West Lawn, and The rector of St. Mark's

“I have been sick for many days, swallowing the biggest doses of medicine, until it is a wonder I did not die. It was a heavy cold, taken when sitting upon the common, I heard Mattie tell Bell Verner when she came in to ask after me, and so I suppose it was, though I am sure my head would never have ached so hard if I had not heard that dreadful story. I have thought a great deal while Mattie believed me sleeping, and the result of it is this: I hate Dr. West, and never desire to see him again! There is something wrong, and I’ve no faith in anybody.

“There’s a letter from Margaret lying on the table. They are at the Clarendon, which is a new hotel, smaller than either the United States or Union Hall, but makes up for its size in its freshness, its quiet, and air of homelike comfort. At least so Margaret says; and although she complains that she does not see so many people as she would at the larger houses, she seems contented, and speaks in raptures of her nice large rooms and their gentlemanly host. I am glad she is satisfied, and that Johnnie, at home, is, as he expresses it in a letter just received, ‘as happy as a clam.’

“Accidentally I have heard that Robin is sick and has sent for me. I must have slept for many hours, I think: not a heavy, stolid sleep, as I was vaguely conscious that Mattie stole in to look at me, and that Bell Verner, too, was here. But I did not realize it all until at last I woke and felt that I was better. The pain from the head was gone, and the soreness from the throat, leaving only a pleasant, tired feeling which I rather enjoy.

“In the other room Mattie and Bell were talking, as it seemed, of me, for I heard Mattie say:

“‘I wonder if she really does care about him?’

“‘I think she does,’ was Bell’s reply, ‘for I remember how annoyed she was when your brother teased her by ridiculing his peculiarities. Poor girl! I half suspect this has something to do with her illness. Mrs. Felton has confessed having told her what she knew.’

“‘She has? When?’ and Mattie seemed surprised.

“‘Why,’ returned Bell, ‘that night I sat with Dora, Mrs. Felton, you know, was with me a part of the time, and once when Dora, in her disturbed sleep, was talking, she moaned about Dr. West and Anna. “Poor lamb, she’s dwellin’ on the young lady who died in this very room,” Felton said; and when I inquired what young lady, she told me all she knew, and more too, I think. Afterwards I asked Mrs. Stryker if she ever heard of Anna West, and she said, “Oh yes; she died just before we came here. Everybody was talking about it;” and then she told her story, which, of course, differed from Mrs. Felton’s about as much as is the difference in the social position of the two women,—Felton seeing things from her stand-point, and Mrs. Stryker repeating them from hers. She said Mrs. West used to give elegant parties, and Anna was always the star of the company. She was so beautiful and attractive that young men could not help admiring her, while Richard loved her very much, and nobody now believes—’

“I covered up my head at this point, for I would not listen to any more. After a little I heard some one coming up the stairs, not quietly, soberly, as Mattie and Bell had come, but noisily, rapidly, two steps at a time, trilling a few notes from some opera, and when the music ran high, absolutely breaking into a clear, decided whistle! I was amazed, particularly as the next moment Bell Verner said:

“‘Hush-sh! Miss Freeman’s asleep. You’ll wake her with your boy-ways!’

“‘I don’t care!”’ and the whistler evidently cut a pirouette. ‘I’ll try to wake her, unless you tell me quick who is the handsomest man in town, the most distingué, for I met him just now in the street, and fell in love at once! Tall, broad-shouldered, with brown, dreamy eyes, and the whitest teeth! Tell me quick, Bell! You ought to know every marriageable man between the two poles, for here you’ve been out just as many years as you are older than I am, to wit, ten. Say, who was it?’

“‘Jessie, do be quiet. How do I know?’ Bell began, and then I knew the noisy girl was Bell’s young sister, Jessie, who had just been graduated in Boston, and had of course come home.

“She was a wild, rattle-brained creature, I was sure, but her flow of spirits suited my mood, and for the sole purpose of seeing her I called to Bell, who, the next moment, was asking anxiously what I wanted.

“‘I am better,’ I said. ‘Am well; and I want you to open the blinds so I can see; then all come in where I can hear you talk. Who is that with the cheery whistle?’

