The Unseen Bridegroom; Or, Wedded For a Week

MOLLIE'S DESPAIR.

Dr. Oleander descended the stairs, passed through the lower hall, and entered the kitchen—a big, square room, bleak and draughty, like all the rest of the old, rickety place, but lighted by a roaring fire.

Old Sally was bustling about over pots and stew-pans, getting supper; old Peter stood at the table peeling potatoes. In an arm-chair before the fire sat another old woman with snaky-black eyes, hooked nose, and incipient black mustache.

Old Sally was volubly narrating what had transpired upstairs, and cut herself short upon the entrance of her master.

"How are you, mother?" said Dr. Oleander, nodding to the venerable party in the arm-chair. "Sally's telling you about my patient, is she?"

His mother's answer was a stifled scream, which Sally echoed.

"Well, what now?" demanded the doctor.

"You look like a ghost! Gracious me, Guy!" cried his mother, in consternation; "you're whiter than the tablecloth."

Dr. Oleander ground out an oath.

"I dare say I am. I've just had a scare from that little, crazy imp that would blanch any man. I thought, in my soul, she was going to spring upon me like a panther and choke me. She would have, too, by Jove, if I hadn't cleared out."

"Lor'!" cried Sally, in consternation, "and I've just been a-telling the missis how sweet, and gentle, and innocent, and pretty she looked."

"Innocent and gentle be—hanged!" growled the doctor. "She's the old Satan in female form. If you don't look out, Sally, she'll throttle you to-morrow when you go in."

Sally gave a little yelp of dismay.

"Lor' a massy, Master Guy! then I'll not go near her. I ain't a-going to be scared out of my senses by mad-women in my old age. I won't go into her room a step to-morrow, Master Guy. If you wants to turn honest people's houses into lunatic asylums, then set lunatic-keepers to see after them. I shan't do it, and so I tell you."

With which short and sharp ultimatum Sally began vigorously laying the cloth for supper.

Before Dr. Oleander could open his mouth to expostulate, his mother struck in:

"I really don't think it's safe to live in the house with such a violent lunatic, Guy. I wish you had taken your crazy patient elsewhere."

"Oh, it's all right, mother. She's only subject to these noisy fits at periodical times. On certain occasions she appears and talks as sanely as you or I. Sally can tell you."

"That I can," said Sally. "You'd oughter heerd her, missis, when she fust came in, a-pleading, you know, with me to assist her, and not help to keep her a prisoner here. I declare, it quite went to my heart. And she looked so little, and so young, and so helpless, poor creature!"

"You're sure her room's all safe and secure, Sally—windows and all?"

"Sure as sure, master. Jack the Giant Killer couldn't remove them 'ere bars."

"Because," said Dr. Oleander, "she is quite capable, in her mad fits, of precipitating herself out of the window and breaking her neck. And be careful, Sally, you cut up her food when you take it to her. Don't bring her any knives or forks."

"I said I wouldn't go near her," said old Sally, facing him resolutely; "and I won't! And what's more, Peter won't! And if you fetches mad-women here, Doctor Guy, you've got to 'tend onto 'em yourself, sir. I won't be 'sassynated in my old age by crazy lunatics; and no more my old man won't, neither. There now!"

Sally finished with a shower of resolute nods. Dr. Oleander knew her a great deal too well to remonstrate. When Sally "put her foot down" all the powers of earth and Hades couldn't put it up again.

"You will be here yourself to-morrow, Guy," said his mother, decisively. "Wait upon her yourself, then."

"But I must return to New York to-morrow afternoon."

"Very well; get an attendant for your crazy patient and send her down. If the young lady's friends are as wealthy as you say, they will surely let her have a keeper."

"They will let her have a dozen if necessary; that is not the question."

"What, then?"

"Have you accommodation for another in this old barn? Can you put up with the trouble?"

"We'll endeavor to do so for your sake. It is easier to put up with another person in the house than be at the beck and call of a lunatic ourselves. Send one from New York capable of taking care of your crazy young lady, and Sally and I will take care of her."

"Thanks! And meantime?"

"Meantime, I will wait upon her myself—if you will assure me she will not be violent."

"I think I can. She is only violent with me, poor soul. She has got an idea into her weak, deranged little head that she is as sane as you or I, and that I have carried her off by force and keep her prisoner here. She goes raving mad at sight of me, but with you she may probably be cool enough. She will tell you a piteous story of how she has been entrapped and carried off from home, if you will listen to her. You had better not; it only encourages her unfortunate delusion."

Mrs. Oleander shrugged her broad shoulders. She was an old woman of strong mind and iron resolution, and nothing in the way of heart to speak of. Her accomplished son took after her in these admirable qualities.

"I have other fish to fry than listening to the empty babble of a maniac. By the bye, what did you say her name was?"

"Miss Dane," responded the doctor, after a slight pause.

He knew he might as well tell the truth about it, or Mollie herself would for him.

"And she is a relative of Blanche's husband?"

"A very near though unacknowledged relation. And now, mother mine, I'll take my supper and turn in if you'll permit me. I've had a very long and fatiguing drive this stormy night."

He sat down to the table and fell to work with an appetite. Old Sally waited upon him, and gazed at his performance with admiring eyes.

"Won't your young lady want something, Guy?" his mother asked, presently.

"Let her fast a little," replied the doctor, coolly; "it will take some of the unnecessary heat out of her blood. I'll fetch her her breakfast to-morrow."

Mrs. Oleander upon this retired at once, and the doctor, after smoking old Peter's pipe in the chimney-corner, retired also.

Then the old man hobbled upstairs to bed, and Sally, after raking out the fire, and seeing to the secure fastening of doors and windows, took up her tallow candle and went after him.

Outside the door of the poor little captive she paused, listening in a sort of breathless awe. But no sound came forth: the tumult of wind, and sea, and rain had the inky night all to themselves.

"She's asleep, I reckon," said old Sally, creeping away. "Poor little, pretty creeter!"

But Mollie was not asleep. When the door had closed after Dr. Oleander, she had dropped on the floor like a stone, and had never stirred since.

She was not in a faint. She saw the ruddy blaze of the fire, as the tongues of flame leaped like red serpents up the chimney; she heard the wild howling of the night wind, the ceaseless dash and fall of the rain, the indescribable roar of the raging sea; she heard the trees creak and toss and groan; she heard the rats scampering overhead; she heard the dismal moaning of the old house itself rocking in the gale.

She saw, she heard, but as one who neither sees nor hears; like one in a drugged, unnatural stupor. She could not think; an iron hand seemed to have clutched her heart, a dreadful despair to have taken possession of her. She had made a horrible, irreparable mistake; she was body and soul in the power of the man she hated most on earth. She was his wife!—she could get no further than that.

The stormy night wore on; midnight came and the elemental uproar was at its height. Still she lay there all in a heap, suffering in a dulled, miserable way that was worse than sharpest pain. She lay there stunned, overwhelmed, not caring if she ever rose again.

