfect work. The building of an asylum for orphans is a noble undertaking. Don't let us impugn his motives."

Helen turned away from him with a look of disgust. "Your brother is my guardian," she exclaimed; "and my father is the gentleman who gave him employment. I am quite prepared to believe your story, having lived with him for a year. And I am acquainted with some of the methods by which he tries to cheat his fellow-men into a belief of his goodness. I am thankful that he cannot cheat his Maker."

As she said this, there was a flash of defiance in her eye which her pastor had not seen there for months.

"Helen," he urged mildly but with a glance of reproof, "we will not pursue that subject any farther. Our business is to advise our friend what course to take."

"How long, Mrs. Russel, will your landlord continue his offer?"

"Only one month, and a week of that has gone."

"I will write to Mr. Tracy to-night that I want five hundred dollars to help a poor woman," exclaimed Helen.

"Oh, Miss! The Lord will reward you, I never can," answered the widow with a burst of grateful tears.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE DELICATE TITBIT.

THE very next mail carried a note to the city to the effect proposed; and the writer awaited an answer with great impatience.

It came at length, and was, as Mrs. Knowles had feared, a refusal. The words were these:

   "MY DEAR HELEN: When at your father's request, I undertook the charge of your fortune, I determined so to fulfil the trust that I might have nothing to regret on my dying bed. So far I have been enabled to do what I believe your father would approve.

   "I am sorry to refuse you the means of carrying out the generous purpose you have formed, but the loss you and your brother have lately met with, though small in comparison with your entire fortune, would make it impossible for ma to send you so large a sum as five hundred dollars without a great sacrifice on the stocks.

   "I trust you received your usual remittance for the quarter, which I forwarded just before your note came to hand, but for which I have not yet obtained a receipt.

   "Knowing your interest in the great philanthropic enterprises of the day, I take pleasure in sending you by this mail a copy of my speech at the meeting of donors. It has been highly applauded by my partial friends, and I may say by the public in general. Probably your clergyman and others may like to read it.

"Your friend and guardian,

"MONSON P. TRACY."

In the first excitement of reading the letter, Helen threw the newspaper accompanying it to the farther corner of the room, where it lay unheeded until Nannie the next morning was sweeping the carpet. Then she picked it up, and laid it carefully among the magazines on the marble-topped table.

As I may not have occasion again to revert to the family of Mrs. Russel, I will here say, that having learned from Mr. Knowles that Miss Edmond's guardian refused to give her the money asked for, she was obliged to relinquish the house. She moved to a town at a distance, Helen expressing her kind wishes by enclosing to her a twenty-dollar bill from her quarterly allowance.

But to go back from this digression. On their return from Mottville, Mr. Knowles carefully avoided all mention of Mr. Tracy. And though Helen tried to ascertain what had caused Sybil's strange conduct, he ingeniously turned the conversation in another direction.

He drove to Woodbine Cottage, and left her with a caress unusually tender, replying to her earnestly expressed wish that everybody, referring to her guardian, would let her alone, and not be writing letters to disturb her happiness, with the inspired words:

   "'Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee.'"

"Thank you," she answered, the tears springing to her eyes. "Please come to dinner as early as you can."

There was still an hour or two before she could expect them, as the morning was not more than half gone. But she had only returned to the parlor after making her toilet for the day, and selected the sheet of music she intended to practise, before she heard a manly step crackling on the gravel walk before the house.

At any time previous to her recent escape, she would have run to the door and herself admitted the visitor. But now, disregarding the quick snap of the bell-wire, she waited with all the calmness she could summon, the entrance of Frederic, for she was sure it was he.

Before she had decided in what manner to receive him, he had taken her hand, and led her to the sofa, where, with some embarrassment of manner, he seated himself beside her.

An hour or two later, when Mr. Knowles arrived, accompanied by his wife and Sybil, the young clergyman led the blushing girl to his parents, to ask their blessing on the engagement of marriage just formed between them.

Laying his hand on her head, the silver-haired pastor repeated the sacred words:

   "'The Lord bless thee and keep thee: the Lord make his face shine upon thee, . . . the Lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace.'"

His wife caught Helen to her breast, and whispered in her ear: "God has answered my prayer for my son. A good wife is a present from the Lord."

Sybil at first stood up erect and stiff. Her favorite brother had never confided to her his intentions, and she was taken by surprise, which she especially abhorred. But one timid glance from the young fiancée's appealing eyes, and her stiffness vanished.

She seized Helen so warmly, that she almost lifted her from the floor, bestowing kiss after kiss on her glowing cheeks, and then said in a loud voice:

"It sha'n't be my fault, Helen Edmond, if you're not the happiest wife in the State."

At this moment, nurse summoned them to dinner. And Helen, appreciating the faithful affection of the good woman, went toward her and asked timidly:

"Have you no congratulations for me? I have promised to be Mr. Frederic's wife."

"I knew it, dear; I was sure of it."

"How could you know it, Mrs. Johnson?" inquired Sybil, with some spirit. "Only yesterday my brother was packed for a long journey, and it was doubtful whether he ever saw Helen Edmond again."

Nurse shook her head sagely. "I had reasons, good reasons," she repeated, glancing tenderly in the face of her young mistress. "I'm glad for you; and Mr. Frederic has reason to thank God."

"Indeed I have," warmly echoed the young man.

After dinner, Frederic proposed a walk to the arbor. And then he explained to his lady-love the grief, the horror he felt, when, on the very night of the accident, his father made known to him the contents of Mr. Tracy's letter. He resolved at once to accept a call to a parish in a distant State, and nothing but her assurance in her note, that till the day of her death she should be grateful to him, had prevented his abrupt departure.