“‘Eureka! she thinks my whistle beautiful!’ I heard from the next room, while Bell replied:

“‘It’s sister Jessie. She came last night, and has nearly driven us wild already with her fun and spirits. She stopped for a few days at Saratoga, and saw your sister. Shall I call her?’

“‘Yes,’ I said; and Jessie came at once,—a little fairy, hoydenish creature, with the sauciest, merriest face, the roundest black eyes, and a head covered with short, black curls, which shook as she talked, and kept time with the twinkle of her eyes.

“She kissed me heartily, and then, perching herself upon the foot of the bed, told me about Saratoga,—what a little paradise it was at the Clarendon,—so clean and nice; what a splendid man the proprietor was, treating his boarders as if they were invited guests; humoring everybody’s whim, even to muzzling the poor dog who barked at night, thereby disturbing some nervous invalid,—told me too what a love of a man she thought Squire Russell.

“‘Mrs. Russell is your sister,’ she went on, ‘and so I say nothing of her, pro nor con, except that it must be good pious work to live with her,’ and the curls and the eyes danced together.

“I could not be angry, and the gypsy rattled on:

“‘But that Mr. Russell is my beau ideal of husbands. I made him promise if he ever was a widower, he’d take me for his second wife. There’s nothing I’d like better, I told him, than to mother his six children. You ought to have seen my lady then!’ and the queer, little face put on a look so like Margaret’s that I could not forebear laughing, knowing, as I did, how shocked my sister must have been.

“‘“Husband,” she said, “I think it’s wrong to trifle with matters so sacred!” Whereupon the husband meekly subsided, and fanned her connubially with the Saratoga paper. Oh, he’s a splendid fellow, but I used to pity him evenings when I saw him standing over his wife’s chair, looking so wistfully at the dancers. She wouldn’t let him waltz,—thought it was very improper, and I was told made several remarks not very complimentary to my style of tripping the light fantastic toe. She is rather pretty, and one night when she wore a pale blue silk, with all her diamonds and point-lace, she was the finest-looking woman in the room.’

“‘She used to be very beautiful,’ I said, feeling that I must defend her, ‘but she is sadly broken, and no wonder,—six children in twelve years!’

“‘Yes, I know. It’s perfectly dreadful, but if I had forty children, I’d let my husband waltz and smoke. Oh, I forgot, she don’t let him smoke if she knows it, and if by chance the poor fellow drew a whiff or two down in the office, he had to walk round the south-east corner of the building sixteen times to air himself. There’s the gate,—who’s come?’ and with this she bounded from the bed and ran to the window to reconnoitre.

“‘As I live,’ she exclaimed, drawing back from the window, ‘it’s the very man I told you about, and he’s coming here.’

“‘Don’t be angry with her: she’s a crazy child,’ Bell whispered, and I had just time to reply that I was not angry, when the peal of the door-bell was distinctly heard, and Jessie, by leaning over the bannisters, tried to hear what was said.

“‘It’s about you,’ and she darted back to my side. ‘He certainly said Miss Freeman.’

“I don’t know that I expected what followed, but my breath came heavily, and I was not surprised when Sarah, the maid, came up and handed me a card bearing the name of Dr. West. He was in the parlor, and if I could not go down he wished to see Mrs. Randall. Instantly Mattie and Bell exchanged glances, while the former said in an aside:

“‘Can it be the child is so sick they have sent for him?’

“‘What child?’ I exclaimed. ‘Who is sick. Is it Robin?’

“‘Yes,’ Mattie answered, hurriedly. ‘We did not think best to tell you when the message came, four days ago. Robin West is very sick, and keeps asking for the lady who said his mother was in heaven sure. As you could not go, I went myself, learning by that means many things concerning the family which I never knew before. I liked Mrs. West very much. But what shall I tell the doctor for you?’

“I felt irritated and annoyed that Mattie and Bell, and so many, should know and talk about that story, and more than all I was vexed that Bell should believe I cared for the doctor, whose heart was buried in Anna’s grave, and I answered pettishly:

“‘You needn’t tell him anything.’

“Bell looked surprised, Jessie whistled, and Mattie laughed, as she walked downstairs to receive her visitor.

“‘I have only known you for half an hour, Miss Dora Freeman,’ Jessie said, saucily, ‘but if I am any judge of the genus female-homo, you are desperately in love with that man, and are jealous of somebody.’