And so morning found her—when morning lifted a dull and leaden eye over the stormy sea. It came gloomy and gray, rain falling still, wind whispering pitifully, and a sky of lead frowning down upon the drenched, dank earth and tossing, angry ocean.

All in a heap, as she had fallen, Mollie lay, her head resting on a chair, her poor golden ringlets tossed in a wild, disheveled veil, fast asleep. Pitifully, as sleep will come to the young, be their troubles ever so heavy, sleep had sealed those beaming blue eyes, "not used to tears at night instead of slumber." Tears, Mollie had shed none—the blow that had fallen had left her far beyond that.

Nine o'clock struck; there was a tap at the prison door. Dr. Oleander, thinking his patient's fast had lasted long enough, was coming with a bountiful breakfast. There was no reply to the tap.

"Mollie," the doctor called, gently, "it is I with your breakfast. I am coming in."

Still no response. He turned the key in the lock, opened the door and entered.

What he had expected, Dr. Oleander did not know; he was in a little tremor all over. What he saw was his poor, little prisoner crouched on the floor, her face fallen on a chair, half hidden by the shower of amber curls, sleeping like a very babe.

The hardened man caught his breath; it was a sight to touch any heart; perhaps it even found its way to his.

He stood and looked at her a moment, his eyes getting humid, and softly set down his tray.

"'The Sleeping Beauty,'" he said, under his breath. "What an exquisite picture she makes! My poor little, pretty little Mollie!"

He had made scarcely any noise; he stood gazing at her spell-bound; but that very gaze awoke her.

She fluttered like a bird in its nest, murmured indistinctly, her eyelids quivered a second, then the blue eyes opened wide, and directly she was wide awake.

"Good-morning, Mollie," said the doctor. "I'm afraid I awoke you, and you were sleeping like an angel. You have no idea how lovely you look asleep. But such a very uncomfortable place, my dear one. Why didn't you go to bed like a reasonable being?"

Mollie rose slowly and gathered away her fallen hair from her face. Her cheeks were flushed pink with sleep, her eyes were calm and steadfast, full of invincible resolution. She sat down in the chair she had used for a pillow, and looked at him steadily.

"You may take that away, Doctor Oleander," she said. "I will neither eat nor drink under this roof."

"Oh, nonsense, Mollie!" said the doctor, in no way alarmed by this threat; "yes, you will. Look at this buttered toast, at these eggs, at this ham, at these preserves, raspberry jam. Mollie—'sweets to the sweet,' you know—look at them and you'll think better of it."

She turned her back upon him in bitter disdain.

"Mollie," the doctor said, beseechingly, "don't be so obstinately set against me. You weren't, you know, until I removed my disguise. I'm no worse now than I was before."

"I never thought it was you," Mollie said, in a voice of still despair.

"Oh, yes, you did. You dreaded it was me—you hoped it was that puppy, Ingelow, confound him! Why, Mollie, he doesn't care for you one tithe of what I do. See what I have risked for you—reputation, liberty, everything that man holds dear."

"And you shall lose them yet," Mollie said, between her clinched teeth.

"I have made myself a felon to obtain you, Mollie. I love you better than myself—than anything in the world. You are my wife—be my wife, and forgive me."

"Never!" cried Mollie passionately, raising her arm aloft with a gesture worthy of Siddons or Ristori; "may I never be forgiven when I die if I do! I could kill you this moment, as I would a rat, if I had it in my power, and with as little compunction. I hate you—I hate you—I hate you! How I hate you words are too poor and weak to tell!"

"Of course," said the doctor, with ineffable calm: "it's perfectly natural just now. But you'll get over it, Mollie, believe me you will, and like me all the better by and by."

"Will you go?" said Mollie, her eyes beginning to blaze.

"Listen to me first," said the doctor, earnestly. "Listen to me, I implore you, Mollie! I have taken a dangerous step in fetching you here—in marrying you as I did; my very life is at stake. Do you think I will stick at trifles now? No. You must either return to New York as my wife, openly acknowledging yourself such, or—never return. Wait—wait, Mollie! Don't interrupt. You are altogether in my power. If you were hidden in a dungeon of the French Bastile you could not be more secure or secluded than here. There is no house within five miles; there is the wild sea, the wild woods, a stretch of flat, barren, marshy sea-coast—nothing more. No one ever comes here by water or land. There are iron bars to those windows, and the windows are fifteen feet from the ground. The people in this house think you mad—the more you tell them to the contrary the less they will believe you. In New York they have not the slightest clew to your whereabouts. You vanished once before and came back—they will set this down as a similar trick, and not trouble themselves about you. You are mine, Mollie, mine—mine! There is no alternative in the wide earth."

Dr. Oleander's face flashed with triumph, his voice rang out exultantly, his form seemed to tower with victory, his eyes flashed like burning coals. He made one step toward her.

"Mine, Mollie; mine you have been, mine you will be for life. The gods have willed it so, Mollie—my wife!"

Another step nearer, triumphant, victorious, then Mollie lifted her arm with a queenly gesture and uttered one word:

"Stop!"

She was standing by the mantel, drawn up to her full height, her face whiter than snow, rigid as marble, but the blue eyes blazing blue flame.

"Back, Doctor Oleander! Not one step nearer if you value your life!" She put her hand in her bosom and drew out a glittering plaything—a curious dagger of foreign workmanship she had once taken from Carl Walraven. "Before I left home, Doctor Oleander, I took this. I did not expect to have to use it, but I took it. Look at it; see its blue, keen glitter. It is a pretty, little toy, but it proves you a false boaster and a liar! It leaves me one alternative—death!"

"Mollie! For God's sake!"

There was that in the girl's white, rigid face that frightened the strong man. He recoiled and looked at the little flashing serpent with horror.

"I have listened to you, Doctor Guy Oleander," said Mollie Dane, slowly, solemnly; "now listen to me. All you say may be true, but yours I never will be—never, never, never! Before you can lay one finger on me this knife can reach my heart or yours. I don't much care which, but yours if I can. If I am your wife, as you say, the sooner I am dead the better."

"Mollie, for Heaven's sake—"

But Mollie, like a tragedy queen, waved her hand and interrupted him:

"They say life is sweet—I suppose it is—but if I am your wife I have no desire to live, unless, indeed, to be revenged on you. Put a dose of arsenic in yonder coffee-cup and give me the draught. I will drink it."

Dr. Oleander grinned horribly a ghastly smile.

"I had much rather give you a love-philter, Mollie," he said, recovering from his first scare. "Unhappily, the age of love-philters seems to have passed. And now I will leave you for the present—time will work wonders, I think. I must go back to New York; no one must suspect I have left it for an hour. I will return in a day or two, and by that time I trust you will no longer be in such a reckless frame of mind. I don't want you to die by any means; you are a great deal too pretty and piquant, and I love you far too well. Good-bye, my spirited little wife, for a couple of days."

He bowed low and left the room, locking the door carefully. And when he was gone Mollie drooped at once, leaning against the mantel, pale and trembling, her hands over her face—alone with her despair.

MIRIAM TO THE RESCUE.