"I confess I was too hasty, too impulsive," he urged. "But I then resolved to postpone my journey for a few days, and see you once more.

"On his return from Mottville, father informed me that you ignored any affection for Roswell Tracy. And I lost not a moment in coming to you to learn my fate."

The first of the following week, Mr. Knowles started for the city, where, at the rooms of an eminent attorney, Frank Edmond had engaged to meet him. While he was away, the answer came to Helen's application for five hundred dollars, to which allusion has already been made, and likewise the paper containing Mr. Tracy's speech.

One morning when Roswell was present, she tore off the envelope, and in a pompous tone read aloud:

"ORPHAN ASYLUM."

   "At a meeting of the donors of the new Orphan Asylum, Monson P. Tracy presided with his usual dignity and grace. A large number of the fair sex were present on this interesting occasion, to listen to the speech which they had learned might be expected from Mr. Tracy, in regard to the objects of the institution. The loud and continued applause of the audience, which frequently interrupted the speaker gave ample proof of their appreciation of his sentiments. We give it to our readers as taken by reporters present. We understand it is to be issued in pamphlet form, and can be obtained from any of our bookstores."

"Then follows the speech," cried Helen, laughing merrily.

"Let us have it," urged Frederic.

But the young girl, after a glance down the column, threw away the paper in disgust, exclaiming:

"I can say it by heart. It is not original with him. I helped him make some of those very selections, and pasted them into his scrap book. Oh dear! How little I thought then that I should feel toward him as I do now.

"When I first went to reside in his family, he fancied I had literary tastes, as he termed them, beyond my years, and used to honor me with a first reading of his speeches. Then it came to be my habit to read him the newspapers, and various pamphlets arriving by every mail. Whenever we noticed any pretty sentiment, or well-timed expression, the scissors were brought into immediate requisition; and the paragraph forthwith became a part of the huge scrap book. It was easy to write an elegant address by making free use of another's thoughts.

"Now, Frederic, if you ever want to court public favor, I can introduce you into all the nice intricacies of the business. I have been behind the scenes, and know just what is to be done. In the first place, you must propitiate the press. The press is a great institution to a man who wants to rise, and the editors, owners and reporters must be fêted and feasted no matter at what cost. Then if you want a delicately worded notice of your speech, etc., etc., you have only to prepare the titbit in the privacy of your own apartment, and the editors will adopt it as their own. Straightway it will appear at the head of a column with your name in capitals to attract attention."

"And multitudes who read the article will swallow the sugared flattery without suspicion," added Frederic laughing. "But, Helen, you don't mean to assert that Mr. Tracy adopts such disgusting measures to advance his popularity?"

"I have the testimony of his own son to that effect," was her serious reply. "And I once had the honor of being invited to write a puff to head his speech before the — Convention. I was young at the time, and innocent," she added with a roguish glance at her lover. "I considered the request as mere fun; and I copied this piece of bombast I had once committed to memory:

   "'If ever a feather be plucked from the wing of an American eagle, may it be to write the names of Washington and Tracy with indelible ink upon a substance which never shall perish when the pillars of the earth crumble to dust.'"

"What was the result?" inquired the young clergyman, looking intensely amused.

"The result was that the pill, to my perfect horror, was swallowed whole.

"'You really have a knack at such business,' Mr. Tracy said, his eyes sparkling. 'This will do admirably, though perhaps it is a little too flattering.'

"I seized the paper and tore it in pieces, at which act of rudeness, my guardian was greatly displeased."

CHAPTER XVIII.

MR. TRACY'S SANCTUM.

I BELIEVE I have already informed the reader, that Mr. Tracy was counted among the merchant princes of the great city where he lived. He resided in a handsome house on one of the fashionable streets; kept his carriage and fancy matched horses, and his whole equipage and appearance were calculated to do honor to his high rank in life.

At the end of the wide hall, upon which the front door opened, there was an apartment sacred to the use of the head of the family. Indeed, he always designated it as his sanctum. The walls on one side of this small room were lined with hook cases filled with volumes on his favorite subjects. The under part of these cases, with the exception of a space devoted to scrap-books, was crowded with newspapers containing his speeches or those in which speeches had been favorably noticed, or papers from which scraps were to be cut for the formation of other speeches.

In the centre of the opposite side of the room stood a high and rather old-fashioned secretary, with mahogany doors. Opening these, the curious could see a number of rows of what are technically termed pigeon-holes, filled with neatly filed papers.

Underneath was a wide shelf containing a few law books, conspicuous among which was a volume of "Revised—statutes," and under the shelf, three small drawers. When the doors of the secretary were shut, all these appurtenances were hidden from view. They were always shut and locked when Mr. Tracy was not seated in his arm-chair opposite, for the secretary was a sacred deposit. And, old-fashioned as it looked, the pigeon-holes and small drawers held papers for which brokers would readily have given their hundreds of thousands.

The room contained nothing else of note except a handsomely executed bust of Mr. Tracy and an oil painting of the same man.

It is Monday morning, and Monson P. Tracy sits in his leather-bottomed arm-chair drawn up before his desk. The well-varnished doors however remain closely shut, and the gentleman has both his elbows on the desk, his head supported by his hands.

When he starts back at a noise from without, an observer, if there were one, would see that his face was unusually pale, and the well-cut features contracted as if with pain. The disease, however, is mental, and must be endured, since he has no idea of confiding in a medical adviser.

It may be that the services of the Sabbath were too much for him. He had caused no little surprise to the congregation by appearing in his slip, both in the morning and afternoon, beside remaining to partake of the sacrament of the Lord's supper.

