The heiress of McGregor

"Do you really want to go home with Gerty, Marion, or is it only one of her fancies?" said her mother the next day.

"I told her I would go if you were willing to have me," answered Marion. "She seems to be very lonely and to want me for company, and perhaps I can be of some use to her."

"I dare say you can. Most people can be of use if they are willing to be taught the right way," said her mother, somewhat dryly. "I dare say you will find such a visit pleasant for a little while. The Bottom is a pretty place, and I should like to have you know the minister. He was a friend of mine when I needed a friend very much, and it was by his means that I came to the valley in the first place. He has a very nice family of daughters."

"Gerty does not seem to like him very much," said Marion.

"So I hear. She says some of the young people think he is growing too old, and want a young minister."

"Well, I must say I think that is a queer taste," said Marion. "I don't understand it a bit. I do think an old minister is so very much nicer than a young one."

"I quite agree with you, my dear; but you know all the ministers had to be young once."

"Then I think the young ones ought to be set to help the old ones till they learn how. They are always so conceited; don't you think so?"

"Well, not always," said her mother, turning to the window and scrutinizing very closely a small hole in a damask towel. "As to this visit, my dear, I will speak to father about it. I think perhaps you ought to go for a little while. Aunt Eugenia will miss your reading, but we must try to make it up for her."

"I did not suppose Aunt Eugenia would ever want to see me again," said Marion.

"Why? On account of the snuff? Oh, that was only an error in judgment—a little bit of zeal without knowledge, such as the young ministers you dislike are apt to fall into. Auntie enjoys your reading aloud very much. She says you read more distinctly than any of us."

The boys came home in the evening delighted with their expedition and loaded with booty.

"What in the world have you got there?" asked Gerty.

"Roots and herbs, stocks and stones," answered Frank, gayly. "Just think, Marie! Three new specimens for the woodpile, besides famous ones in place of those that poor Maggy cremated."

"How glad I am!" said Marion; and she really was.

"And that basket is full of beautiful red berries and ground-pine," said Bram.

"And such leaves for your painting, Cousin Helen and Marie."

"And a box full of monotropas; so Marie can paint one from the life if she chooses."

"And Frank has a rattlesnake, a yard long and more, with thirteen rattles."

"Fourteen, if you please, and a button. Don't that make him fifteen years old, father?"

"So they say, my boy. Is this interesting pet of yours alive?"

"Not he," said Henry; "I took care of that. I like natural history well enough, but I don't care to have it walking around loose, especially with poison-fangs in its jaws. And, father, the barkers have finished up in the Jones tract and will be down to-night. And Abner Jones wants to burn his logging-piece, and he says he thinks the rest of the neighbours would agree if you would, but I told him I was pretty sure you would not as things were now."

"Quite right, my son. I don't want any burnings till that bark is hauled. Did you hear how Clarke's folks were?"

"The woman is better, but Abner Jones's wife says the poor girl will die."

"And a good thing it will be if she does," said Gerty.

"I thought perhaps we might send some one up to help them a little," continued Harry, without noticing the interruption.

"Miranda Pratt told me yesterday that she would go, but I don't suppose they can very well afford even to keep her," she added, looking at her husband.

"I'll see to that," said Mr. Van Alstine. "Clarke is one of the best hands we have."

"Well, really, father, I should think that was going a good way," said Gerty. "Do you pay nurses for all your hands?"

"When all my hands need nurses, it will be time to settle that question," replied Mr. Van Alstine, coolly. "Harry, I think James had better put Old Gray in the little wagon and take Miranda right over. Mother, can't you and Amity cook up something to send them?"

"I'm glad you feel so rich, I'm sure," remarked Gerty. "I thought the tannery was hardly paying expenses, from all I was told."

"The tannery will pay some expenses better than others, my girl," said Mr. Van Alstine, in the deep voice which always showed that his patience was waxing threadbare.

"Which means that it will pay any expenses better than mine," returned Gerty. "Oh, I am not going to say anything, Asahel. I hope I have learned to know my place by this time. I'm sure I am sorry, father, if I have said anything wrong."

"Fiddle-de-dee!" said Mr. Van Alstine. "Boys, don't you think you had better pick up some of your scientific trash and get it out of your mother's way?"

"And get washed and dressed in time for supper?" added their mother. "You all look a little too much like wild men of the woods, to sit down to a civilized table."

"What do you think of this plan of Marion's going to stay with Gerty?" asked Mrs. Van Alstine of her husband that night when they were alone.

"I think it is a very good one," said Mr. Van Alstine. "Marion's great trouble seems to me to be that she doesn't know when she is well off, and I think she will find out if she stays with Gerty a month or two."

"I didn't think of letting her stay so long as that," said Eiley.

"My advice to you is to let her stay till she gets tired of it, or till Gerty is tired of her," replied her husband. "Maybe she will find out then what it means to have a good home."

"But her lessons?"

"There are more lessons than those to be learned out of books, my dear. I am not at all sorry that matters have taken this turn."

"I am disappointed in Marion, I must confess," said Mrs. Van Alstine, with a sigh. "I thought Barbara's teaching would turn out quite a different sort of a girl. Barbara is the most self-sacrificing person I ever saw."

"Exactly; and she has taken every stick and stone out of Marion's way, and let the girl walk over her in every direction. That is one explanation, I suspect. But Gerty won't do that, you know very well."

"Gerty is peculiar," said Eiley, with another little sigh.

"Peculiar! Yes, I should think so," said Mr. Van Alstine. "I wish she had been married ten times before Asahel ever saw her. Do you know what scheme she has in her head now?"

"Not I. I saw there was something in the wind, but she hasn't said anything to me."

"Well, she wants me to sell out the tannery at the Bottom and give Asahel the money to invest in iron works in Coaltown."

"Iron works! What in the world does she think he would do with iron works? He knows nothing about them."

"No, but her kinsman over there, Mr. Jackson, is engaged in a furnace, and wants Asahel to go in with him."

"I hope you won't consent?" said Mrs. Van Alstine, rather anxiously.

"You may believe I didn't; I have seen too much of that sort of thing. I said no straight up and down, and I believe Asahel was glad of it."

"But what put it in their heads?"

"Oh, the reason is plain enough. Gerty complains that she is buried in Rock Bottom, and she wants to go to Coaltown and make as much figure as Mrs. Jackson. Well, there! I won't let it make a fool of me. The Lord has borne with me all these years, and it's a pity if I can't bear with her."

"And about Marie?"

"Let her go, by all means, only make her understand that this is always her home and she will be welcome here. And, by the way, what do you think about Harry and Stannie now?"