An artist stood in his studio, overlooking busy, bright Broadway. He stood before his easel, gazing in a sort of rapture at his own work. It was only a sketch, a sketch worthy of a master, and its name was "The Rose Before It Bloomed." A girl's bright, sweet face, looking out of a golden aureole of wild, loose hair; a pair of liquid, starry, azure eyes; a mouth like a rosebud, half pouting, half smiling. An exquisite face—rosy, dimpled, youthful as Hebe's own—the radiant face of Mollie Dane.

The day was near its close, and was dying in regal splendor. All day the dark, dreary rain had fallen wearily, ceaselessly; but just as twilight, ghostly and gray, was creeping up from the horizon, there had flashed out a sudden sunburst of indescribable glory.

The heavens seemed to open, and a glimpse of paradise to show, so grand and glorious was the oriflamme of crimson and purple and orange and gold that transfigured the whole firmament.

A lurid light filled the studio, and turned the floating yellow hair of the picture to living, burnished ripples of gold.

"It is Mollie—living, breathing, lovely Mollie!" the artist said to himself in sudden exultation—"beautiful, bewitching Mollie! Fit to sit by a king's side and wear his crown. Come in!"

For a tap at the studio door suddenly brought our enthusiastic artist back to earth. He flung a cloth over the sketch, and leaned gracefully against the easel.

The figure that entered somewhat disturbed the young man's constitutional phlegm—it was so unlike his usual run of visitors—a remarkable figure, tall, gaunt, and bony, clad in wretched garb; a haggard, powerful face, weather-beaten and brown, and two blazing black eyes.

The artist opened his own handsome orbs to their widest extent.

"I wish to see Mr. Hugh Ingelow," said this singular woman in a deep bass voice.

"I am Hugh Ingelow, madame, at your service."

The woman fixed her burning eyes on the calm, serenely handsome face. The lazy hazel eyes of the artist met hers coolly, unflinchingly.

"I await your pleasure, madame. Will you enter and sit down?"

The woman came in, closed the door cautiously after her, but declined the proffered seat.

"To what am I indebted for the honor of this visit?" asked the artist, quietly. "I have not the pleasure of knowing you."

"I am Mollie Dane's aunt."

"Ah, indeed!" and Mr. Hugh Ingelow lighted up, for the first time, with something like human interest. "Yes, yes; I remember you now. You came to Mr. Carl Walraven's wedding and gave us a little touch of high tragedy. Pray sit down, and tell me what I can do for you."

"I don't want to sit. I want you to answer me a question."

"One hundred, if you like."

"Do you know where Mollie Dane is?"

"Not exactly," said Mr. Ingelow, coolly. "I'm not blessed, unfortunately, with the gift of the fairy prince in the child's tale. I can't see my friends through walls of stone and mortar; but I take it she is at the palatial mansion uptown."

"She is not!"

"Eh?"

"She is not!" reiterated Miriam. "I have just been there. They are in the utmost alarm and distress—at least, Mr. Walraven appears to be. Mollie has again disappeared."

"By Jove!" cried Mr. Ingelow, in dismay.

"She left the house late last night. One of the servants, it appears, saw her go, and she has never been heard of or seen since."

"By Jove!" for the second time exclaimed Hugh Ingelow.

"It is supposed that she has met with foul play—been inveigled away from home, and is in the power of a villain."

"Well," said Mr. Ingelow, drawing a long breath, "Miss Dane has the greatest knack of causing sensations of any lady I ever knew. Pray, are you aware this is the second time such a thing has happened?"

"I am quite aware of it. Also, that she went against her will."

"Indeed! Being so near a relative, it is natural you should be posted. And now, may I beg to know," said the young man, with cool politeness, "why you do me the honor to come and inform me?"

Miriam looked at him with her eagle glance—keen, side-long, searching. Mr. Ingelow made her a slight bow.

"Well, madame?" smiling carelessly.

"Do you not know?"

"I?"—a broad stare. "Really, madame, I am at a loss—How should I know?"

"Did you not meet Mollie last night at the corner of Broadway and Fourteenth Street?"

"Most certainly not."

"Where were you at ten o'clock last evening?"

Again Mr. Ingelow smiled.

"Really, a raking cross-examination. Permit me to decline answering that question."

"And you know nothing of Mollie's previous disappearance—of that mysterious fortnight?"

"My good woman, be reasonable. I'm not an astrologer, nor a wizard, nor yet a clairvoyant. I'm not in Miss Dane's confidence. I put it to yourself—how should I know?"

"You shuffle—you equivocate!" cried Miriam, impatiently. "Why don't you answer at once—yes or no?"

"My dear lady," with a deprecating wave of his shapely hand, "don't be so dreadfully blunt. Pray tell me of what you accuse me—of forcibly abducting Miss Dane last night at ten o'clock? With my hand on my heart, madame, on the word of a man and brother—on the honor of an artist—I solemnly asseverate I didn't do it!"

Miriam groaned.

"Then what has become of that unfortunate child? She thought it was you, or she never would have gone."

The fair, refined face of the artist flushed deep red, and he was grave in an instant.

"Madame, what do you say?"

"Oh, you know!" cried the woman, vehemently. "You surely know, else all you men are blinder than bats. You know she loved you well."

"Oh, madame!"

The young man caught his breath.

"She told me so herself," cried Miriam, recklessly betraying this, and wringing her hands; "and she went last night, hoping it was you."

The momentary expression of rapture had quite faded out of Mr. Ingelow's face by this time, and, leaning against his easel, he was listening with cool attention. But if Miriam could have known how this man's heart was plunging against his ribs!

"I think there is a mistake somewhere," said Hugh, with sang-froid. "Miss Dane refused me."

"Bah!" said Miriam, with infinite scorn; "much you know of women, to take that for a test! But it isn't to talk of love I came here. I am half distracted. The child has met with foul play, I am certain, since you are here."

"Will you have the goodness to explain, my good woman," said Mr. Ingelow, beseechingly. "Consider, I am all in the dark."

"And I can not enlighten you without telling you the whole story, and if you are not the hero of it, I have no right, and no wish, to do that. One question I will ask you," fixing her powerful eyes on his face: "Do you still love Mollie Dane?"

Mr. Ingelow smiled serene as the sunset sky outside.

"A point-blank question. Forgive me if I decline answering it."

Miriam's eyes flashed fire.

"You never cared for her!" she said, in fierce impatience. "You are a poltroon and a carpet-knight, like the rest—ready with plenty of fine words, and nothing else! You asked her to marry you, and you don't care whether she is living or dead!"

"Why should I?" said Mr. Ingelow, coolly. "She refused to marry me."

"And with a flighty girl's refusal your profound, and lasting, and all enduring love dies out, like a dip-candle under an extinguisher! Oh, you are all alike—all alike! Selfish, and mean, and cruel, and false, and fickle to the very heart's core!"

"Hard words," said Mr. Ingelow, with infinite calm. "You make sweeping assertions, madame, but there is just a possibility of your being mistaken, after all."

"Words, words, words!" Miriam cried, bitterly. "Words in plenty, but no actions! I wish my tongue had been palsied ere I uttered what I have uttered within this hour!"