This last was always a trying occasion to him, some texts of Scripture introducing themselves into his mind, and refusing to be shut out, as it was easy to do at other times.

But yesterday the minister's text was extremely unfortunate for him. Mr. Tracy really thought he should be obliged to remove to the Stone Church and place himself under the spiritual guidance of a more liberal preacher. The text was this,—

   "Whoso 'eateth and drinketh unworthily, eateth and drinketh damnation to himself, not discerning the Lord's body.'"

But at length the Sabbath was over, and M. P. Tracy had bottled up his religion and corked it well for another week. Not that he considered it in danger of exploding; there was not enough vitality in it for that. But he had work to do, and his religious profession was sadly in his way.

So there he sat propping his head with his hands, trying to drive away or frighten off or in any manner get rid of certain passages he had read in an old-fashioned volume:

   "'Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world.'"

   "'Ye shall not afflict any widow, or fatherless child. If thou afflict them in any wise, and they cry at all unto me, I will surely hear their cry; and my wrath shall wax hot, and I will kill you with the sword; and your wives shall be widows, and your children fatherless.'"

After half an hour, he rose to convince himself that the door leading into his sanctum was securely locked, and returned to his seat again. But this time, he seized a pen, and began a rapid calculation in figures.

"Ten thousand clear gain," he soliloquized, "and nothing done that the law can touch. That's what I call a neat stroke. Wouldn't I like to see another lead mine agent as clear headed as Myers. Ten thousand gain on my book, and not one dollar out. Didn't I pull the wool over my ward's eyes? Let me see, I drew ten thousand out of his city stocks, and invested it in shares, on condition with Myers that I should have an equal amount gratis. In my character as guardian, I conclude to sell Frank and Helen my shares, and out comes another ten thousand to pay for them. All fair, honorable and aboveboard! But about this parson who was to have been my successor according to my old employer's will. I'd no idea he would make such a row about my proposal in behalf of Roswell. What shall I say to him?"

He took a letter from his breast-pocket and read with considerable irritation a request from Mr. Knowles to meet him on Tuesday afternoon at three o'clock at the office of S. R. Miles, attorney at law, in reference to the property of Francis and Helen Edmond.

"I'll plead excess of business and decline meeting him," he exclaimed, knitting his brows. "I'll suffer no interference. But will not my refusal court farther inquiry? Frank, who is now of age, will apply to the court for liberty to remove his property from my hands? Sometimes I wish Mr. Edmond had never named me as executor. I did humbug the old man to be sure," and an unpleasant smile passed over his features.

Another silence, the frown on his forehead growing sterner every moment. At length, he burst out:

"What a piece of folly I've been guilty of! I can see it plainly now. Helen has the spirit of —; well I wont call hard names.

"It's that letter I wrote the parson that has roused her. Ha! Ha! Ha! Wouldn't she rave if she knew exactly what a charming piece of morality I had selected for her? Roswell must reform or he'll go to the dogs. I wrote that just to gratify my spite in return for her officious interference concerning Sarah Barrows. Such revenge doesn't pay, as I ought to have known. But now what is to be done?"

Suddenly he started, clapping his hands on his knees.

"I have it," he exclaimed. "I'll do it. At any rate it will give me time."

Drawing the key of the secretary from his pocket, he proceeded to take from the book shelf a large bound volume, running his finger down one and another of the columns of figures, his countenance relaxing visibly.

"Yes, that will do," he murmured with a sigh of relief; "that will do, and it will give me time."

He pulled open a large drawer in the lower part of the secretary and taking from thence a sheet ruled with red ink, he proceeded to make out a list of securities, bank and city stock, mortgages on real estate, etc., etc., to be exhibited to Frank Edmond and his legal advisers.

This work occupied him till three o'clock in the afternoon, but he arose from it satisfied that it would do the business for which it was intended, and that for the present he was safe.

The dinner-bell rang while he was returning the folio volume to the shelf, and with a self-satisfied smile, he said to himself: "All looks fair and above board except the sale of that land for half its value. I must trust to my usual good luck to explain that somehow. 'Twouldn't do to let them guess that I received a good fat bonus for consenting to the sale, and that the bonus went into my own pocket."

It was an immense relief to Mrs. Tracy when she saw her husband emerge from his sanctum, with a smile taking the place of the scowl she had so much reason to dread. At twelve o'clock she had knocked at his door with a plate of sandwiches and a glass of brandy. But in return for her wifely attentions, she had only received a rudely expressed request that she would attend to her own business, and leave him alone.

Lifting the cover from an immense platter before him, the gentleman condescended a flattering remark upon the juicy roasting joint. Then replacing the cover, he repeated the form of words he used as grace, and then proceeded with alacrity to carve several nice cuts which he laid gently on his own plate.

The duty of attendance on number one being complied with, he sent his plate round to his wife to be supplied with potatoes, turnip, squash and macaroni, at the same time asking:

"Will you have it rare, Roswell?"

The young man, looking extremely pain and haggard, with blood-shot eyes and trembling hands, replied that he liked it very rare.

Mrs. Tracy having passed her plate for some meat, the conversation flagged. Roswell, however, was soon satisfied, and pushing back from the table complained of a tearing headache.

"You confine yourself too closely to business," anxiously remarked his mother. "You ought to take some recreation."

A loud laugh from Monson P. and a silly chuckle from the son were the mother's only answers.

"I don't see anything to laugh at," she exclaimed with more than usual spirit. "I can see that Roswell is running down; and I'm sure he needs more air."

"You had better not talk about what you don't understand," said her husband with a sly wink at his son.