“Bell shot at her a warning glance, which silenced her for a moment, and in the pause I distinctly caught the tones of Dr. West’s familiar voice, though I could distinguish nothing he said. He did not stay long, and the moment his step was heard in the hall Jessie was at her post at the window, ready to watch him as he went down the walk. I think Bell wanted to look out, but she was far too proud, and in spite of Jessie’s entreaties that she would come just for a minute and say if she ever saw a more perfectly splendid man, she sat where she was and waited for Mattie, who soon appeared, joining with Jessie in praises of Dr. West. The most agreeable person she had ever met, she said, and she wondered I had not told them about him.

“I was so unamiable that I would not even ask when he came to Morrisville, nor why he had called; but Jessie asked for me, and so I learned that he arrived at his mother’s the night previously, and in compliance with Robin’s repeated request that some one should go for the lady, he had come himself. Robin was better, Mattie said, and if no new symptoms appeared the doctor would return to Beechwood the next day.

“All this while I asked no questions and volunteered no remark, though in my own mind I resolved that so soon as I was able, I would go to see Robin West. I suppose I was beginning to look tired, as Bell said they were worrying me too long, and, after some coaxing and scolding, she persuaded her sister to leave with her.

“‘Mind, now,’ Jessie said to me, as she stood with her hat poised on her short, thick curls, ‘if you are sure you do not like this doctor, and wish to be rid of him; I’ll take him off your hands, and thank you, too. I’ve a great mind to try the effect of my charms upon him: shall I? You see, I am not going to wait, like Bell, till I verge upon the serious yellow leaf. I am going to be married. Au revoir!’ and whistling ‘Hail to the Chief,’ she bounded down the stairs, three at a time, I verily believe, for I trembled lest she should break her neck, and felt relieved when her gay laugh sounded upon the walk.

“The next thing which I heard was that Dr. West was at Mr. Verner’s, prescribing for Jessie’s father, who had been taken violently ill.”

“July 24th.—The richest thing has happened; the best joke I ever heard of; and I give myself great credit for having been the direct cause of its happening! If there is any one thing which father hates more than another, it is a homœopathic physician.

“‘Quacks, humbugs, impositions, loggerheads, ignoramuses!’

“These are very mild names compared with what I’ve heard him call them, declaring he would show the door to the first one who should ever come round him with their two goblets, two spoons, two little plates for covers, and one pill dissolved in a hogshead of water, half a drop to be taken once in six hours! That’s the way he talked, submitting to any amount of blistering, bleeding, drugging, and torturing, and thinking it felt nice. But I’ve played him a trick which will do him good for the remainder of his natural life.

“When I came home last night from Mr. Randall’s, I found him groaning, sweating, and almost swearing with the colic, brought on by too much fruit at dinner, followed by two saucers of cream. He never was in such pain in his life; he should die, he knew he should; and somebody must go for the doctor. Of course every servant was out of sight and hearing, and so I went myself for Dr. Lincoln, who was off in the country miles away, and would not be home for hours. Here was a dilemma; and as I was wondering what to do next, I saw that paragon of M.D.’s, Dr. West, coming down the street. Instantly my decision was made; and looking as anxious as I could, I accosted him at once, begging him to go and prescribe for my father, Judge Verner. He looked at me a little curiously, but acceded to my request, and in less than five minutes I had ushered him into the room, where father was enacting a round of colicky gymnastics, and where Bell looked up in wonder, actually starting to her feet when I introduced Dr. West.

“‘Dr. Lincoln was gone, and I brought this one,’ I whispered to father, who was in too much pain to notice particularly, and who thought it Dr. Lincoln’s student.

“‘I shall need some water, a spoon, and two goblets,’ the doctor said, and I hastened to execute the orders, watching father as the stirring process went on, and almost screaming when he swallowed the first spoonful.

“‘I’m afraid it ain’t strong enough, doctor. It hasn’t much taste,’ he said, smacking his lips, as he missed the flavor of Dr. Lincoln’s bottles.

“‘We’ll see what effect it has,’ was the doctor’s reply; and in a few moments down went another drop of the sweetened water; then another, and another, until the groaning and flouncing ceased, and father lay upon his pillow as well-behaved a patient as one would wish to see.