"My dear madame, softly, softly! Pray, pray do not be so impetuous. Don't jump at such frantic conclusions! I assure you, my words are not empty sound. I mean 'em, every one. I'll do anything in reason for you or your charming niece."

"In reason!" said the woman, with a scornful laugh. "Oh, no doubt! You'll take, exceeding good care to be calm and reasonable, and weigh the pros and cons, and not get yourself into trouble to deliver the girl you wanted to marry the other day from captivity—from death, perhaps! She refused you, and that is quite sufficient."

"Now, now!" cried Mr. Ingelow, appealing to the four walls in desperation. "Did ever mortal man hear the like of this? Captivity—death! My good woman—my dear lady—can't you draw it a little milder? Is not this New York City? And are we not in the year of grace eighteen hundred and ninety? Pray, don't go back to the Dark Ages, when lovers went clad in clanking suits of mail, and forcibly carried off brides from the altar, under the priest's very nose, à la Young Lochinvar. Do be reasonable, there's a good soul!"

Miriam turned her back upon him in superb disdain.

"And this is the man Mollie preferred! This is the man I thought would help me! Mr. Hugh Ingelow, I wish you good-evening."

"No, no." exclaimed Mr. Ingelow, starting up. "Not yet! Open the mysteries a little before you depart. I'm willing and ready to aid you to the best of my ability. Tell me what I'm to do, and I'll do it."

"I have nothing to tell," Miriam said, steadfastly. "I will not put you to the trouble of helping me."

"But you must!" cried the artist, suddenly transforming himself into a new man. "If Mollie Dane is really in danger, then I must know, and aid her. No one has a better right, for no one on earth loves her as well as I do."

"Ha!" exclaimed Miriam, stopping short. "We have it at last, have we? You love her, then?"

"With all my heart, and mind, and strength; as I never have loved, and never will love, any other earthly creature. Now, then, sit down here and tell me, from first to last, what you came here to tell."

He wheeled forward a chair, took the woman by both shoulders, and compelled her to be seated. His face was very pale, his eyes alight, his statuesque mouth stern, and set, and powerful.

Miriam looked at him with dawning admiration and respect. The man that makes them obey is the man women are pretty safe to adore.

"Now, then," he said—"now, Madame Miriam, I want you to begin at the beginning and tell me all. If Mollie Dane is above ground, I will find her."

The woman looked up in his handsome face, locked in grim, inflexible resolution—an iron face now—and relaxed.

"Mollie was not deceived in you, after all. I am glad of it, I like you. I would give a year of my life to see you safely her husband."

"Many thanks! Pity she is not of the same mind!"

"Girls change.—You never asked her but once. Suppose you try again. You are young enough and handsome enough to win whomsoever you please."

"You are complimentary. Suppose we leave all that and proceed to business. Tell me what you know of Miss Dane's abduction."

He seated himself before her and waited, his eyes fixed gravely on her face.

"To make what I have to say intelligible," said Miriam, "it is necessary to give you an insight into the mystery of her previous evanishment. She was tricked away by artifice, carried off and forcibly held a prisoner by a man whose masked face she never saw."

"Impossible! Mr. Walraven told me, told every one, she was with you."

"Very likely. Also, that I was dying or dead. The one part is as true as the other. Mollie never was near me. She was forcibly detained by this unknown man for a fortnight, then brought home. She told me the story, and also who she suspected that man to be."

"Who?"

Miriam looked at him curiously.

"Doctor Guy Oleander, or—you!"

"Ah, you jest, madame!" haughtily.

"I do not. She was mistaken, it appears, but she really thought it might be you. To make sure, she found means of communicating with this strange man, and a meeting was appointed for last night, ten o'clock, corner of Broadway and Fourteenth Street".

"Yes! Well?"

"Mollie went, still thinking—perhaps I should say hoping—it might be you, Mr. Ingelow: and I, too, was there."

"Well?"

"Mollie did not see me. I hovered aloof. It was only half past nine when she came—half an hour too early—but already a carriage was waiting, and a man, disguised in hat and cloak and flowing beard, stepped forward and accosted her at once. What he said to her I don't know, but he persuaded her, evidently with reluctance, to enter the carriage with him. The rain was pouring. I suppose that was why she went. In a moment the coachman had whipped up the horses, and they were off like a flash."

Miriam paused. Mr. Ingelow sat staring at her with a face of pale amaze.

"It sounds like a scene from a melodrama. And Miss Dane has not returned since?"

"No; and the household on Fifth Avenue are at their wits' end to comprehend it."

"And so am I," said the artist. "From what you say, it is evident she went willingly—of her own accord. In such a case, of course, I can do nothing."

"She did not go willingly. I am certain she entered that carriage under the impression she was going with you."

Mr. Ingelow's sensitive face reddened. He rose and walked to the window.

"But since it was not I, who do you suppose it may have been?"

"Doctor Oleander."

"No! He would not dare!"

"I don't know him," said Miriam; "but from what Mollie says of him, I should judge him to be capable of anything. He loves her, and he is madly jealous; and jealous men stop at nothing. Then, too, Mrs. Walraven would aid him. She hates Mollie as only one woman can hate another."

"Doctor Oleander, then, must be the man who abducted her before, else how could he keep the assignation?"

"Yes," said Miriam, "that is the worst of it. Poor Mollie! it will drive her mad. She detests the man with all her heart. If she is in his power, he will show her no mercy. Mr. Ingelow, can you aid her, or must I seek her alone and unaided?"

Mr. Ingelow was standing with his back to her, looking out at the last yellow line of the sunset streaking the twilight sky. He turned partly around, very, very pale, as the woman, could see, and answered, guardedly:

"You had better do nothing, I think. You had better leave the matter altogether to me. Our game is shy, and easily scared. Leave me to deal with him. I think, in a battle of wits, I am a match even for Guy Oleander; and if Mollie is not home before the moon wanes, it will be no fault of mine."

"I will trust you," Miriam said, rising and walking to the door. "You will lose no time. The poor child is, no doubt, in utter misery."

"I will lose no time. You must give me a week. This day week come back, if Mollie is not home, and I will meet you here."

Miriam bowed her head and opened the door.

"Mollie will thank you—I can not. Farewell!"

"Until this day week," Hugh Ingelow said, with a courteous smile and bow.

And then Miriam Dane was gone, flitting through bustling Broadway like a tall, haggard ghost.

Hugh Ingelow turned back to the window, his brows knit, his lips compressed, his eyes glowing with a deep, intense fire—thinking. So he stood while the low, yellow gleams died out of the western sky, and the crystal stars swung in the azure arch—thinking, thinking!

"SHE ONLY SAID, 'MY LIFE IS DREARY.'"

That same brilliant sunburst that transfigured the artist's studio in Broadway blazed into the boudoir of Mrs. Carl Walraven, and turned the western windows to sheets of quivering flame.

Elegant and handsome, in a superb dinner-dress of rose-bloom silk and pale emeralds, Mrs. Walraven lay back on her sofa and looked up in the face of her cousin Guy.