But presently, some emotion of fatherly interest prompted him to add:

"Roswell certainly isn't looking strong. And if he doesn't take care, his life wont be a long one."

After a dessert of plum pudding and coffee, they arose from table, and Mrs. Tracy seized the favorable opportunity to state the fact that she needed money.

"Money, it is always money," he began but suddenly checking himself, to her surprise and delight, her husband opened his portemonnaie, and put a roll of bank notes into her hand.

CHAPTER XIX.

MORRISVILLE.

IN a village seventy miles from Maytown, the old-fashioned stage coach drew up, just about sunset, at the gate of a stone house. The driver jumped from the box, let down the steps with a clang, and held out his hand to assist his lady passenger to alight.

"This be the house, Miss, follow the path round to the south door. This one,—" pointing to a front entrance, shaded by a portico with heavy coping, and woodbine stripped of its leaves flickering to and fro in the breeze,—"this one is locked most-times."

"Thank you," answered a pleasant, girlish voice, which we recognize as that of our friend Helen Edmond. "Will you bring my trunk in?"

"Sartin, Miss."

"Here's your pay, driver. I think this part of the country is beautiful."

He was busy unstrapping the trunk, and only stopped to take the bank bill in his teeth, while she, following his direction, walked slowly around the house to a pretty porch on the south side.

There on the ample platform lay an immense dog of the St. Bernard breed, who, after regarding her with half-shut eyes, lifted his huge form and lazily approached her.

"Good fellow," exclaimed Helen. "You and I must be friends." She laughingly held out her hand.

And to seal the compact, he licked it, as if she were an old acquaintance.

A woman at this moment answered her ring, and ushered the traveller into a cosey sitting-room, with pots of house plants filling the south windows, and giving the apartment that "heartsome" appearance so thoroughly appreciated by a stranger.

"Yer aunt's expecting of yer, Miss," the woman remarked. "I'll show yer her chamber, whenever yer ready. I s'pose yer tired and hungry."

"Not much of either," laughingly answered Helen, throwing off her hat and cloak. "It looks very pleasant, here."

"Yer aunt 'll be pleased to hear yer say so, Miss."

Leading the way to the front hall and up the handsome staircase:

"This is the room; and I'll have some supper ready when yer come down."

The chamber windows opened to the west, and the reflection from the gorgeously tinted sky filled the room.

In the centre of the apartment, with her eyes fixed on the glorious scene, sat an elderly lady, arrayed in a silk dressing-gown and frilled cap. She held out her hand with a welcoming smile, and then drawing down the sweet, fresh face, imprinted a loving kiss on Helen's cheek.

"You make me feel young," said the old lady, after a long gaze into Helen's eyes. "You are very like your mother."

"I'm glad to hear you say so. Did you know her very well? And will you tell me a great deal about her?"

"I answer yes to both your questions. I hope you have come to stay a long time with me."

"Yes, aunt, a month if you wish it."

The old lady smiled in a knowing way, but then added:

"You must be very weary after your long ride. Go down and eat your supper, but don't be away too long. I am growing selfish at once, you see."

Helen soon reappeared, and gave her mother's aunt an account of her journey, half of which she had come alone, her life in Maytown, her studies, her letters from Frank, and the pleasure she anticipated in her new sister, Constance.

"I wish Frank could have come with you. I don't like this way of young girls travelling alone," said Aunt Martha.

"Since Frank's engagement, I am getting quite used to doing without his attentions," urged Helen, laughing. "Besides, I only came alone from S—, that is less than half way."

"Who was your companion, dear?"

"Mr. Knowles, a clergyman from Maytown."

"Ah! I think I have heard of him, a man near my own age."

"That is the father to Mr. Frederic. A kind old gentleman, and I love him dearly."

Mrs. Prescott apparently did not notice the blush which accompanied these words. She only patted the delicate fingers lying in her own, and said:

"I am glad you have an affectionate heart. I think you and I shall understand each other."

By this time the evening was quite advanced, and Betsey, the woman who had admitted Helen, came in to make arrangements for the night.

The room was very large, and contained a good deal of heavy, old-fashioned furniture. There was an immense high post bedstead, with curtains of printed linen and beyond that a narrow bed. There were two bureaus, with claw feet and carved handles, a large table, and a small work table, each in the same style, and half-a-dozen chairs of various shapes, but all with elaborately worked bottoms.

On the tables and bureaus there were curiously carved boxes of quaint, old-fashioned shapes, the wood as rich and dark with age as the furniture.

Exactly at nine, a bell was rung in the lower hall.

"Helen," said the old lady, "we have prayers at this hour. My eyes are dim and failing, will you read for me?"

"I shall love to," Helen answered, with such an emphasis, that both her aunt and Betsey, the long tried, faithful servant, smiled their approbation.

Presently a man and woman came up the stairs, and quietly took seats near the door. Helen then opened the Bible, to which her aunt pointed, and read the chapter which came in course.

"Your mother was a sweet singer," remarked Mrs. Prescott, when she had finished. "I suppose you can sing?"

"Yes, aunt."

"Are you too weary to sing a psalm? It is a long time since I heard one. The book is near your hand on the little table."

Selecting a simple tune, the young girl gained all hearts presently by her ready compliance, and the smile with which she said: "I shall be glad of some help."

She commenced in a low tone, but soon, inspired by the sentiment of the hymn, she forgot the novelty of her position, and the room was filled with her clear sweet notes.

From this time the singing of a hymn became part of the morning and evening service.

"Christopher has carried your trunk to your chamber, Miss," explained Betsey, lighting a candle for the young lady. "I hope you will find everything to your mind. If not, I shall be proud to make it so."