“He was very quiet, and after waiting half an hour the doctor said he did not think he was needed any longer, and would leave.

“‘Should the paroxysms return,’ he said to Bell, ‘give him six of these pills,’ and he placed upon the table a tiny phial, which at once caught father’s eye and set him to raving like a madman.

“‘Bell! Jessie!’ he gasped, as the gate closed after the doctor, ‘who was that chap?—what persuasion, I mean? Was he a rascally—’

“He was in too great a rage to say the words, and so I said it for him.

“‘He was a homœopathist, father. Didn’t he help you quick? You never groaned a groan after the third swallow.’

“‘Third swallow be—no, I won’t swear, but I will say Thunder and Mars!’ he roared; ‘have I been insulted in my own house? I won’t stand it! I’ll gag, I’ll heave, I’ll puke, but what I’ll get rid of the stuff! Give me water for the colic,—me!’

“‘But if the water answered the purpose, why do you care?’ Bell asked, and father gave her a look very like, ‘Et tu Brute.’

“He could not deny that he was better,—that something had helped him; but it wasn’t sweetened water; no indeed; and I might heave it out of the window.

“I took up the goblet to do so, when he yelled:

“‘Don’t be a fool because you made one of me! Set that glass down and bring me that phial.’

“I obeyed, and he read on the little yellowish paper: ‘For Colic. For an adult, take six every hour. For children from two to three, according to age. Prepared by R. West, M.D., Beechwood.’

“He read it aloud twice, then asked, ‘Who the —— was R. West, M.D., and how the plague came he there?’

“The hurricane was over, and I ventured to explain, asking if he were not very gentlemanly and pleasant.

“‘He’s well enough for a fool!’ he replied, declaring he should have been better without the truck; that had nothing to do with it.

“This morning I missed the little phial, and when I asked where it was, father told me to mind my business, and then I knew he had it safe in his vest pocket, a charm against future attacks of colic. How Bell scolded when we were alone, and how I rolled on the floor and laughed. Bell is smitten; I can see it in her face and manner. She does nothing but think of Dr. West, who has returned to Beechwood. Will I ever see him again? and does Dora Freeman hate or like him, which?”

“I did not see Dora after all, and I had thought so much about it, feeling, I am afraid, more than willing that Robin should be sick, and so give me an excuse for going to Morrisville. Since receiving that little note from Dora, I have frequently dared to build castles of what might some day be, for something in that message led me to hope that I am not indifferent to her. The very fact that she answered my informal letter asking the loan of a book would prove it so, so I sit and think and wonder what the future has in store for me, until my patients are in danger of being neglected.

“Poor Robin, I fear he is not long for this world, and when I remember how perfectly helpless he is, and must always remain, I say to myself:

“‘It is well that the child should follow the mother, if indeed, as Dora told him, she is in heaven sure.’

“Darling Dora, I am glad you told him so. You have no reason to think otherwise. Does Dora know how much I once loved Anna? I fancy not, and yet there are those in Morrisville who remember the sad story, but she is not thrown much in their society. The Randalls and Verners and Strykers form a circle into which outsiders are not often admitted. I liked that Mrs. Randall, and so did mother. How familiar the old place looked to me, and how natural it seemed that I should be there, and Dora too. Will she ever be the mistress of my home? If so, that home I know will not be West Lawn, but there is still a cherished hope of one day redeeming that old homestead of which she talks so much. Then, Dora, brown-eyed, brown-haired Dora, your little feet shall dance again upon the greensward and your merry laugh awaken the echoes of the olden time. Dear Dora, I trust she is not very sick, and I wish I could have seen her.

“Judge Verner,—by what chance came I in his presence, and that of his regal daughter Bell? I suspected then I was the victim of a joke, perpetrated by that saucy-looking, black-eyed elf, whom they called Jessie, and now I am sure of it, for here this morning comes a letter from the judge, worthy, I think, to be preserved as a curiosity.