"I think it is turning out as we hoped it would," answered Mrs. Van Alstine; "but don't you hint by word or look as if you saw anything, or you may spoil it all."

"Of course not," said her husband, who, it appears, saw farther than Gerty had given him credit for.

CHAPTER XVI.

"OVER IN THE JONES DISTRICT."

THE days passed on into weeks, and still Gerty stayed on at the valley.

Mr. Van Alstine utterly refused to agree to the change of plans which Asahel, or rather Gerty, had so greatly desired, but to soften his refusal as much as possible, he had voluntarily proposed to put the house in which Asahel lived in better order, and especially to paint it inside and out. Mrs. Van Alstine invited Gerty to stay while this work was going on, and Gerty accepted the invitation and remained two weeks at the valley, Asahel going back and forth and coming home for Sunday.

Gerty certainly did not make the house any pleasanter by her presence. It was not that she did anything so very much out of the way, beyond a little meddling, which Eileen overlooked and Maggy treated with by no means silent contempt. But her tongue was a perpetual annoyance. She had the most exquisite knack of saying little disagreeable things, of enlarging upon disagreeable subjects, of running against people's tenderest feelings and strongest prepossessions, and then wondering how they could be so weak as to be hurt.

For instance, she entertained Mrs. Van Alstine and Marion a whole morning with reading an account of one who fancied himself a poet and made himself ridiculous thereby. She enlarged on the uselessness of foreign missions and the idle, self-indulgent lives led by missionaries, for the benefit of Mrs. Andrews, who, however, silenced her by an array of facts and figures which she was not at all prepared to answer. She knew that all three of the ladies at the valley hated gossip, and she regaled them with all the scandals of Rock Bottom and Coaltown collectively. All this was not done inadvertently.

All her life long, Gerty's tongue had been the dread of friends and enemies alike. She was well aware of her powers, and took as much pleasure in exercising them as other women do in needlework or music. Nothing was sacred from her attacks, not a weakness of old or young among her acquaintances escaped notice or comment. There was no enthusiasm which she could not and would not turn into ridicule, no cause she could not decry, no self-sacrifice or self-devotion for which she could not find some unworthy motive or in which she did not see some folly.

And yet Gerty was not without her good qualities. She was always ready to visit the poor and sick, she was an admirable and economical manager, and she denied herself many personal luxuries that she might have money to give to some poor cousins. But her tongue, that unruly evil, poisoned all.

Marion, who had begun by thinking Gerty an abused angel, was thoroughly disenchanted before the term of Gerty's visit was ended, and that although Gerty was more civil to her than to any other member of the family. Indeed, a change was coming over Marion which she could not explain, but which made her very unhappy. It was nothing new for her to be discontented with those around her and to wish herself anywhere but where she was, but now the dissatisfaction seemed to be transferred to herself. She began to have doubts of her own superiority to all about her. She saw how far she was behind her brothers in attainments. She began to see how much she was inferior to them in real goodness. When she turned for comfort to her religious exercises, she found they had no comfort to give. Her prayers were unreal and utterly lifeless, and she could not keep her attention fixed upon them. It scared her to discover how often she went on with a form of good words, even composing sentence after sentence of prayer, while her heart was far away among the vanities in which she had lived so long. She tried to betake herself to her old reveries, but they gave her no pleasure even while she indulged in them. Hungry and thirsty, her soul fainted in her, yet she would not cry unto the Lord in her trouble that she might be delivered from her distress, but strove vainly—and oh, how vainly!—to find her way out by herself.

"Are you good for an expedition, Marie?" asked Frank, one Sunday at dinner.

They had had their ordinary services in the chapel, followed by Sunday school, and were sitting down to the usual Sunday dinner, which, though mostly cold, was as dainty a repast as heart could wish.

"An expedition! Yes, of course; I suppose so," answered Marion, who, under the tuition of Stanley and the boys, was learning to be a good deal of a woods-woman. "Where do you mean to go, and when?"

"This afternoon, and up through the valley and along the bank of Cedar Run to the Jones school-house. Is that too far for you?"

"Oh no. But it is Sunday," said Marion, puzzled.

"Well, isn't it proper to go to prayer meeting on Sunday?"

"Oh! Why, yes, of course. Yes, I should like it very much."

"Good! We'll start about half-past three, to give ourselves plenty of time, and take the saw-mill road through the woods and along the banks of the run. It will be bright moonlight coming home, you know; and you and Stannie were saying only yesterday that you wanted to be in the woods at night."

"But what is this meeting, that you are going so far for it? Anything out of the common?" asked Gerty.

"Nothing at all, only as being a meeting in the Jones district, which has been rather uncommon of late years," answered Bram. "Coming home yesterday, we stopped at Abner Jones's house for a drink; and as dinner was ready, of course they made us stay. So Harry began to talk to them about coming over to chapel, and they made the usual excuse of its being too far. Then Harry asked:

"'Suppose there was a meeting held in the school-house, would anybody come?'

"And they seemed very much pleased, and agreed to give notice to all the neighbours round about. So on talking the matter over, we concluded that some singing would add to the interest of the occasion and show that we were in earnest ourselves, and so we concluded to ask the girls to join in—or, if you like it better, to invite the young ladies to participate. And there you have the story in a nutshell."

"But who is to conduct this meeting?" asked Gerty, not without suspicion that Bram was mystifying her.

"Why, Harry, of course. Who else?"

"Oh, excuse me. I didn't suppose that kind of thing was in Harry's line at present but perhaps it is as well to begin in season."

"It has been very much in my line the last year, I assure you," said Harry. "Three of our men have kept three different meetings going ever since the beginning of last term. One was six miles away, and the man whose turn it was, used to ride about as gallant a steed as Old Gray. Only for the name, I really think it would have been less trouble to walk."

"Where did you get this horse of yours?" asked Mr. Van Alstine, with a glance at Asahel.

"Oh, we hired him of an old couple who thought him a compound of all the virtues ever put into a horse's skin—Bucephalus and Pegasus too, for aught I know."

"I suppose that was the origin of the story Gerty heard about your hiring horses to ride out of town Sunday afternoons," said Mr. Van Alstine.

Gerty coloured and cast a glance at her husband which spoke volumes, but she did not say a word.

Henry smiled and the rest looked indignant.

"I should like to know—" began Frank; but Henry stopped him:

"No, you wouldn't, doctor. Believe me, the knowledge wouldn't afford you the slightest pleasure. It is nothing new. Somebody told the same story to prex—I beg your pardon, mother; I mean our respected president. The next time I rode out, he was standing at his own gate.