"I trust my niece will remember this is her home as long as we can persuade her to remain," remarked Mrs. Prescott, kindly. "Now good-night, dear. May your sleep be rendered sweeter by the thought that you have made your mother's friend very happy. Good-night, and may the good Father protect you."

Helen lovingly returned the old lady's kiss, and then sought her chamber, but not her bed.

Taking her portfolio from her trunk, she commenced a journal, which she had promised to send her teacher, as, in the first line, she blushingly termed him.

"How fresh and lovely you look, my dear," began her aunt, the next morning. "Shall I make you vain by telling you so?"

"I've heard a few remarks before, of that kind, in my life," Helen said, laughing merrily, "but really, this fine air is enough to make one fresh. I have been up since sunrise, and have visited every nook and corner of your farm, as Christopher calls it. I have seen the late chickens, and commenced an acquaintance with Hero. What a splendid fellow he is! And I've seen where the summer garden is, and admired the old trees, even enough to satisfy Christopher. Isn't he funny, with his little bows, and big words?"

"And do you know that this farm, house and all, will be yours by and by? It is not my gift. I have a life-lease only. Your grandfather willed it to you when you received your grandmother's name."

"I hope it will not come to me for a long, long time," was Helen's tearful reply. "I had much rather have 'you!'"

An hour or two later the young girl had brought her sewing, some delicate trifles of lady's work and was sitting by her aunt when Mrs. Prescott said:

"Now, my dear, tell me all about Mr. Frederic Knowles."

Glancing quickly at her companion, an arch smile around the old lady's mouth sent the warm blood to beautify the young girl's cheeks.

"You see, I know your secret, Helen."

"It is no secret, aunt."

And then with many blushes she nestled herself closer to the old lady and told her all that was in her little innocent heart. She told her too of the day when she found she needed an Almighty Friend, and how her Saviour had appeared to her as one altogether lovely. From this time the tie between the two was very strong.

The more Helen saw of Morrisville, the better she liked it. In her journal she gave Frederic an account of the long, wide street shaded with noble old elms—the handsome mansions which bordered it for nearly two miles, the large stone church half covered with ivy. She ended her description by saying:

"If I could move Woodbine Cottage and the parsonage and all the people that I love from Maytown to Morrisville, I should be almost too happy."

Only on the Sabbath was our young friend discontented. The clergyman who had ministered to the wants of the people for twenty years had been called to a position of greater responsibility, and the pulpit was now supplied for a few months by a younger man whose heart his hearers soon found, was not in his work. Indeed he confided to one of the Committee the fact that unless he could get a call from some wealthy church where the salary would support him in style, he should leave the pulpit for the bar.

Mrs. Prescott had for many years been a liberal supporter of religious institutions, both in her native town and elsewhere. On account of her feeble state of health, she had never heard the new preacher; but she had invited him to her house, had talked with him on subjects connected with personal religion, and had listened to his prayers. She had done more, and by her Christian frankness proved herself a tried friend. She advised him to search his own heart, and take counsel of God in reference to his motives in preaching the gospel of Christ. If he found that worldly gain, ease or luxury were inducements stronger than the desire to win souls, she asked whether it would not be better for Christ's kingdom and for his own soul that he should leave the work in which he was engaged.

CHAPTER XX.

THE ANONYMOUS GIFT.

THE next week after Helen's arrival in Morrisville, Mrs. Prescott sent Christopher to a neighbor to ask him to call upon her as soon as convenient. When the gentleman arrived, she sent Helen off for a long walk. The result of the neighbor's call may be seen in the following note, which was addressed to the Reverend Frederic Knowles, Maytown.

   "DEAR SIR: At the request of the gentleman who is engaged by the first church in Morrisville to supply our pulpit until January, I write to request you to preach on the last Sabbath in this month, it being his desire to be absent on that day. Our usual price per Sabbath is fifteen dollars.

   "If you can come, you are requested to put up at the house of Mrs. Martha Prescott on Elm Street. Please answer at your earliest convenience.

"Yours, respectfully,

"THOMAS RICE."

"I expect a friend, my dear," remarked Aunt Martha on the Saturday preceding the day in question. "Betsey has aired the room, and put it in order, but I want you to see that all is right. A tiny bouquet cut from the flowers below would prove to the guest a pleasant welcome."

Without a suspicion of the truth, Helen gladly undertook the task. She ran here and there, singing gayly through the wide halls, carrying small articles of bijouterie, to render the chamber attractive.

"I wish it were a gentleman," she exclaimed, rushing into Mrs. Prescott's chamber, "for I have found a handsome travelling-case with razors and all sorts of conveniences for the toilet. If our visitor were a gentleman, I would ask you to let me carry it there."

"Except for the shaving apparatus the dressing-case is equally suited for a lady's toilet, my dear."

"Shall I put it on the bureau then?"

"In the north parlor you will find a small ebony table, you may set the dressing-case on that."

"Yes, and my little vase in front of it," and Helen ran off, singing, to finish her pleasant work.

Saturday evening about the hour that Helen a fortnight earlier reached Morrisville, there was a ring at the front door. At the old lady's request her niece went down to receive the visitor, and to her surprise and delight found herself face to face with her preserver.

After tea Mr. Rice called upon the young clergyman, and gave him a note left by the minister who had gone from town.

In consequence of this visit Mr. Knowles was invited to return on the first Sabbath in January to preach as a candidate for settlement, which, having consulted with his father and Mrs. Prescott, he agreed to do.

Having been disappointed in their former minister, the church and parish now resolved to proceed with more caution in choosing a pastor. But after listening to Mr. Knowles' earnest representation of the way of salvation through Jesus Christ, his pleas with the unrenewed to lay down the weapons of rebellion and enlist on the side of the great Captain, they were zealous to obtain his services.