“‘Mr. West,’ he writes, with the Mr. heavily underscored, as if to make it doubly evident that he ignored the title of Dr. in my case: ‘Enclosed find five dollars for professional services rendered to self July 22d. If I hadn’t had such a confounded stomach-ache I suppose I should have marched you out-doors in double-quick time, as that is what I’ve threatened to do with all kinds of quacks; but I’m glad I didn’t, as my remembrance of you is that you are a gentleman, even if you have a soft spot in the brain. Jessie,—that’s my youngest,—insists that your spoon victuals did me good, and prides herself on having cajoled you into the house,—but she needn’t tell me; I know better. Bell, too,—that’s my eldest,—has partially gone over to the enemy, but I’ll stick to my principles. It’s all a piece of tomfoolery, though if you’ll never breathe a word of it to Bell, nor Jessie, there is something about those paltry little pills in that phial that will stop the tallest kind of a gripe! I’d like to know you better, young man, and so would my daughters. Come here in the autumn, when the shooting is fine. We have splendid woods for hunting, if you enjoy it.

“This is a judge’s letter, and I rather like him for it. He is not to be convinced in a hurry, but those little pills will do the work. I’d like to know him better, and his daughters too. There was something fascinating in that haughty Bell’s manner, while the mischievous Jessie attracted me at once. I may some time improve the acquaintance commenced under so very singular circumstances.”

“It seems to me a year since I last wrote, and yet ’tis only three short weeks. But in that time so much has happened that I scarcely can realize it at all. Morrisville was very lonely after the doctor left, and but for that wild Jessie, who keeps one so constantly stirred up, I could hardly have borne the loneliness. She is so full of life, and she has made me laugh so much as she described her father’s conversion to homœopathy, and then went off into ecstasies over Dr. West.

“But there came a day when even the gleeful Jessie’s laugh was hushed, and her merry eyes were dim with tears, as she helped me array a little crippled form for the grave. Robin is dead! I can write about it now, can speak of the darling composedly, but at first the thought of him brought a great choking sob, and I could only weep, so fast he grew in my love during the few days I watched over him. He was worse I heard, and in spite of Mattie’s assertion that I was not able to endure it, I went to see him. Nor was I sorry when I met the look of love which beamed in his soft blue eyes, as folding his arms around my neck, he said:

“‘I knew you’d come, for I asked God would He send you to little Robin, and He did. You’ll stay, too, won’t you, till Robin’s dead? and you’ll tell me again of my mother in heaven?’

“I might not have stayed with him to the last, but for a dream I had that night, in which Anna came to me, her robes all white and pure as are the robes of the redeemed, a halo of glory round her head, and a look of love in her eyes as she bent over me and said:

“‘There’s a little harp in heaven waiting for my boy, and ere many days his baby hands will sweep its golden strings; but till that time arrives, he wants you, Dora Freeman,—wants you to lead him down into the river, across whose waters I shall wait to meet him. For Richard’s sake, you’ll go.’

“The beautiful vision faded from my view, and I awoke from what seemed more reality than a dream.

“‘Not for Richard’s sake,’ I said, ‘but for Anna’s;’ and so next day I went again to where the little sick boy lay, watching and waiting for me.

“‘I don’t call him Papa Richard now,’ he said, when my wrappings were removed, and I sat down beside him. ‘I told him what you said, that he was not my father, and he told me, “No, Robin, I am not,” but he wouldn’t say where papa was. Do you know, lady, is he in heaven, too?’

“I could not tell, and I tried to divert his mind into some other channel, getting him to speak of Richard, and, vain girl that I was, laying ingenious snares for ascertaining if Richard had mentioned me when he was home.

“‘He talked of “Dora.” Is that you, and may I call you so?’ Robin said, in reply to my direct interrogation as to what Richard had talked about; and so after that I was Dora to the child, who would scarcely let another wait upon him. ‘You seem like mother. You’ll stay,’ he kept repeating, when Mattie came at nightfall after me.

“I thought of Anna in my dream; thought of the little golden harp, and stayed, while people talked, as people will, wondering what kept me at that child’s sick-bed, and associating me at last with Richard, for whose sake they said I had turned nurse to Robin. This piece of gossip proved the resurrection of the old story, which was told and retold in a thousand different forms, until madcap Jessie Verner threatened to box the first one’s ears who should say Anna West to her again. This she told me herself, watching with me by Robin, and that was all that passed between us on the subject. It seemed to be tacitly understood that neither Mattie, Bell, nor herself were to speak of the story to me, and they did not. Somehow it would have been a great relief to know just what they thought, but I would not ask, and on this point surrounded myself with so strong a barrier of reserve, that they never tried to break it down.