"He stopped me and said gravely, 'Van Alstine, I doubt the propriety of your riding that horse to-day; it seems to me to be unnecessary labour. Don't you think it would be less trouble to walk?'"

"I suppose he knew where you were going?"

"Of course; we told him all about it before we began, and asked his advice. Please excuse me, mother; I want to look out some hymns. Will you help me, girls? We must set out at half-past three, you know."

"I wish we could go," said Hector, speaking for himself, as usual.

"You shall next time," said his brother; "but it would be rather too much Van Alstine if we all went. We should fill the school-house all by ourselves."

"You shall go with me," said Mr. Van Alstine; "I am going over to see old Mrs. Hollenback. Chris told me yesterday the old lady was worse and would not last long."

At half-past three all were ready, the girls, in short dresses and stout boots, looking very pretty under their shady hats, the boys with a parcel each of hymn-books, and pockets filled with cards and tracts for the children.

They had a charming walk through the woods and up the little stream known as the Cedar Run. It was a favourite exploit to scramble up the rocky bed and between the high banks through which the stream forced its way, but to-day they kept to the road, which ran on the top of the cliff. Arriving in good time, they found the school-house well filled.

"How shall we get in?" asked Marion, in a low voice. "We shall be regularly crowded."

"So much the better," answered Harry. "It is always a great point gained to have people sitting close together. It is regularly dispiriting to have a meeting in a room that is twice too large. But you'll find more room than you think. The men always stand outside till service begins."

The house was certainly well filled, but the girls found tolerably comfortable places by the open window. Harry took his place on the platform, behind the teacher's table, looking even more youthful than usual. He bent his head for a time in silent prayer, and Marion saw that both the boys and Stanley were engaged in the same way. A curious feeling of hushed expectation came over her such as she had never felt before; and for once forgetting herself, she prayed earnestly that Harry might have the help he needed. It was one of the few prayers that Marion had ever uttered which had no reference to herself.

Presently, Harry stood up and opened the meeting by giving out a familiar hymn. Without a moment's hesitation, Stanley's clear, cultivated voice struck up the tune. The boys fell in and were joined by one and another of the congregation, till at last the singing became general. Then Harry read a chapter from the gospel and offered a prayer.

"How composed he is!" said Marion to herself. "He does not seem to think of himself at all. I wonder if that is the reason?"

After the second hymn, Harry invited some one to speak. There was a little silence, and then an old farmer arose and said a few words relative to the chapter which had been read. He was followed by another, and then came another prayer. Then came one of those silences which are so much dreaded by some conductors of meetings, but which often seem to me to be fuller of meaning and of refreshment than any spoken words. It was broken by the voice of a man from near the door:

"I wish the friends here would pray for me. My wife's a Christian woman, and so is my poor girl. I thought I was a Christian myself once, but—" His voice grew husky and broke. "Anyhow, I was taught to believe that prayers brought down blessings, and I want you all to pray for me and poor Mary."

There was another short silence, which was broken this time, to Marion's surprise, by Bram. His prayer was short and to the point. The first speaker followed, and then Stanley began singing "Alas, and did my Saviour bleed?" to the old sacred tune of "Ortonville." (Will any tunes have the same sacredness to the coming generation that these old tunes have to us?)

The man who had asked for prayers had his head bowed on his hands, and was sobbing like a child.

Frank whispered to Marion that he was Clarke, the barker, to whose sick wife his father had sent a nurse the day before.

Marion could not sing. She listened to the tune with feelings such as she had never known before. How gloriously Stanley sung, as if she felt every word! Others joined in. Tears fell down rugged faces, and many sobbed aloud besides the poor afflicted husband, but Marion, though she felt utterly lonely and miserable, could not cry. She was as one shut out. She seemed to herself to have no part in the matter. There was an aching pain at her heart which she did not understand. She had come prepared, as she said to herself, to support Henry by her presence and throw all her influence on the right side. She had even entertained serious thoughts of speaking herself.

Her mother, Amity, and Mrs. Andrews all did so in the little social prayer meeting in the valley. She had even decided on her subject and turned it over in her mind on the way, arranging several neat and effective phrases. But now she felt that she could not have spoken a word. She wished the meeting would come to an end, and yet she dreaded the conclusion.

At last, however, all was over, and the meeting was broken up.

She was standing by herself, apparently looking at a red vine clambering up the rough side of an old hemlock, when she was joined by Bram.

"Where is Harry?" asked Marion.

"Oh, he is going to stay and sit up at Clarke's to-night," said Bram. "They think the poor woman may not live till morning, and Clarke is all but beside himself. He seemed to cling so to Harry that finally Harry said he would stay with him, so you will have to be content with the escort of the middle boys, as Betsy used to call Frank and me. You won't be afraid, will you?"

"Afraid!" said Marion, absently. "Of what? Oh, of going home with you and Frank? No, of course not."

"Well, come on, then. Frank and Stannie, have gone ahead, to stop and inquire for some other family where they have a case of sickness, but we shall come up with them; or if we don't, it's no great matter."

"Well, how did you like the meeting," said Bram after they had walked a little way in silence.

"I thought it was very interesting," said Marion. "I am glad Harry is going to be a minister. I am sure he will make a good one."

"Yes, we all think so," said Bram. "He has had a bent that way ever since he was a little fellow."

"Why don't you ever take part in the meetings down in the chapel?" asked Marion, presently.

"Oh, because—Well, there are plenty of older people, you know, and I don't seem to be needed, so I would rather keep still and listen. But it was different to-night, and I felt so sorry for poor Clarke. But why didn't you, if it comes to that? You didn't even sing."

"I couldn't," answered Marion, shortly. "I didn't seem to have any voice, or any heart, either," she added, presently. "I seemed to feel as if I was outside of the whole concern, as if I had no business there—as if—" Marion's voice was choked and died away.

"Well, as if what, Marie dear?" asked Bram, gently. "Don't tell me if you don't want to, but perhaps you might feel better if you did. Say out what is in your mind."

"I felt as if there was somebody present that every one saw and I was trying to see and hear, but couldn't," said Marion, at last. "I can't express it any better than that."

"I understand," said Bram.

"Bram, tell me one thing," said Marion, "and please don't be affronted or think I mean to be unkind: when you made that prayer, were you thinking of how it sounded or what people would think about it?"

"No, not after the first minute," said Bram. "I was just a little scared at the sound of my own voice at first, but not afterward."

Marion sighed, but said no more, and they walked on in silence a few minutes, till Bran said,—

"Marie, I am sorry you are going away. What makes you go?"