As it was Mrs. Prescott's wish that Helen's friend should for the present make her house his home, the old lady had frequent opportunities of conversation on the great doctrines of evangelical truth, and discovered in him a richness of Christian experience which greatly delighted her. She found too that he was eminently a working man, and that he had the faculty, so rare, of interesting children in his preaching.

"It's so simple," said one, "that my little boy listened spellbound."

"And yet," replied another, "it's food. I don't go away hungry, as I used to."

Mr. Knowles on the first Sabbath visited the Sunday School. And afterward he was seldom absent during some part of the exercises. He went from class to class listening to the answers, and giving a practical direction to the instructions which waked up both teachers and scholars.

"I regret more than anything in leaving Maytown," he said one evening, "our Sabbath School at Mottville. Did Helen ever tell you, Mrs. Prescott, about her starting a school, gathering the scholars and obtaining a room?"

"Never."

Frederic then gave a glowing description of the young lady's visits, already described, dilating on her talk with the hard-faced woman.

"And only think, Aunt," added the young girl laughing, "that old woman's children came after all. It was on the second Sabbath I believe. I had my class seated around me when Lizzie came in dragging a younger brother after her. The teachers were already engaged with their classes, but she did not mind this.

"She spoke in a loud voice, 'I'm going to be Miss Edmond's scholar, and so is Bobby. Ma says we sha'n't come, 'thout we can be in her class, 'cause she isn't stuck up like other rich folks.'"

"Just imagine our modest Helen receiving such praise in such a public manner," remarked Frederic, archly. "I caught a glimpse of her blushing face, and could scarcely help laughing at her too evident distress."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Helen, frankly. "I liked it because it was sincere. I was only blushing because you—you looked so comical."

Early in April, Mr. Knowles was ordained over the first church in Morrisville. After this, it will easily be believed Helen consented to remain for the present with her aunt. The new clergyman had a room and boarded at Mr. Rice's, Mrs. Prescott's nearest neighbor. The young man begged Helen to consent that their marriage should take place immediately after his ordination. But she thought herself too young and too ignorant for the responsibilities of such a station, and told him that now while he was so near, she thought it much better to defer the wedding until she was of age.

In the meantime, Frank, after the meeting with his guardian and Mr. Knowles, returned to the city, where he was prosecuting his law studies. Though there was some reason for suspicion that all was not right, regarding their property, nothing could be proved; and everything was left as before, in the hands of Mr. Tracy.

Since that time, beyond receiving her quarterly allowance, Helen had had no communication with her guardian. Through her brother, she learned that the gentleman was reputed as very rich, and speculating with his loose capital. In the same manner she heard that Roswell Tracy and young Quincy had failed in business, the ward having lost every dollar he was worth. Roswell had left his father's house, and was forbidden to return.

Pleasanter tidings came from Sarah Barrows. At the close of her school-year, she was engaged to remain as teacher in the primary department, while she continued her studies with the advanced class, and perfected herself in music. She wrote enthusiastically of her success, adding,—

   "I shall never forget that you were the one employed by my heavenly Father, to raise me from despair. If my earnest prayers for you are answered, you will have every good that He can bestow."

One pleasant event occurred soon after Mr. Knowles' settlement. A man rode to Mr. Rice's door, mounted on a noble, iron gray horse, and inquired for the parson. He delivered a note, and then observing: "There is no need of an answer," went down the steps, and walked away, leaving his horse tied to the post near the gate.

The note was brief:

   "DEAR SIR: As your parish is large, and your parishioners scattered, I have taken the liberty to send you a horse, which may lighten the labor of visiting them.

"A GRATEFUL PARISHIONER."

Before the young clergyman could bring himself to comprehend that the present was really intended for him, the messenger was out of sight. What was to be done? He turned again to the envelope, and there read, "Rev. Frederic Knowles, Morrisville."

A sudden suspicion sent him at once to Helen, when she expressed so much wonder and delight, that he was left to infer the note and the animal were as new to her as to him.

"Isn't he a splendid creature?" she asked, again and again. "So high spirited, and yet so kind. See, Frederic, how he likes me to pat his neck. I must beg a ride now and then."

"But, Helen, it is impossible for me to accept so valuable a present from an anonymous friend."

"I shouldn't call a parishioner, anonymous," she warmly urged. "Why, I love your people so well that I would accept a present from any of them; and this is exactly what you need."

"But where shall I keep him?"

"Has not Mr. Rice an empty stall?"

"No, I heard him say his stable was full."

"Wait a minute."

Helen bounded up the stairs to Mrs. Prescott's room. But instead of making any inquiries of the old lady, she sank into a chair, and covering her face, laughed till the tears trickled down her cheeks.

"He doesn't even suspect. He demurs about accepting it. Oh, it is so nice!"

"Have you told him about our stable? And that Christopher will gladly assume the care of the horse?"

"No, aunty, I asked whether Mr. Rice had not room."

"You had better invite him to come up to my chamber."

Mr. Knowles found the old lady at the front window gazing at the horse, which stood in full view.

"I am glad our people are disposed to be so thoughtful for their minister's comfort," she said, cordially. "I have been admiring the beautiful creature. Are you a judge of a horse?"

"Enough so to understand that this is an expensive animal, sound, and capable of enduring great fatigue. But," with an anxious smile, "I feel a delicacy about accepting such a present. If I thought,—" casting a sudden glance upon Helen, who stood flushed and excited behind him. He checked himself, as she calmly returned his gaze.