"Booted and spurred," as if from a journey, the young man stood before her, hat in hand, relating the success of their scheme. A little pale, a good deal fagged, and very anxious, Dr. Guy had sought his cousin the very first thing on his arrival in town. Mrs. Carl, arrayed for conquest, going out to a grand dinner-party, was very well disposed to linger and listen. An exultant smile wreathed her full, ripe lips and lighted the big black eyes with triumph.

"Poor little fool!" she said. "How nicely she baited her own trap, and how nicely she walked into it! Thank the stars, she is out of my way! Guy, if you let her come back, I'll never forgive you!"

"By Jove, Blanche!" said the doctor, bluntly, "if she ever comes back, it will matter very little whether you forgive me or not. I shall probably go for change of air to Sing Sing for the remainder of my mortal career."

"Pooh! there is not the slightest danger. The ball is in your own hands; Mollie is safe as safe in your dreary farmhouse by the sea. Your mother and Sally and Peter are all true as steel; no danger of her escaping from them."

"No; but they decline to have anything to do with my mad patient. It was no easy matter, I can tell you, to get them to consent to having her there at all. I must get her an attendant."

"That increases the risk. However, the risk is slight. Advertise."

"I mean to. I sent an advertisement to the papers before I came here, carefully worded. Applicants are to come to my office. Those who read it, and who know me, will think I want a nurse for one of my invalids, of course."

"You will be very careful in your selection, Guy?"

"Certainly. My life depends upon it. It is a terrible risk to run, Blanche, for a foolish little girl."

"Bah! Quaking already? And you pretend to love her?"

"I do love her!" the young man cried, passionately. "I love her to madness, or I would not risk life and liberty to obtain her."

"I don't see the risk," said Mrs. Blanche, coldly. "You have the cards in your own hands—play them as you choose. Only you and I know the secret."

Dr. Oleander looked at his fair relative with a very gloomy face.

"A secret that two know is a secret no longer."

"Do you dare doubt me?" demanded the lady, fiercely.

"No—yes—I don't know. Oh! never look so haughtily insulted, Mrs. Walraven. I almost doubt myself. It's my first felony, and it is natural a fellow should quake a little. But Mollie is worth the risk—worth ten thousand risks. If it were to do over again, I would do it. By Heaven, Blanche! you should have seen her as she stood there brandishing that dagger aloft and defying me! I never saw anything so transcendently beautiful!"

Mrs. Walraven's scornful upper lip curled.

"Lady Macbeth—four feet high—eh? 'Give me the daggers!' I always knew she was a vixen. Your married life is likely to be a happy one, my dear Guy!"

"Oh!" Dr. Guy aspirated, "if she only were my wife! Blanche, I would give all I possess on earth to know who that man is!"

"Indeed!" said Mme. Blanche, coolly. "Then I think I can tell you: it was Hugh Ingelow."

"Blanche!"

"I have no positive knowledge, you see, of the fact," went on the lady, adjusting her regal robes, "but an inward prescience tells me so. However, you may remarry her and welcome, Guy. I don't think she will hardly be tried for bigamy. The happy man, whoever he may be, will scarcely come forward and prove the previous marriage."

"And she loves this Hugh Ingelow?" the doctor said, moodily.

"She told that old lady so," Mrs. Blanche said, airily. "But, my dear love-struck cousin, what of that? To love, is one thing; to have, is another. She may love Ingelow, but she is yours. Make her your wife. Teach her to overcame that little weakness."

"As soon as I can settle my affairs," said Doctor Oleander, resolutely, "I shall leave the country. I have a friend in Havana—a physician. There is a promising opening out there, he tells me. I'll take Mollie and go."

"I would," replied Mrs. Walraven, cheerfully. "It's a nice, unhealthy climate; and then, when you are a widower—as you will be, thanks to yellow fever—come back to dear New York. There's no place like it. And now, my dear Guy, I don't wish to be rude, you know, but if you would depart at once, you would very much oblige me."

Mrs. Walraven stood up, walked over to the whole-length mirror, and took a prolonged and complacent view of her full-blown charms.

"How do you think I am looking, Guy?" languidly. "Rather too pale, am I not? I must have recourse to that vulgar necessity, rouge. Don't you think this new shade of pink lovely? and so highly suitable to my brunette style."

Dr. Oleander gave her a glance of disgust, took his hat, and turned to leave.

"I didn't come here to talk of new shades of pink, or your brunette style, either. Excuse me for trespassing on your valuable time, and permit me to wish you good-evening."

"Good-evening, cousin mine," Mme. Blanche responded, sweetly. "Come to-morrow, and we'll have another little chat. By the bye, how long do you expect to remain in the city?"

"Until I have engaged an attendant," answered the doctor, rather sulkily.

"Ah! and that will be day after to-morrow, at furthest. You will find dozens of applicants. Well, by-bye. Come again soon. I shall be anxious always for your success."

Dr. Oleander departed. His practice was extensive, and he had hosts of neglected patients to attend to.

Mrs. Walraven saw nothing of him all next day; but in the evening of the succeeding day, and just as she was getting very uneasy, Dr. Oleander entered, pale and fagged.

Dr. Oleander had spent a most harassing afternoon, his office besieged with applicants for that advertised situation. The number of incapables that thought themselves capable, and the number of capables who flatly declined the moment they heard they were to go down into the country, might have worn out the patience of a more patient man. And the capables willing to overlook the dreariness of the country in consideration of high wages rose up immediately and bid him good-day when informed the patient was a lunatic.

Dr. Oleander was driven to the verge of desperation, when, lo! just as he was about to give it up in despair, there entered an applicant who suited as if made to order.

The applicant—this "last, and brightest, and best"—was a woman of uncertain age, tall and stout, strong and strapping, and adorned with a head of violent red hair and a pair of green spectacles. Minus these two disagreeable items, she was a highly respectable woman, with a grave, shrewd face, and a portly person wrapped in a somber plaid shawl.

She stated her case. She had seen the advertisement, and had come to apply for the situation. She was accustomed to the office of sick-nurse, and considered herself fully qualified for it.

Her statement was plain and straightforward—much more so than that of her predecessors. Dr. Oleander was inclined to be pleased, despite the green spectacles.

"But I should wish you to go into the country—a very dull place indeed."

The applicant folded her cotton gloves one over the other, and met the doctor's gaze with composed green glasses.

"The country is no objection, sir. I'm used to quiet, and all places are alike to me."

"You have your credentials with you, I suppose?"

"I have, sir. Here they are."

She handed two or three certificates of capability to the toxicologist.

He glanced them lightly over, and saw that Mrs. Susan Sharpe was all that heart could desire in the way of sick-nurse.

"These are satisfactory," handing them back. "But I have one fact to mention that may discourage you: the lady—the patient—is insane."

Mrs. Susan Sharpe heard this startling statement without moving a muscle of her dull, white face.

"Indeed, sir! A violent lunatic, sir?"