“Jessie had come to Mrs. West’s unsolicited, and it was strange how the quiet, sad woman opened her heart at once to receive the wild young creature, while Robin turned to her trustingly, and whispered when she was gone:

“‘I don’t mind—her seeing my feet. She laughs at most everything, but she wouldn’t at my poor, twisted toes.’

“Precious Robin! I would he could have seen the gush of tears with which Jessie baptized those twisted toes when first the shrivelled things met her view; but he was then where the halt and maimed are made whole, and the feet which here had never stepped a step were treading the golden streets. It was strange that one so young should be so sensitive about his deformity, but he had been so from the time he first learned that he was lame, and when, sitting in his chair upon the lawn, he would often ask his grandmother if she supposed the passers-by guessed that he was not like them.

“It is frequently the case that a deformity of the body manifests itself in the expression of the face, but it was not so with him. A more beautiful face I never saw, and I loved to watch it as he lay sleeping upon his pillow, wondering if the mother could have been as beautiful as the child, and then speculating bitterly upon the father, wherever he might be. I had said in my heart that I exonerated Richard, but at times I experienced a feeling which I called hatred for the man whom Mrs. West was almost hourly expecting, and who, when he came, found me with Robin on my lap, his head nestled upon my bosom, while I sang to him of the Heavenly City, where his mother waited for him.

“It was just at the setting of the sun that I heard the coach stop before the gate, and a rapid step upon the walk. My voice must have trembled, for Robin unclosed his eyes as if to ask the cause, but I hushed him gently, while in the adjoining apartment a low conversation was carried on for twenty minutes or more. At last the doctor started for the room where I was sitting, but I gave no sign of consciousness until he was close beside me and I met the glance of his eyes,—a glance in which for an instant I fancied I read more than a friendly interest; the blood surged hotly through my veins; but thoughts of Anna, whom dying he had kissed, holding her as I had held Robin, froze it back from my face, which must have turned very white, for after his first words of greeting, he said to me, ‘I cannot thank you enough for what you have been to mother. She has told me of your kindness; but Dora,’ and his hand touched my hair lightly, ‘I fear you are overtaxing your strength. You are very pale to-night. Let me relieve you of Robin.’

“I was not tired, I said, and my manner was so chilling that his hand slid from my hair, while he began speaking to Robin, who only complained of weariness.

“‘I am glad you have come, Uncle Richard,’ Robin said, putting out his thin fingers and playing with the heavy beard of the doctor, who had knelt beside me the better to see the child. ‘I call you uncle all the time because Dora wanted me to.’

“Instantly our eyes met, and I saw his face crimson with emotions whose nature I could not guess. I only knew they hardened me into stone, and I was glad when at last Jessie came in, for she relieved me from all necessity of talking. Richard liked Jessie; her sprightly manner amused and rested him, I could see, and it made me half angry to hear how merrily he laughed at her remarks, even when he knew that Robin’s days were numbered. How I clung to that child, refusing to give him to the care of Mrs. West. He could not lie upon the bed, and I felt a kind of fierce pleasure in holding him, and in knowing that Richard knew what I was doing for Anna’s child.

“Slowly the summer night darkened around us, and the August moon cast its beams across the floor, even to where I sat singing the low lullaby. And out upon the piazza Dr. West and Jessie talked and laughed together, until the sick boy whispered moaningly, ‘It’s very cold and dark in here. Cover me closer, Dora, and light the candles now.’

“I covered him up, and saw upon his face a shadow, whose import I could not mistake, and half bitterly, half reproachfully, I exclaimed:

“‘Dr. West, if you can spend the time, I think Robin needs you.’

“He was at my side in an instant, and so was Jessie; her eyes filling with tears when she, too, saw and recognized the shadow which had alarmed me. Robin was dying! We all knew it now, and Robin knew it, too, and still refused to leave me for the arms which Richard stretched out to him.

“‘It’s nicer here,’ he said, and there was a world of love in the soft blue eyes as he nestled closer to me.