"Well, Gerty wants me, and she seems to be so lonely; and if I can do her any good—"

"All right," said Bram. "I hope you are not going because you are not happy at our house; are you?"

Marion took a sudden resolution, perhaps, born of her late emotion:

"I'll tell you just why I do go, Bram, only please don't tell any one. It's just like this: I thought when I came here that I was going to be of great use and do ever so much good, but I haven't done one bit, only made myself ridiculous and made everybody despise me, and I think I would rather go away and begin somewhere else."

"Begin what?" asked Bram.

It was a very simple question, but somehow Marion found she had great difficulty in answering it.

"Well, begin—begin doing good—begin—Well, you know, Bram, if I should do ever so well now, I couldn't ever have any influence after all that has happened. Nobody would have any respect for me, after all the mistakes I have made."

"I don't exactly know what mistakes you mean, Marie. To be sure, it was rather a blunder to burn up Frank's scientific woodpile, but it was no such great matter, after all. And besides, don't you expect to make any mistakes where you are going?"

"I suppose I shall," said Marion, in a choked voice. "I thought it would be all so different when I came here—that I was going to be so good and have such a Christian influence in the family. And I did try to. And there is Stanley, who never seems to think about what sort of an example she is setting. She can do anything with Betsy, and—"

"Don't you think perhaps you have thought too much about influence and example, and so on?" said Bram, after a little.

"I don't know," answered Marion, doubtfully. "You know the Scripture says, 'Let your light so shine before men.'"

"Yes, I know; we are to 'let' it shine, not make it shine. You see, if it is a real light, it will shine anyhow, and there is no need to hold it up and wave it about. That is the way with Stanley. Her light shines all the time, softly and steadily, because it is a real light and must shine by its very nature. Father says she is one of the most consistent Christians he ever knew. She never seems to think about herself at all."

Somehow these few words seemed to throw a very strong light upon Marion's troubles: "She never seems to think of herself at all! And I think of nothing else."

They walked along a little way, and then Bram said abruptly,—

"After all, Marion, I am sorry you are going away. We have always wanted a sister so much, and it has been very pleasant having you here. And besides, between ourselves, I'm afraid you won't find it very comfortable living with Gerty. I don't want to say anything against her—she's Asahel's wife and my sister-in-law—but you must see for yourself."

"I know," said Marion. "I thought she was lovely when I met her on the cars and when she first came here. But I have promised, you know, Bram, and I can't get out of it now if I wished it ever so much. A promise is a promise."

"To be sure. You are not obliged to stay, and she is certain to treat you well for three or four weeks. But, Marie, about this matter of Christian influence. I wish you would talk to Harry; I don't think you have got the right notion about it."

"Sometimes I think I am not a Christian at all, Bram."

"Well, then, begin and be one now. What hinders?"

"I don't suppose any one would believe me."

"Well, what if they didn't? It isn't that you want. Don't you know what was said about the Pharisees—that they loved the praise of men more than the praise of God? That was their great hindrance."

Marion was silent. It seemed as if Bram was bent on showing her all her own worst weaknesses and follies. Had not "the praise of men" been her chief object all her life thus far?

Bram seemed to think he had said enough, and then began on a different topic:

"Marion, do you know your uncle Campbell's present address?"

"Red Wing, Minnesota," answered Marion. "I had a letter from Aunt Christian only yesterday. Why?"

"Do you suppose Doctor Campbell would think it a liberty if I should write and ask him about some things I would like very much to know?"

"Of course not," answered Marion. "He would be very much pleased, I am sure. He thinks anybody who wants to hear about missions must be all right."

"I thought we should hear a great deal about them from you," pursued Bram. "Didn't your uncle and aunt talk about their work?"

"Yes, but I was in school and had my lessons and my work, you know, and Therese was at our house all the time almost."

But in her heart she felt ashamed of these excuses when she made them, for she knew that they were false. She knew that her attention had been so constantly occupied with her own day-dreams that she had no thought to bestow on the cause of missions.

"But I am sure Uncle Duncan will like to hear from you," she continued, hastily. "I think you will suit each other exactly. He is very fond of botany and natural history, and he is an excellent man and very agreeable. Yes, I know you will like him and he will like you."

"That is a compliment, certainly," said Bram. "And your aunt?"

"Aunt Christian is mother over again, only a little sharper."

"Then I know I shall like her," said Bram. "Hark!" he continued, after a few moments' silence. "Don't you hear the waterfall? How sweet it sounds!"

"The water must be high, I should think," said Marion. "How near is it? I wonder if we could get a glimpse?"

"It is just under our feet. The bank hangs over a little. Take care, Marie! Don't go too near the edge."

But the caution came too late. Marion had stepped to the edge to get a view of the little waterfall, and leaned over, holding fast by a small tree which grew close by.

"I am holding on," said she. But even as she spoke, the ground gave way under her feet, and she and the tree went together down the steep, rough bank. It was fully fifty feet from where she had been standing to the bottom of the rocky ravine.

Bram stood still in horror a moment, then he gave a long, loud whistle, and sprang to the edge.

"Marion, Marie!" he called.

"All right," answered a voice from below. "I am not much hurt, Bram, but I am stuck in a tree and can't stir."

"Thank Heaven!" exclaimed Bram, fervently. "Keep quite still, dear. Frank will be here in a minute, and then we will see what can be done."

"What's the matter?" asked Frank, coming up with Stanley, considerably out of breath. "We have been walking slow and waiting for you ever so long. Where's Marie?"

"She has fallen over the bank," answered Bram; "but she has answered, so she is not killed. You have the lantern, haven't you?"

Frank produced the pocket-lantern, opened and lighted it.

Bram held it over the bank, but the distance was too great for the little wax taper, and he could see nothing.

He called again:

"Marion, can you see us?"

"I can see the light," answered Marion; "but I am afraid to move, the tree shakes so."

She evidently made an effort to speak distinctly and cheerfully, but there was suffering as well as terror in the sound of her voice.

The brothers hastily consulted together.

"It will never do to try to go down here," said Bram; "we shall only send the stones down on her. Where is the nearest place?"

"The Cat Stairs," said Stanley.

Bram shook his head.

"Not in the dark."

"But you might hang the lantern round your neck, as you did the basket the other day," suggested Stanley. "If you could get down to her, you might encourage her to hold on. Then I could run back to James Tanner's and bring the boys, and Frank could go on to the saw-mill and do the same after he had seen you down the stairs."

"That's the best plan, depend upon it," said Frank. "Marie, can you hold on a little longer? Bram is trying to come down to you, and Stannie is going after help. Can you hold on?"