"Oh, dear, no! merely insane. Subject to occasional fits of violence, you understand, but quiet generally. But even in her most violent fits she would be nothing in your hands—a strong, large woman like you. She is little more than a child in years, and quite a child in weakness. If you don't mind the dullness of the country, you would suit admirably, I think."

"I don't in the least mind, sir. The situation will suit me very well."

"I am very glad to hear it," said the doctor, immensely relieved. "We may consider it a bargain, then?"

"If you please, sir," rising quietly. "When will you want me to go?"

"To-morrow morning. By the way, Mrs. Sharpe," said the doctor, eying the obnoxious lunettes, "why do you wear green glasses?"

"My eyes are weak, sir." Mrs. Sharpe removed the spectacles as she spoke, and displayed a pair of dull gray eyes with very pink rims. "The light affects them. I hope my glasses are no objection, sir?"

"Oh, not in the least! Excuse my question. Very well, then, Mrs. Sharpe; just give me your address, and I'll call round for you to-morrow forenoon."

Mrs. Sharpe gave him the street and number—a dirty locality near the East River. Dr. Oleander "made a note of it," and the new nurse made her best obeisance and departed.

And, to inform Mme. Blanche of his success in this matter, Dr. Guy presented himself at the Walraven mansion just as the misty twilight was creeping out and the stars and street lamps were lighting up.

He found the lady, as usual, beautiful and elegant, and dressed to perfection, and ready to receive him alone in the drawing-room.

"I've been seriously anxious about you, Guy," Mrs. Walraven said. "Your prolonged absence nearly gave me a nervous fit. I had serious ideas of calling at your office this afternoon. Why were you not here sooner?"

"Why wasn't I? Because I couldn't be in half a dozen places at once," answered her cousin, rather crossly. "I've been badgered within an inch of my life by confounded women in shabby dresses and poky bonnets all day. Out of two or three bushels of chaff I only found one grain of wheat."

"And that one?"

"Her earthly name is Susan Sharpe, and she rejoices in red hair and green glasses, and the blood and brawn and muscle of a gladiator—a treasure who doesn't object to a howling wilderness or a raving-mad patient. I clinched her at once."

"And she goes with you—when?"

"To-morrow morning. If Mollie's still obdurate, I must leave her in this woman's charge, and return to town. As soon as I can settle my affairs, I will go back to the farm and be off with my bride to Havana."

"Always supposing she will not consent to return with you to New York in that character?"

"Of course. But she never will do that," the doctor said, despondently. "You don't know how she hates me, Blanche."

Blanche shrugged her graceful shoulders.

"Do you implicitly trust this woman you have hired?"

"I trust no one," responded Dr. Guy, brusquely. "My mother and Sally and Peter will watch her. Although, I dare say, there may be no necessity, it is always best to be on the safe side."

"How I should like to see her—to triumph over her—to exult in her misery!" Blanche cried, her eyes sparkling.

"I dare say," said Dr. Oleander, with sneering cynicism. "You would not be a woman, else. But you will never have the chance. I don't hate my poor little captive, remember. There! is that the dinner-bell?"

"Yes—come! We have Sir Roger Trajenna to-day, and Mr. Walraven detests being kept waiting."

"Poor Sir Roger!" with a sneering laugh. "How does the lovesick old dotard bear this second loss?"

"Better than he did the first; his pride aids him. It is my husband who is like a man distraught."

"The voice of Nature speaks loudly in the paternal-breast," said Dr. Oleander. "'Nater will caper,' as Ethan Spike says. Mollie's mamma must have been a very pretty woman, Blanche."

Mrs. Walraven's black eyes snapped; but they were at the dining-room door, and she swept in as your tall, stately women in trailing silks do sweep, bowing to the baronet, and taking her place, and, of course, the subject of the interesting captive down in Long Island was postponed indefinitely.

Dr. Oleander dined and spent the evening at the Walraven palace, and talked about his ward's second flight with her distressed guardian, and opined she must have gone off to gratify some whim of her own, and laughed in his sleeve at the two anxious faces before him, and departed at ten, mellow with wine and full of hope for the future.

Early next morning Dr. Oleander called round for Susan Sharpe, and found that treasure of nurses ready and waiting. All through the long drive she sat by his side in his light wagon, never opening her discreet lips except to respond to his questions, and gazing straight ahead through her green glasses into the world of futurity, for all her companion knew.

"Among your charge's hallucinations," said Dr. Oleander, just before they arrived, "the chief is that she is not crazy at all. She will tell you she has been brought here against her will; that I am a tyrant and a villain, and the worst of men; and she will try and bribe you, I dare say, to let her escape. Of course you will humor her at the time, but pay not the least attention."

"Of course," Mrs. Susan Sharpe answered.

There was a pause, then the nurse asked the first question she had put:

"What is my patient's name, sir?"

Dr. Oleander paused an instant, and mastered a sudden tremor. His voice was quite steady when he replied:

"Miss Dane. Her friends are eminently respectable, and have the utmost confidence in me. I have every reason to hope that the quiet of this place and the fresh sea air will eventually effect a cure."

"I hope so, sir," Mrs. Susan Sharpe said; and the pink-rimmed eyes glowed behind the green glasses, and into the tallow-candle complexion crept just the faintest tinge of red.

It was an inexpressibly lonely place, as Mrs. Sharpe saw it. A long stretch of bleak, desolate, windy road, a desolate, salty marsh, ghostly woods, and the wide, dreary sea. Over all, this afternoon, a sunless sky, threatening rain, and a grim old pile of buildings fronting the sea view.

"A lonesome place," Mrs. Susan Sharpe said, as if in spite of herself—"an awfully lonesome place!"

Dr. Oleander looked at her suspiciously as he drew up before the frowning gate.

"It is lonely," he said, carelessly. "I told you so, you remember; but, from its very loneliness, all the better for my too excitable patient."

Mrs. Sharpe's face seemed to say she thought it might be more conducive to begetting melancholy madness than curing it, but her tongue said nothing. Two big dogs, barking furiously, came tumbling round the angle of the house. Dr. Oleander struck at them with his whip.

"Down, Tiger! Silence, Nero, you overgrown brute!" he cried, with an angry oath. "Come along, Mrs. Sharpe. There's no occasion to be alarmed; they won't touch you."

Mrs. Sharpe, despite this assurance, looking mortally afraid, kept close to the doctor, and stood gazing around her while waiting to be admitted. Bolts grated, the key creaked, and heavily and warily old Peter opened the door and reconnoitered.

"It is I, Peter, you old fool! Get out of the way, and don't keep us waiting!"

With which rough greeting the young man strode in, followed by the nurse.

"He fetches a woman every time," murmured old Peter, plaintively, "and we've got a great plenty now, Lord knows!"

"This way, ma'am," called Dr. Oleander, striding straight, to the kitchen; "we'll find a fire here, at least. It's worse than Greenland, this frigid-zone!"

Mrs. Oleander sat before the blazing fire, plucking a fowl; Sally stood at the table, kneading dough. Both paused, with feminine exclamations, at sight of the doctor, and turned directly, with feminine curiosity, to stare at the woman.