‘I guess I’m dying. It’s all so dark and queer. Is it very far to heaven, and will I lose the way?’

“‘No, darling, for Jesus will go with you,’ Richard answered, now pressing so close to Robin that his shoulder touched mine, and I felt his breath upon my hair.

“‘And I won’t be a cripple any more? I’ll walk in heaven, and mother’s there sure?’ was the next remark, to which there came no response, except a moan from Mrs. West, until I answered:

“‘Yes, sure, Robin, sure.’

“‘I’ll tell her how good you was, and how much I loved you, too. What shall I say for you, Grandma West? What word shall I carry mother?’

“Mrs. West was weeping bitterly, with her head upon the pillow, where Robin’s had lain so long, and when he thus addressed her, she answered:

“‘Tell her, if you meet her, how I mourned for her till my hair all turned white, and tell her how if in thought I ever wronged her, I am so sorry now.’

“‘I’ll tell her,’ Robin whispered; ‘and you, Uncle Richard, what for you?’

“The doctor’s frame shook, and his face was white as ashes as he was thus appealed to for a message to the dead, but he did not speak until Robin twice repeated, ‘And what for you?’

“Then with a sob, he said:

“‘Nothing, Robin; nothing from me.’

“‘Why! didn’t you love my mother?’ the dying boy asked, the look of surprise for a moment mastering the look of death upon his face.

“‘Yes, he did,’ I said. ‘He loved her better than his life. He loves her still. Tell her so.’

“Again my eyes met those of Dr. West, but in the expression of his there was something which subdued all my pride, and brought a rain of tears upon my face. I did not longer refuse to let him take the child, nor did Robin refuse to go; and I leaned back in my chair sick and faint, while that great struggle went on between death and the little life whose lamp had burned so feebly.

“It was not long, but while it lasted I knew that Richard was praying softly, and that his words were soothing to the sufferer, who suddenly exclaimed:

“‘I see my mother! She’s like the picture in the frame! She’s waiting for me over there where the banks are so green! She is in heaven sure; but I don’t see my father anywhere! He is not there! Oh, where is my father?’

“That was the last; and two hours later, Robin lay quietly upon his couch, his golden curls all smooth and shining, just as Jessie had made them, his blue eyes closed, his tiny hands folded upon his bosom, his poor, crippled feet hidden from curious sight.

“That night I began to love Jessie Verner, and so I fancied did Dr. West. All her levity was gone for the time, and in its place there came a tender, motherly manner, which brooded over and encircled all in its careful forethought. Even Mrs. West became a very child in the hands of this girl of eighteen, while Richard, too, was brought within her influence. He was weary with his long ride of a hundred and thirty miles, but no one save Jessie seemed to think of this. She remembered everything, and when I would have worried Mrs. West with questions as to where Robin’s clothes were kept, she hushed me gently, going about the house in quest of what was needed, with as much assurance as if she had been the daughter instead of a perfect stranger. It was Jessie who made Richard lie upon the lounge in the quiet sitting-room; Jessie who arranged his pillows for him, covering him up with his travelling-shawl, and then brought him tea and toast she herself had made, and which he so much needed after his wearisome ride. I did not marvel that he followed her movements with eyes in which I read, as I believed, more than an ordinary interest; while at me, still keeping a useless watch by the dead boy, he seldom glanced. There was a pang at my heart which I suppose was jealousy, though I did not so define it, and I rather enjoyed thinking that Anna, and Robin, and myself, were in some way wronged by this new interest of Richard’s. I had cared for Robin to the last, but with his life my usefulness had ceased. I was not needed longer, I thought, and so next morning I went home, saying to Mrs. West and Richard, when they asked if I would soon be back:

“‘I shall attend the funeral, of course. There is no necessity for coming before. Jessie will do everything.’

“Mrs. West did not urge me to return, neither did Richard, but he went with me to the gate, opening it for me, and then, standing a moment as if there was something he would say, ‘You do look tired, Dora,—more so than I thought. You are not strong enough for all you have gone through. I think I must prescribe,’ and he took my hand to feel the quickened pulse. ‘You are feverish,’ he continued. ‘You ought to rest, but we shall miss you so much. It’s a comfort to know you are here.’