"Helen tells me Mr. Rice cannot accommodate the horse. And therefore, not to be behind your anonymous friend, I invite you to keep him in my barn, at my expense, on condition Christopher does not object to the care. Betsey, will you ask him to come here a moment?"

"I'll go," cried Helen, darting from the room.

"It is too much, Mrs. Prescott, after all your other kindness," murmured the young man.

Christopher, having received his instructions, entered the room, and having listened to the story of the mysterious animal, was asked to take it under his charge.

The man made sundry little bows,—after his usual fashion, and took a moment for reflection. Then he said he'd be happy to do any kindness for Miss Helen's friend. And if Mr. Knowles would assure him the horse didn't bite, he'd feed him and groom him with pleasure.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE FRENCH CHATEAU.

THE spring and early summer passed both pleasantly and profitably to Helen. She had begun her work in the parish, had her own district for visiting, and had gathered a class of seventy children, from the outskirts of the town, which she had formed into an infant Sunday School, and taught them by oral instruction.

Though under twenty years, her zeal and energy infused new life into the labors of the younger church members. By her own example, she proved what could be done toward inducing those who had long neglected public worship to frequent the house of God. She assisted in the formation of a Young Ladies' Charitable Society, and from her own purse, provided material for clothing, for many of the poor of the town.

In this Society it was her endeavor that the law of charity, as described by St. Paul, should govern the members. She proposed playfully, that every one who was guilty of speaking ill of another, should pay a fine into the treasury. In this way the tone of morals was raised, and the popularity of their pastor's wife elect was not decreased.

But in the midst of all this prosperity, sad news came to Helen. News of the decease of Miss Constance DeWolf, and afterward of her brother's failing health.

It was indeed true, that the loss had deeply affected the young lawyer. His depression of spirits brought on an attack of fever; and then a sudden cold was followed by a severe and obstinate cough, which his physician feared would seriously affect his lungs.

Helen, overpowered by the arguments of her pastor, had just consented to be married in September, when a telegram came to her from the physician, that her brother's life was in danger; and that in order to avert the threatened calamity, he must take a sea voyage, and reside for the winter, at least, in a more salubrious climate.

Before Helen showed the telegram to any one, she decided, with a burst of tears, that it was her duty to accompany her brother abroad. Many were the headaches and heartaches before she embarked with her charge on board ship, leaving so many dear ones behind her.

Mr. Knowles, feeling it to be impossible for him to leave his parish to accompany them, would not give consent to her going until he had received a letter from Sybil, that she would take the part of mother to the children of her old friend Mr. Edmond. But this arrangement, which relieved Helen of so much care, was given up at the last moment, in consequence of the sudden illness of her father. And Frederic, torn with disappointment and anxiety, was obliged to commit the travellers to the care of a gentleman who was returning to France with an invalid daughter.

It is easy to imagine, then, with what impatience the lover and aunt awaited the first intelligence from the absent ones.

First, came a hastily written note, in place of the long journal Helen had promised, just saying that sea-sickness and care of Frank had deprived her of the pleasure of writing on board ship; that the captain had shown them every kindness; and that they had concluded to accompany their new friends, Mr. and Miss LeFavor, to France, for the winter.

In a few weeks, however, a thick package, bearing a foreign postmark, came to hand, directed to the Reverend Frederic Knowles.

As it was addressed in part to Mrs. Prescott, I do not think I shall violate the rules of etiquette by copying it.

   "'VERY DEAR FRIENDS: By this time I am quite sure a letter from the wanderers will be welcome. It would be much pleasanter to sit on my low chair between you, in auntie's pleasant chamber, and talk of all I have seen and felt since I left home, but as that is impracticable at present, I must let my tongue rest while my pen performs the welcome task.

   "'The voyage to Liverpool was not so favorable to poor Frank's health as we hoped. For several days I was too sick to see him, or even to hear much from his stateroom, and his spirits, thus left to himself, suffered deplorably. Since we have reached this quiet village, the mild air and entire change of scene have benefited him greatly. We have a pleasant home just outside the churchyard, where we are so favored as to find a Protestant church and an excellent Rector. He is upward of seventy years old, but his complexion is still fresh and ruddy; while his long silver hair which waves over his collar is indeed a crown of glory.

   "'Monsieur D'Ortey and I are intimate friends. Don't laugh, Fred. Indeed it astonishes me when I find how freely I can tell him all the trouble I have in keeping this erring, wayward heart of mine in subjection. I wish you could see how tender he is with our dear invalid. While Frank was asleep, I took a walk with him and told him the sad story of Constance's early death. I described how they had loved one another, without a cloud of difference ever arising between them. I could see that his feelings were deeply moved.

   "'Monsieur is a widower and childless. He has a married couple in his vine-covered cottage, who take care of him. They too are past the meridian of life, but they are kind, and attentive, and suit his quiet tastes better than strangers. He once had sons and daughters around him, but they are all lying in the churchyard. He can see their simple monuments without moving from his study-table. Often before I go to rest, I sit at my window, and watch the pretty shadows made by the moon among the boughs waving over their graves. There is nothing sad to me in this; for I know it is only their inanimate bodies which rest there, while their souls are alive and full of bliss in the presence of their Saviour.

   "'Monsieur D'Ortey is always cheerful, but there is something about him which convinces even a stranger that his happiness springs from a heart chastened and purified in the furnace of affliction, that his treasure is laid up in heaven. The dear man fancies I resemble his youngest daughter; perhaps this is the reason he talks to me so much about the loved circle that once flitted so joyously through his vine-embowered home.