"How do, mother? How are you, Sally? Back again, you see, like the proverbial bad shilling! This is Mrs. Susan Sharpe, the nurse I promised to bring. How's our patient?"

He turned anxiously to his mother. She took her eyes from Mrs. Sharpe to answer.

"I don't know; she frightens me, Guy."

"Frightens you!" growing very pale. "How? Is she so violent?"

"No; it's the other way. She's so still; she's like one dead in life. She sits all day, and never moves nor speaks. She doesn't eat enough to keep a bird alive, and she never sleeps, I believe; for, go into her room night or day, there you find her sitting wide awake."

Dr. Oleander looked white with dismay.

"Does she never speak?" he asked.

"She never spoke to me but once, and that was to ask me who I was. When I told her I was your mother, she turned her back upon me, with the remark, 'He says I'm mad, and surely none but a mad-woman would look for mercy from a tiger's dam!' She has never spoken to me since."

Dr. Oleander stood listening with a very gloomy face. Mrs. Sharpe, sitting warming herself before the fire, looked straight at it, with a blank, sallow face.

"What do you find her doing mostly?" he asked, after awhile.

"Sitting by the window, looking at the sea," answered his mother—"always that—with a face the color of snow."

The gloom on the young man's face deepened. What if he should prove himself a prophet? What if this spirited, half-tamed thing should go melancholy mad?

"I will go to her at once!" he exclaimed, starting up. "If she goes into a passion at sight of me, it will do her good. Anything is better than this death in life."

He held out his hand for the key of the room upstairs. His mother handed it to him, and he strode out at once; and then Mrs. Oleander turned her regards upon the new nurse.

Strangers were "sight for sair een" in that ghostly, deserted farmhouse. But the new nurse never looked at her; she sat with those impenetrable green glasses fixed steadfastly on the blazing fire.

MISTRESS SUSAN SHARPE.

Dr. Oleander was by no means a coward, yet it is safe to say his heart was bumping against his ribs, with a sensation that was near akin to fear, as he ascended the stairs. He was really infatuatedly in love with his fair-haired little enchantress, else he never had taken his late desperate step to win her; and now, having her completely in his power, it was rather hard to be threatened with her loss by melancholy madness.

"What shall I do with her?" he asked himself, in a sort of consternation. "I must keep her here until I get my affairs settled, and that will be a week at the soonest. If we were safely en route for Havana, I should cease to fear. How will she receive me, I wonder?"

He tapped softly at the door. There was no response. The silence of the grave reigned all through the lonely old house. He tapped again. Still no answer. "Mollie!" he called. There was no reply. The next moment he had inserted the key, turned it, and opened the prison door.

Dr. Oleander paused on the threshold and took in the picture. He could see the low-lying, sunless afternoon sky, all gray and cheerless; the gray, complaining sea creeping up on the greasy shingle; the desolate expanse of road; the tongue of marshland; the strip of black pine woods—all that could be seen from the window. The prison-room looked drear and bleak; the fire on the hearth was smoldering away to black ashes; the untasted meal stood on the table. Seated by the window, in a drooping, spiritless way, as if never caring to stir again, sat bright Mollie, the ghost of her former self. Wan as a spirit, thin as a shadow, the sparkle gone from her blue eyes, the golden glimmer from the yellow hair, she sat there with folded hands and weary, hopeless eyes that never left the desolate sea. Not imprisonment, not the desolation of the prospect, not the loneliness, not the fasting had wrought the change, but the knowledge that she was this man's wife.

Dr. Oleander had ample time to stand there and view the scene. She never stirred. If she heard the door open, she made no more sign than if she were stone deaf.

"Mollie!" he called, advancing a step.

At the sound of that hated voice she gave a violent start, a faint, startled cry, and, turning for the first time, eyed him like a wild animal at bay.

"Mollie, my poor little girl," he said in a voice of real pity, "you are gone to a shadow! I never thought a few days' confinement could work such a change."

She never spoke; she sat breathing hard and audibly, and eying him with wild, wide eyes.

"You mustn't give way like this, Mollie; you mustn't really, you know. It will not be for long. I mean to take you away from here. Very soon we will go to Cuba, and then my whole life will be devoted to you. No slave will serve his mistress as I will you."

He drew nearer as he spoke. Quick as lightning her hand sought her breast, and the blue gleam of the dagger dazzled his eyes.

"One step nearer," she hissed, between set, glistening teeth, "and I'll bury it in your heart or my own!"

She raised it with a gesture grand and terrible, and rising slowly from her seat, confronted him like a little tigress.

"Mollie," he said, imploringly, "listen to me—your husband!"

Her white teeth locked together with a clinching noise; she stood there like a pale little fury.

"Have you no pity for such love as mine, Mollie? Is your heart made of stone, that all my devotion can not melt it?"

To his horror, she broke into a discordant, mirthless laugh.

"His devotion! He tears me away from my friends, he locks me up in a dungeon until he drives me mad! His devotion!"

She laughed hysterically again.

"It seems harsh, Mollie, but it is not meant in harshness. If there were any other way of winning you, you know I would never resort to such extreme measures. I am not the only man that has carried off the woman he loved, when other means failed to win her."

Again he came nearer, holding out his hands with an imploring gesture.

"Only say that you will try and love me—only say that you will be my wife—promise me on your word of honor, and I will take you back to New York this day!"

But Mollie's answer was to raise her formidable knife.

"One step more," she said, glaring upon him with suppressed fury—"one step nearer, if you dare!"

He saw in her face it was no idle threat, and he recoiled.

"Stay here, then," he angrily cried, "since you will have it so! It is your own fault, and you must abide the consequences. Mine you shall be, by fair means or foul! I leave you now, since my presence does no good, but by this day week you will be sailing with me to sunny Cuba. There I can have things my own way, and your high-tragedy airs will avail you little."

He walked to the door, turned, paused. She stood like a statue, white as marble, but with, oh! such fiercely burning eyes!

"I have brought you an attendant," he said, sullenly. "I will send her up for those things," pointing to the untasted dinner; "she will wait upon you during the brief time you are to remain here."

She never moved. She stood there white and defiant and panting, her glittering eyes riveted to his face. With a sullen oath he opened the door and walked out, baffled once more.

"Curse the little vixen!" he muttered, as he stalked down-stairs; "she's made of the stuff that breaks but never bends. I believe in my soul if I was to carry her off to sea to-morrow she would leap overboard and end it all the day after. I wish I had never listened to Blanche's tempting. I wish I had left the little termagant in peace. The game isn't worth the candle."

He found Mrs. Susan Sharpe sitting where he had left her, with her imperturbable face still turned to the fire, her bonnet and shawl still on.

"Take off those things!" he ordered, harshly, pointing to the offending garments—it was a relief to vent his spleen on some one. "Why the deuce don't you take her to her room?" turning savagely upon Sally. "Let her have the chamber next my patient, and then go into her room and fetch away the tray, and see what you can do for her."

He flung himself into a chair. Mrs. Sharpe rose with an immovable face.

"Lor'!" said old Sally, "don't snap our heads off, Master Guy! I can't help that young woman's tantrums upstairs; so, if she puts you out of temper, you needn't come howling at me. This way, ma'am."