"I'll try. Yes, I think I can, if the tree don't break; but don't let Bram hurt himself. If one of you could hold the light so that I could see it."

"Bram will have to take it to see his way down the stairs, I'm afraid, but I'll stay and talk to you, if that will do."

"No, no; help Bram; never mind me."

Bram scrambled halfway down the steep descent; then he turned and came back.

"Dizzy, old fellow?" asked Frank as he saw his pale face.

"No, but it's no use; I can't get near her. She is hanging someway in that broken hemlock right over the fall. Where's Stannie?"

"Gone back to Tanner's. I believe I had best do as she said, and run on to the mill."

Almost with the words Frank sprang away.

Bram leaned over as far as he dared, holding the lantern down:

"Can you see the light, Marie darling?"

"Yes," was the answer.

"Frank has gone to the saw-mill for help, and he will soon be back. Keep up good courage, dear."

"Bram, if I should fall, if they shouldn't get me up alive—"

"We shall, please God; but what then?"

"Will you tell mother and father that I am sorry I have given them so much trouble, and write the same to Aunt Baby and grandfather? I have been very selfish and conceited all my life. I have lived in a kind of dream; I see it now. Oh, Bram, if I were only a Christian like you, I shouldn't be so afraid to die."

"Don't, don't, Marion! Oh, if I could only get down to you—only do you any good!"

"You do me good where you are. You 'let your light shine' now, Bram. Don't feel too bad, dear; it was nobody's fault. I don't think it was even my own, for I was holding on. Bram."

"Well, darling?"

"Pray for me, won't you? Oh, Bram, if I could only see Him!"

"He sees you, dearest Marie—believe me he does. Oh, turn to him. Just put yourself into his hands, can't you? Lean on him, and he will hold you safely all through. Can't you?"

"I'll try," said Marion, faintly. "Oh, I wish they would come."

"They are coming," said Bram, joyfully; "I see the lights. Yes, here comes Frank with the men from the mill. Now we shall be all right."

Frank came up with the three men from the saw-mill, and in the same minute, Stanley arrived with the two Tanner boys, fine, well-grown young men.

After some delay and a good deal of danger to herself and others, Marion was raised and set on firm land once more.

"How are you hurt?" asked Bram and Frank together.

"I don't think I am much hurt anyway; only scratched and twisted and tumbled about," said Marion, trying to laugh; but the laugh ended in a hysterical sob. And she dropped down on the ground, put her head on her hands, and fainted away.

"I'm afraid she is killed," said Bram.

"Oh no, I don't believe she is," said Stanley, cheerfully. "She is only overdone and frightened. Lay her down flat on the ground; she'll soon be better. How shall we carry her home?"

"We can bring a team up from the saw-mill directly," said James Tanner. "That will be the best way, I think."

The wagon was soon brought, and in another hour, Marion was at home and in her mother's bed, and Mr. Overbeck with his best horse on the way to Ivanhoe to bring the doctor.

CHAPTER XVII.

IN MOTHER'S ROOM.

THE village was six miles off, so that even Van Alstine & Overbeck's best trotter, with his master driving him, could not bring the doctor immediately.

Meantime, Marion was undressed and laid in her mother's bed. She was much bruised and lacerated, one great scratch just missing her left eye, and suffered acutely from every movement, and her father pronounced at once that her collar-bone was broken. She was very patient, keeping herself as quiet as possible, and only anxious that nobody should blame Bram.

Mrs. Van Alstine was quiet and collected, doing everything in the best manner, and assisted as well as possible by Mrs. Andrews and Amity. Mr. Van Alstine's strong and gentle arms held Marion while her bed was arranged, and his deep, grave voice reassured and soothed her. He had just laid her down, when Frank put in his head and called him out into the parlour.

Bram lay on the sofa with his head buried in his arms, and Gerty was talking to him. She had been dismissed from Marion's room at a very early stage of the proceedings, ostensibly that she need not injure herself or bring on one of her bad attacks, and by way of making things pleasant was expressing her opinion of the whole transaction.

"Anybody might have known how it would turn out, sending such a party of young people off on such an expedition with no older person along. Pray where was Henry?"

"He stayed behind to sit up at Clarke's," answered Frank, in the measured tones which showed that his temper was near the boiling-point.

"What did he do that for?" asked Gerty, in the same judicial tone as if she were examining a witness.

"Because he chose to, I suppose."

"Well, really, Frank, I think you might at least answer civilly. I don't see what call you have to be so angry, when I only asked for information."

"Do please be quiet, Gerty," whispered Stanley, imploringly.

"I shall be quiet when I see fit, Miss Stanley; and I will thank you to call me by my right name. But that is always the way. Nobody must hint that the boys are to blame, whatever happens. I don't want to hurt Bram's feelings, but I do think nobody has a right to be so giddy, frolicking and romping in the woods on Sunday evening."

"I was not frolicking and romping," said Bram, in a half-choked voice; "anything but that."

"Oh, of course you were not doing anything wrong, you never are."

"Gerty," said Mr. Van Alstine, "be quiet instantly."

Gerty looked up in amazement, and met her father-in-law's eye. The red spark was dangerously bright.

She sailed with dignity out of the room, and was heard to slam three successive doors in her progress to her own apartment.

"Indeed, father, we were not romping or frolicking at all," said Bram, raising his head from the pillow once more. "Marie leaned over to see if she could get a glimpse of the fall, and she was not a bit careless either. She was holding on by the tree, and I never knew the bank would crumble."

"Nor I, my son. I don't think any one was to blame. It was just an unlucky accident."

"How is Marie?"

"She has broken her collar-bone and is considerably bruised, but I think that is the worst. Here comes the doctor at last."

Doctor Fenn was an old army-surgeon who had seen hard service in field and hospital. He was a thorough New Englander, in birth and breeding, and his greeting of "W—a—ll, my girl?" sounded homelike and natural to Marion's Green Mountain ear. Somewhat rough-looking at the first glance, no woman could be gentler or more delicate in a sickroom, and his steady, firm hand was reassuring in itself.

"Wall," said Doctor Fenn after he had concluded his examination, "it isn't as bad as it might be, considering. The right collar-bone is the only one broken, but there are a good many sprains and bruises, and it is possible there may be some internal injury. You must be a pretty good hand at falling down, Marion, to get off with so little damage."

"You don't think I shall die, then?" said Marion.

"Not this time, I think. But I can tell better how you are in a day or two; and unless there is more the matter than I see now, I think six weeks or so in bed will probably be the worst of it. Now, Mr. Van Alstine, we will put this bone to rights, and then we must keep all quiet about our patient, and perhaps she may get some sleep."