   "'I have told you so much about him, because I want you to be as well acquainted with his character as he is with yours. He knows, dear auntie, what a kind mother you have been to the daughter of your niece. He knows Fred, that I left my heart away over the sea, and that only a sense of duty to my afflicted brother prevents me at this moment from bearing the name of one I so dearly love. He smiles often as I describe every member of the family, and really laughed yesterday as I repeated some of Sybil's quaint speeches.'" * * *

The next steamer brought a continuation of Helen's journal; she began:

   "'Thank God with us, dear friends, Frank's health is really improving; and what is very favorable, he seems willing to live. I have won him to talk of dear Constance, and Monsieur spoke to-day so cheerfully of his loved ones as only gone before, that I hope Frank will be won to the same view.

   "'I do believe it was the finger of our heavenly Father that led us to this place. No one could be more kind than dear Monsieur D'Ortey. I, who am often a looker on, sometimes smile to notice with what skill he is interesting our invalid in schemes for usefulness.

   "'About half a mile from us there is an old building unlike what we ever see at home. It is built near a beautiful spring of water, clear as crystal, which has a peculiar taste, very pleasant, and is used as medicine. It is called la fontaine d'or, or the Golden Spring, and was so named by an American traveller many years ago, from its resemblance to the Golden Spring in Jamaica, West Indies, which is so celebrated for its virtues; and it has retained the name over since, even by the natives, who come a long distance with their buckets or pitchers for the water.

   "'The chateau, as it is called, stands on an elevation just back of the Golden Spring. It has small diamond-shaped windows, the panes set in lead; and instead of the sash throwing up like ours, a pane here and there opens with a rude hinge. The rooms are almost bare of furniture, the floors uncarpeted and worn, but still there is something delightful to me in the place.

   "'The chateau was once occupied as a convent. It has a high wall around it, which formerly took in the Golden Spring, and an immense gate barred and bolted with iron.

   "'Monsieur D'Ortey can remember when the rooms were crowded with children and teachers, and when the great bell, hung in a rude tower behind the building, used to echo among the hills many times in a day.

   "'At last, the convent was removed to another place where a new and wealthy Abbess had provided a more spacious building, and our good Rector, from his small means, purchased the chateau for his parish school.

   "'At first there was such a prejudice against the place that many parents refused to send their children, but this is dying away.

   "'When we first came, I learned with how much self-sacrifice Monsieur was paying the teachers. I grew interested at once and begged him to take us to the school. I must describe our ride there.

   "'Our kind friend borrowed from his people three donkeys, the most awkward, ungainly creatures I ever saw. Frank really laughed when he saw me mounted on my beast; laughed as I feared I should never hear him again. But when he sat on one of the others, I returned his mirth with interest. Monsieur sat erect on his low donkey, his white, silky locks streaming behind in the wind.

   "'At the gate we alighted, and gave the donkeys into the care of a boy, while we tasted the water. Frank described the effect upon him to be exhilarating. I only felt a slight tingling which extended, however, to the tips of my fingers.

   "'We went through the gate without ringing, for now it is always open except at night, and found, in the large receiving room, eight children engaged with their books, under the instruction of a pale woman who was knitting fancy articles to eke out her scanty support.

   "'In another room there were nine more pupils, all girls, who were learning to sew, or making fancy work for sale. There was a large glass at one end of the hall containing specimens of their skill, which is remarkable for beginners.

   "'After visiting our schools and asylums at home, the methods of teaching here appear old-fashioned and deficient in energy. I told Monsieur, I wanted to infuse some of our Yankee ideas into the minds of the children, and wake them up. I wanted to hang up Bible cards and pictures—to introduce a black-board and numeral frame. I wanted to show the little ones, laboring so sluggishly over an old map, the globe, and explain that the earth was round and the countries scattered all over it. You should have seen Monsieur D'Ortey's face while I was talking. It shone like the face of an angel. He put his hand on my head, saying:

   "'God bless you, dear child.'

   "'Near the gate we stopped again for another draught from the Golden Spring, which Frank calls his elixir, and with a sudden thought our kind friend sent back to the chateau for a flask so that we could take some home.

   "'On our way back Frank made me very happy by promising to send to our banker in Paris for a check, to purchase some very simple apparatus for the school. To-day of his own accord, he proposed another ride to the chateau, and we supplied ourselves with flasks for the Golden Spring. As we expected, we met Monsieur there. I went into the girls' school, and talked to them as they worked. I told them about my home across the sea,—about my dear scholars in the Sabbath School,—I told them I loved them and that it would be a sad thought when I left France that I should never see them again. I noticed one little girl put her finger up stealthily to wipe a tear from her eye. I then begged them to love the dear Saviour, who would take them to heaven when they died, and I told them I hoped to meet them there.

   "'Frank, meanwhile, was outside the chateau with Monsieur. When they came in, I looked at my invalid in surprise. His cheeks were quite rosy with excitement, and there was an air of resolution about him, I have not seen since his sad loss.

   "'They had been talking about the great trees, which Frank is sure, make the house damp. He offered, not only to pay for having them thinned out, but to ride over every day and superintend the work. Is not this hopeful? I think you may look for me quite early in the spring. For dearly as I love Monsieur and the children, at the chateau, my heart ever turns to that small spot in Now England, which holds my loved ones.

   "'Before I close my long letter, I must tell you that in consequence of the change of climate, my hair began to fall off, and I was advised to have it cut short. You would be amused to see how girlish I look with my close curls, clustering around my head. In the meantime I have taken pleasure in having some ornaments made of the dissevered tresses. A watch—chain fastened with gold braces, will, I hope, please my pastor; and I think I can persuade aunty and Sybil, each, to wear a ring of the same material."