Mrs. Sharpe, with a stolid countenance, followed Sally upstairs. The old woman, grumbling angrily all the way, led her into a small, draughty apartment adjoining that of her charge.

"There!" said Sally, snappishly: "this here is your room, and the crazy young woman's is next. Take off your things, and then come down-stairs and see what he wants next, and don't have him biting at us as if we was dogs!"

Mrs. Sharpe obeyed orders to the letter. In five minutes she was back in the kitchen, ready for action. The carroty locks were partly covered with a black, uncouth cap, and a large stuff apron protected her dingy bombazine dress. She turned a questioning face upon her employer, but spoke never a word.

"This is the key of your patient's room," he said, handing it to her; "you will go up and introduce yourself, and do whatever is needful. I am going back to town to-night. Don't let me have any fault to find with you when I return."

Mrs. Sharpe took the key and turned to go.

"I know my duty, sir," she said, as she walked out. "I know what I came to do, and I'll do it."

Dr. Oleander turned to his mother and old Sally when the nurse had gone.

"What do you think of her, mother?"

"I don't like her," Mrs. Oleander answered, promptly. "I wouldn't trust a person with hair like that as far as I could see them!"

"Pooh, pooh! what's her hair got to do with it?"

"Very well," said Mrs. Oleander, nodding sagaciously. "It's nothing to me; but a red-haired person is never to be trusted."

"Then watch her," said the doctor. "I trust you and Sally to do that. I know nothing about her; but don't you let her play me false. It is of the greatest importance to me that the insane girl upstairs does not escape—and escape she will if she can. She will try to bribe the nurse—do you watch the nurse. It will only be for a week at furthest."

"I am glad to hear it," said his mother, spitefully. "I don't like my house full of mad-women and mad-women's nurses, and I don't like playing the spy!"

"It will only be for a week," the doctor repeated. "I will never trouble you in this way again. And now I must be off at once. I want to sleep in New York to-night."

Without further parley Dr. Oleander stalked out of the kitchen and out of the house. Five minutes more, and they heard the sharp rattle of his wheels on the gravel. Then old Peter bolted and locked and put up the chains, and made the lonely farmhouse as much like a jail as bolts and bars could render it. Their situation was so isolated, and they themselves so helpless, that, although there was but little to fear, these precautionary measures were natural enough.

Meantime, the new nurse had ascended the stairs and unlocked her captive's door. She rapped respectfully before entering; but, as usual, Mollie deigned no notice, and after waiting an instant, she turned the handle and went in.

Mollie had resumed her seat by the window, and, with her chin resting on her hand, was gazing with gloomy eyes at the evening mists rising over the bleak gray sea.

Much weeping had dulled the luster of those sparkling eyes and paled the bright bloom of the once rounded cheeks.

The Christmas snows were not whiter nor colder than the girl who sat there and stared in blank despair at the wide sea.

"I beg your pardon, miss," said Mrs. Susan Sharpe, halting in the door-way; "I want to come in."

At the sound of the strange voice, the prisoner wheeled suddenly around and confronted her.

"Come in, then," she said: and Mrs. Sharpe came slowly in and closed the door. "Who are you?" Mollie asked, transfixing her with her steadfast gaze. "I never saw you before."

"No, miss; I only came from New York to-day."

"Who are you?"

"I'm Susan Sharpe."

"And what are you doing here?"

"I'm to be your nurse, miss. Doctor Oleander hired me and brought me down."

"Doctor Oleander is a villain, and you are, I suspect, his tool."

"I'm sorry you think so, miss," Mrs. Susan Sharpe said, composedly. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

But Mollie did not reply. She was staring at her new attendant with all her might.

"Who are you?" she said, breathlessly. "Surely someone I know."

The woman smiled.

"No one you know, miss—unless you have the advantage of me. I don't suppose you ever heard my name before."

"I don't suppose I have," retorted Miss Dane; "but I have certainly heard your voice."

"No! Have you, now? Where, I wonder?"

Mollie gazed at her wistfully, scrutinizingly. Surely that face, that voice, were familiar; and yet, as soon as she strove to place them, all became confusion. She turned away with a sigh.

"It's of no use. I suppose you're in league with the rest. I think the people in this house have hearts harder than stone."

"I'm very sorry for you, miss, if that's what you mean," said Mrs. Susan Sharpe, respectfully. "Yours is a very sad affliction, indeed."

"A very sad affliction! Do you mean being imprisoned here?"

"Oh, dear, no, miss!" looking embarrassed. "I mean—I'm sure, I beg your pardon, miss—I mean—"

"You mean you pretend to believe Doctor Oleander's romance," interrupted Mollie, contemptuously. "You mean I am crazy!"

"Don't be angry, miss," said Mrs. Sharpe, deprecatingly. "I wouldn't give offense for the world."

"Look at me," said Mollie, impetuously—"look me in the face, Susan Sharpe, and tell me if I look like one insane!"

Mrs. Sharpe turned the mild light of the green glasses on the pale, excited young face.

"No, miss, I can't say you do; but it isn't for me to judge. I'm a poor woman, trying to turn an honest penny—"

"By helping the greatest scoundrel that ever escaped the gallows to keep prisoner an unoffending girl! Is that how you try to turn an honest penny, Susan Sharpe?"

Susan Sharpe, shrinking, as well as she might, from the fiery flashing of two angry blue eyes, murmured an inaudible something, and busied herself among the dishes.

"Listen to me, woman," cried Mollie, pushing back her wild, loose hair, "and pity me, if you have a woman's heart. This man—this Doctor Oleander—led me into a trap, inveigled me from home, brought me here, and keeps me here a prisoner. To further his own base ends he gives out that I am insane. My friends are in the greatest distress about me, and I am almost frantic by being kept here. Help me to escape—my friends in Now York are rich and powerful—help me, Susan Sharpe, and you will never know want more!"

Mrs. Susan Sharpe had keen ears. Even in the midst of this excited address she had heard a stealthy footstep on the creaking stairs—a footstep that had paused just outside the door. She took her cue, and made no sign.

"I'm very sorry, miss," slightly raising her voice—"very sorry for you, indeed. What you say may be all very true, but it makes no difference to me. My duty's plain enough. I'm paid for it, I've promised to do it, and I'll do it."

"And that is—"

"To wait upon you. I'll be your faithful attendant while I'm here; but to help you to escape I can't. Doctor Oleander tells me you're insane; you tell me yourself you're not insane. I suppose you ought to know best; but I've been in lunatic asylums before now, and I never yet knew one of 'em to admit there was anything the matter with 'em."

And with this cruel speech, Mrs. Susan Sharpe, keeping her eyes anywhere but upon the young lady's face, lifted the tray and turned to go.

"Is there anything I can do for you, miss?" she said, pausing at the door. "Is there anything nice you would like for supper?"

But Mollie did not reply. Utterly broken down by fasting, and imprisonment, and solitude, she had flung herself passionately on the floor, and burst out into a wild storm of hysterical weeping.