But Marion got very little sleep for that or several succeeding nights. The scratches on her face and arms inflamed and were very painful. She was bruised and strained all over, and the constrained position was almost intolerably irksome to one who had never been confined to her bed a day in her life. Even if her right arm had not been bound close to her side, her wrists had been so stretched and sprained in her desperate grasp of the old hemlock, that she had almost no use of her hands, and was dependent on others for all sorts of personal offices.

It was a hard trial; nor was her illness the only trouble which befel the family at this time. Everybody knows that, as the old negro said, "single misfortunes never come alone." The day after Marion's accident, Mr. Van Alstine scalded his hand with steam in the tannery, and, to crown all, Harry was taken with a low, obstinate intermittent fever which seemed to defy all Doctor Fenn's skill, and kept the poor boy utterly miserable—too sick to leave his bed every other day, and just able to crawl down-stairs and lie on the sofa on what were called by courtesy his "well days."

If Marion had been as impatient under real troubles as she had often been under fancied grievances, she would have been a troublesome patient to manage. But either there had been a great change, or else suffering had developed the real force of character which lay concealed under a mask of weak self-indulgence. She never fretted and hardly ever complained, and made no trouble that she could help. Both Mrs. Andrews, who had seen a great deal of severe sickness, and Doctor Fenn declared they never had a more reasonable patient, and Maggy drew the most dismal auguries from the change in Marion.

"But she doesn't get on quite as well as I could wish, or as I think she ought to," said the doctor in a conference with her mother. "There's a want of elasticity that I don't like to see in one so young. I can't help thinking that she has got something on her mind."

"The same thing has occurred to me," said Mrs. Andrews. "She seems so entirely changed. You must have observed it, Eileen."

Mrs. Van Alstine shook her head, and her eyes filled with tears.

"I can't help thinking what father would say," she answered.

"What, that such a change of disposition was a forerunner of death? I believe that is the Scotch notion," said Mrs. Andrews. "What do you think of it, doctor?"

"I won't deny that I have seen something like that myself," remarked the doctor. "It isn't always so much a change, however, as that sickness brings out the real man or woman free from all disguise. I don't see anything like dying about our girl, however. The bone is uniting kindly, and all the other troubles are doing as well as we can expect. I dare say the confinement tells on her spirits. Do you think she may perhaps be under some religious depression?"

"I don't know," replied her mother. "She likes to hear the Bible read and to have her father or Henry pray with her, but she does not incline to talk much on the subject, and I don't like to drag her into it."

"No, that is never best. The older I grow, the more careful I feel about touching the religious experience of another with so much as my little finger. Sometimes, however, it happens that the patient would like very much to talk, but does not know how to begin, and such cases it is a comfort to have the ice broken. Well, you are the best judge, Mrs. Van Alstine, and I can safely leave her to you. Now let us see the rest of the hospital."

After all, it was to the doctor that Marion opened her heart at last. She was alone in her room. Mr. Van Alstine had sent for a reclining-chair of the newest and best construction for Marion, and she was half sitting, half lying in it before the window in her mother's room looking across the field to the beautiful wooded hills beyond.

This particular field was known as the colt-pasture. Owning some square miles of territory, Van Alstine Overbeck were not only tanners, but stock farmers on a great scale, and their horses were famous throughout the country. A dozen or more of the youthful four-legged aristocrats were amusing themselves with a private race round the great field.

It was one of the most beautiful of November Indian summer days. Frank had tempted his mother out for a drive, Mrs. Andrews had one of her rare but severe sick headaches, and Bram, who was Marion's most constant attendant, had been called out.

Marion was lying back in her chair watching the colts at their play. Her right arm was released from its bandage, but her wrists continued very lame, so that she was debarred the invalid's usual amusement of light fancy-work.

"Well, Marie, how goes it?" asked Doctor Fenn. He had come in at the long window on the verandah, which the warm afternoon allowed to be open, and sat down beside Marion.

"Pretty well, I believe," said Marion, rather wearily. "How are they at Amity's? I suppose you have come from there?"

For Bessy had distinguished herself and added to the family hospital by catching the measles, and of course the other children had followed her example.

"Oh, they are doing well. Nobody is sick enough to stay in bed but Betsy, and she will be out in a day or two. How are the hands?"

"I think they are better. I can hold a book a little while now," answered Marion.

"Better not try them too much," pronounced the doctor. "Slow and sure is the best cure for a sprain."

There was a little silence, and then the doctor asked rather abruptly, as his fashion was,—

"Sissy, what's the matter?"

Marion was silent.

"I don't want to pry into your secrets, my dear," said the doctor, gently, "but it does seem to me as if you had something on your mind that troubles you. Perhaps, if you can make up your mind to tell me what it is, I can lighten or help you to bear it. Can't you?"

"It was that meeting began it," said Marion, beginning as suddenly as the doctor had done. "I have never been happy one minute since then."

"And how did that begin it? You had been a Christian before that."

"I thought so," said Marion. "I even thought I was better than most, though I knew in my own soul that I was indulging myself in wrong tempers and ways. Oh, I was too silly for anything," cried Marion, covering her face with her hands. "I used to have all sorts of dreams about teaching and influencing others and leading a higher and more spiritual life than my good aunt and uncle and my old grandfather, and all the while I was idling away my time in school, missing my lessons, and making false excuses, despising better people than myself, and allowing myself to be in all sorts of bad tempers all the time. There never was one so foolish, I am sure."

"I am not," said the doctor. "I have heard more than one person talk loudly and abundantly about 'holiness' and 'the higher life' who did not seem to me to have learned the very A, B, C of Christian morals. Well?"

"That was the way with me when I came here," continued Marion. "It seems almost too bad to tell, but, Doctor Fenn, I was really vexed and disappointed when I found that father had family prayers and maintained a chapel. I thought I was going to be a kind of family missionary, like a girl I had read of in a book."

"A good many kinds of girls that one reads of in books are fortunately not often found in real life," said the doctor, dryly. "Life would hardly be bearable else."

"Well, I couldn't be here a great while without seeing how much better they all were than I," continued Marion. "I saw how kind they were to each other and to auntie and me, though I was always bothering and making mistakes, and how they all bore with poor Gerty, and you know she is trying sometimes."

"I think I do—sometimes."

"I had begun to see a little of all this, but somehow that night when we went to the meeting it was all displayed to me at once. It was just as I told Bram—as if the rest saw some one whom I was trying to see and hear, but couldn't for my life. Then Bram and I got talking coming home. I do think he is the very dearest boy that I ever heard of. I never thought it would be half so nice to have brothers, and he seemed to show me to myself. He said the Pharisees couldn't come into the kingdom of heaven because 'they loved the praise of men more than the praise of God.' Then I saw that had been the way with me. I had not wished really to be a Christian, but only to be thought so. I thought it must be all right with me because I wanted to do so much work and have so much influence, and I used to spend hours in dreaming about it. But now I see there was no reality in it at all."

She stopped and sat silent.

"Well, and what are you going to do now?" asked the doctor. "Are you going to give the matter up in despair?"

"I don't want to give up, but I don't know what to do. I try to come to Christ and believe on him as the Bible says, but it seems all unreal, as if it were dreaming the same old dreams over again. I shall never have faith enough to be saved."

"My dear girl, I think you are under a mistake," said the doctor. "Faith is not a kind of currency wherewith people can buy salvation if only they have enough of it. It is rather the hand whereby one lays hold of salvation. If you had all faith, so that you could remove mountains, you would not thereby merit anything. If you have faith enough to come to Christ, you have enough to be saved by him.

   "'If thou canst do any thing, have compassion on us and help us,' cried the poor father.

"We should call that a very weak faith, but our Lord helped instead of condemned it."

"But, doctor, how can I know that I am saved—that I have come?" asked Marion, eagerly. "How can I know for certain? Now it all seems dreamlike and vague, as if it might be one of my day-dreams."

"Do you believe in the Bible?"

"Certainly I do."

"Well, then, there is the ground of your assurance:

   "'Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.'

   "'That whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.'

"You know whether you believe or not, don't you?"

"I know I do."

"Then what more assurance do you want?"

"But, Doctor Fenn, I want to feel it; I want to feel assured in my own heart as I have heard of other people. I can't make it seem real to me. I come back to the same place all the time," said Marion, smiling sadly.

"Don't you think that is a little bit like wanting a sign?" asked the doctor.

"I don't quite understand what you mean."

"Why, you won't believe the Lord on his simple assurance. You say, like the Jews,—

   "'What sign shewest thou unto us?'

"You want him to give you more than his word. Is that using him well? Would you like it yourself?"

"But, Doctor Fenn, don't you think he does sometimes give that inward assurance, the consciousness that our sins are forgiven?"

"No doubt he does, and he will give it to you; but, after all, that is not the main ground of your dependence. He will have you believe his word first, and then he will work the miracle.

   "'Believe ye that I am able to do this?' he said to the blind man.

"And no sooner had he answered than the response came,—

   "'According to your faith be it unto you.'"

"I see," said Marion. "Then I am to believe my sins are forgiven though I don't feel it?"

"Undoubtedly, if you really repent."

"And how shall I know I really repent?"

"You really repent if you are ready to give up every sin of which you are conscious and pray for help never to commit it again. That is the true, and I believe the only, test. And now I think that you have talked enough and have enough to think about."

"Doctor, there is one thing more I should like to ask you," said Marion, detaining him. "Do you think that—Well, suppose you were conscious that something was wrong, and yet could not feel willing to give it up, what is one to do?"

"The question is whether you want to be willing?"

"Yes, indeed, I do," said Marion, with tears in her eyes.

"Then pray that your heart and will may be so sanctified that you shall hate sin because it is sinful," answered the doctor; "but, my dear girl, remember this—that you cannot take a single wilful sin into the kingdom with you. Remember that. Good-bye, my dear; I must not stay another minute."

Marion sat looking out of the window a while longer. Her face was dark and disturbed. She was going through a hard struggle, trying to say "good-bye" to a lifelong companion, to withdraw from the scenes where most of her life had hitherto been spent and shut the door behind her. She knew that the day-dreams in which she had indulged, though not sinful in themselves, perhaps, had become, like every amusement which is made an object, a temptation and snare to her. She knew that she had wasted precious time and opportunities never to be recalled while following the fortunes of the heiress of the McGregors. She felt, too, that, like one who has been a hard drinker, her only safety lay in total abstinence.

At last, as her mother returned from her drive and came in, Marion drew a long breath and turned away from the window. She had said a long farewell to the heiress of the McGregors.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THANKSGIVING.

MARION'S recovery was very slow and tedious. What she gained one week, she lost the next. She was able to sit up a part of every day, and after a while to go to dinner and tea, and even to spend an evening in the parlour now and then, but she could not walk any distance or sit up on a straight chair. There were many days when her back and head were racked with pain, and she could only lie still in her darkened room and endure.

It was a severe trial to Marion, who had never known sickness, and there were times when she found it very hard to be patient, especially when her services seemed so much needed. Henry continued very unwell, and Aunt Eugenia grew more and more feeble all the time.

Betsy did not get up very well from the measles. Her eyes had been greatly affected by the disease, and in her hurry to get back to her beloved music, she had tried them too soon, so that they were now quite useless for reading or work. It must be confessed that under this infliction, Betsy became rather an infliction herself. She practiced the pieces she knew by heart, and went over her scales and exercises till they became a weariness to the flesh.

"There's one thing about it, Betsy," said Marion to her one day when she was lying flat on the floor before the open fire in Marion's room. "Cousin Helen says you are gaining in your fingering all the time."

"Yes, but just think how much I am losing in other ways!" said Betsy, dolefully. "If I had Stanley here to practice duets with, it would be something. I think she might have stayed."

"She couldn't stay any longer, you know. She would have lost her place in the school, and we should not like to have her do that."

"Of course not," said Betsy. "I'm not a selfish monster, I hope."

"Why, no, I hope not, certainly," said Marion, smiling. "I don't think it shows that you are one because you don't want Stannie away. I am sure I miss her enough."

"But isn't it too bad that I have to give up everything so?" said Betsy. "Come, now, Marion, do pity me a little. I'm hungry for some sympathy."

"I pity you very much," said Marion. "It is real hard to have to stop your lessons in the middle just as you are so engaged about them; but, Betsy dear, you haven't been obliged to give up everything, have you? Didn't I hear of your walking over to the run, and riding out with your father to measure the bark, and with Bram to salt the colts up on the hill lot yesterday? I should like to do some of those things pretty well, I think."

"To be sure, you poor old dear! I can run all over as well as ever, and you have to sit or lie here all day. I am a thankless old lobster," exclaimed Betsy, trying hard to find an appropriate epithet. "I ought to go blind entirely for being so unthankful. But, after all, your being laid up don't make it any easier for me, now, does it? Gerty said it ought to be enough for me that I wasn't born blind like Aunt Eugenia, but I couldn't see that her being born blind was any consolation."

"I must say I never do understand that sort of consolation," said Marion. "It makes me think of grandfather's story about the woman who lost her potatoes by the rot. When she was condoled with on the subject, she answered cheerfully,—

"'Yes, minister, but it's a great comfort that all the other folks's potatoes are much worse.'"

"Your grandfather must be lovely, I think," said Betsy. "I suppose he knows all sorts of Scotch stories. I should think you would have made him tell you hundreds of them."

"To tell you the truth, Betsy, I never half appreciated grandfather nor any of my other friends when I lived at home," said Marion sighing. "I was as full as I could be of all sorts of silly notions, and fancied I was very superior because I didn't take an interest in things about me. Oh dear! You don't know how I do want to see grandfather and Aunt Baby again!"

"There! Don't cry," said Betsy, alarmed.

"No, I won't, because I shall make my head ache and be more of a nuisance than I am now. But, Betsy, about your lessons. I don't believe but I might help you, or at least that we might help each other," said Marion, correcting herself. "I could read over the lessons to you—some of them, at least. We could go on with our English history and learn a French lesson every day, and that would be something."

"I should think it was," exclaimed Betsy, jumping up. "But about the Latin, Marie. Don't you hate to stop that? And yet I don't see how we could manage."

"I think I do. We will do our French one day, and the next we will learn some Latin by heart, or take a lesson in the grammar. Don't you know Harry says we are deficient in grammar, like all other girls?" said Marion, smiling as she repeated the remark with which Harry delighted to "aggravate" Betsy.

"Set him up, indeed! But on your sick days?"

"Well, on my sick days I shall have to be sick, I suppose; but they don't come nearly as often as they did."

"And won't it tire you, really? You are not doing it just because I have been making such a fuss or anything?"

"No, indeed; it is quite as much for my amusement as yours. I expect to learn a great deal."

"What a pity you can't go on with your drawing!" said Betsy. "Cousin Helen said you got on better than any pupil she ever had, and it was such a pity—Oh there, now! What have I done? Please don't cry, Marion."

"No, I won't," said Marion, bravely winking away the tears. "I don't see what makes me such a cry-baby."

"It's because you are so weak," said Betsy, with sympathy. "When I was sick, I cried because mother gave Bob an orange and wouldn't let me have any."

"It isn't only that, but—I'll tell you all about it, only you mustn't tell any one," said Marion; "or don't you care about hearing my worries?"

"Of course I do," answered Betsy, flattered by the proposal and seating herself on Marion's footstool.

"Well, I shouldn't mind, only you see I don't get any better, at least very little, and I can't help thinking how dreadful it would be if I should never be any better—if I should be confined to my bed or my chair for ever, like poor Miss Phelps in Rock Bottom, you know."

"Oh, Marion, you mustn't think of anything so dreadful," said Betsy, jumping up and putting her arms round Marion's neck. "I don't wonder you do, though."

"I know I ought not to borrow trouble, and I don't mean to do it," continued Marion; "but when my back aches at night and I can't sleep, or when I am alone a good while, it will come over me. Just think! Never to walk any more for ever!"

"It wouldn't be for ever, you know," whispered Betsy, holding Marion in a very close embrace.

"No, I know that. But twenty, or even ten, years isn't a very pleasant prospect."

"But, Marion, I don't believe there is any danger, do you?"

Marion shook her head:

"I can't see that I walk one bit better than I did a month ago, though I am better other ways. But I don't mean to dwell on it," said Marion, after a little silence and speaking more cheerfully; "only sometimes, you know, I can't help thinking about it, and it seemed as if it would do me good to say it out to somebody."

"Have you said anything to the doctor?" asked Betsy.

"No; I am afraid."

"I would ask him if I were you," said Betsy, with decision; "I'd know just what he thought about it. I dare say he would tell you it wasn't half so bad; and anyhow, I would know the truth."

"I believe you are right," said Marion. "I mean to ask him the next time he comes. There's the dinner-bell. Stay and have some with me. I am not going out to the table to-day, because all the Weilands are here, and I don't feel like facing company and being questioned by those girls. Please, mother, can't Betsy dine with me to-day?"

"To be sure," answered Mrs. Van Alstine. "I was going to propose Henry, who does not want to face company, either, but I can as well provide for three as two. I will send in the little table, and, Betsy, you must wait on Marion."

The small dinner-party was more cheerful than the large one, at least so the "middle boys" declared when they "burst in on the secret revellers," as Bram said.

"Lucky folks!" grumbled Frank, depositing himself at full length on Betsy's late couch, the hearth-rug. "I say, Marion, is there any tea left in that pot?"

"Plenty, you old tea-drinker. Give them some, Betsy."

"I declare, it is worth while to be sick, isn't it, Bram?" said Frank, sitting up to take his cup of tea.

"Betsy isn't sick; she is an impostor out and out; and I more than half suspect Harry of shamming to escape the Miss Weilands. Such fine young ladies!"

"Oh dear, yes! And how could we bear to live so out of the world? And she should die in a week, she knew she should," said Frank, in a lackadaisical tone; "she didn't see how people endured existence out of the city. Didn't Rob Roy take her down?"

"What did he do? Something dreadful, I dare say."

"Not a bit. But you know his way of cogitating over a matter and bringing it out after every one else has finished. So after mother had successfully turned the conversation to wide skirts or narrow, and it was sailing along prosperously, out comes the McGregor:

"'Miss Weiland, how did you endure existence when you lived at Butternut Run? Because you did live there ever so long.'"

"Good!" exclaimed Betsy. "What did she say?"

"Oh, she pretended not to hear, and father gave Rob a pinch. The Weilands used to be nice people before they got above their circumstances."

"What do you mean?" asked Marion.

"Oh, you don't know the story. Well, there was a certain lady over in Ivanhoe who was famous for her good cooking, and, above all, for her pumpkin pies. One day her husband 'struck ile' and made a great fortune. Some time afterward mother asked her for a recipe for the said pies.

"'Oh,' said Mrs. Derrick—that wasn't her name, though—with great majesty, 'since we got above our circumstances, we don't make any more such common pies.'"

"Well, it is a great pity of the Weilands," said Harry. "They used to be nice, jolly plain people, and now they are neither one thing nor another. I don't think the girls are quite as unbearable as Tom, though. Think of his asking me if any gentlemen were to be found at Princeton! He had understood the men were mostly farmers' sons, quite from the masses."

"And now, young men and maidens, you will please vacate Marion's room and leave her to her nap," said Mrs. Andrews, coming in to look after the invalid. "I concluded I should find you here. Your father says Marion's room is a great convenience in one way. When he wants a boy, he knows just where to lay his hand on him."