“I was very foolish, very nervous, and the tears started, but I dashed them away, and taking the offered medicine, answered back, ‘I leave to Jessie the task of comforter. She will do better than I.’

“The next moment I was walking rapidly down the street, never looking back until the corner was reached, when, glancing over my shoulder, I saw the doctor still standing where I had left him, leaning upon the gate. I never remember a time when I was so childish, or more unhappy, than I was that day and the following, which last was the day of Robin’s funeral. There was no parade, no display,—only a few friends and neighbors, with Jessie, presiding genius, telling everybody what to do, while, stranger than all, Judge Verner himself was there as director, his carriage bearing Mrs. West and Richard to the grave where they buried Robin.

“There was something in the young man which he liked, he said, even if he was a fool, and so he had offered no objections to Jessie’s proceedings, and was himself doing what he could for the family. There was room in the carriage for four, and greatly to my surprise the Judge whispered to me:

“‘That chap they call Doctor wants you to go with them. He says, next to his mother, the child loved you the best.’

“I was very faint for an instant, and then shrinking back into the corner I answered no, so decidedly that the judge hastened away, repeating his ill success to Richard, who had risen, and with his mother on his arm was advancing to the door. As he passed me he stopped, and reaching his hand said gently, ‘Dora, come with us; for Robin’s sake.’

“I could not resist that voice, and I went forward taking his other arm, and so out into the yard, past the groups of people who speculated curiously as to why Miss Freeman should go with the chief mourners. Behind us came Mr. Randall’s carriage, with Mattie, and Bell, and Jessie, and that in a measure relieved me of my rather awkward position.

“‘Mother,’ Richard said, as we drew near the cemetery, ‘it is seven years to-day since Anna died. Do you remember?’

“‘Yes,’ she answered sadly, while I remembered that seven years ago was also to have been his bridal.

“Did he think of it as we wound round the gravelled road, past the willow and the cedar, past the box, the pine, and fir, to where Anna lay sleeping? Did he look back with anguish and regret to that other day, when, with the August sunshine falling upon him as it was falling now, he listened to the solemn words, ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ and heard the cold earth rattle down upon the coffin-lid? Yes, he did, I was sure, and this was what blanched his cheeks so white and made his lips quiver so, as we returned to the carriage and were driven from the yard, leaving Anna and Robin there alone.

“That afternoon I was restless and wretched. I could not remain quietly in any place, but wandered uneasily about until near nightfall, when I stole out unobserved and took my way to the burying-ground, where Anna and Robin were. Just outside the iron railing which enclosed their graves there was a rude, time-worn seat, placed upon the grass-plat years ago, it would seem, from the names and dates carved upon it. Here I sat down, and leaning my face upon my hand, tried to think of all that had transpired since I had come to Morrisville. Had I known all I was to see and hear, would I have wished to come? I asked myself; but could find no satisfactory answer. I was glad I had known Robin, for his memory would be a sacred thing to me, and I said I was glad I had heard of Anna ere I learned to think too much of Richard. Then thoughts of Jessie arose, and I said aloud, ‘Can he ever forget Anna, who died in his arms?’

“‘No, Dora, I shall never forget her, neither can I mourn for her always, as I mourned when we first laid her here, and I sat nearly all the night just where you are sitting, watching the stars as they held their first vigil over Anna’s grave, and almost impiously questioning the Providence which had dealt so strangely with me.’

“I knew it was Richard’s voice speaking to me, and I gave a little start of surprise, but did not lose a word which he had spoken.

“‘I half believed I should find you here,’ he said, sitting down beside me, and drawing a little more about my neck the shawl which had fallen off. ‘Something told me I should find you, and so I came quite as much to join the living as the dead. Dora, you will forgive the familiarity,—I never called you so at home, but here, where you have done me and mine so much good, you will surely let me use a name which mother and Robin adopted.’

“I bowed, and he went on.

“‘You do not know how glad I am that you were with us when Robin died, or how it lessens the smart to have you sitting with me in sight of Robin’s grave.’

“‘And Anna’s?’ I said, looking at him for the first time.

“‘Yes, Anna’s,’ he continued in the same kind tone; ‘and it is of her I would tell you, Dora,’ and he spoke hurriedly now. ‘How much do you know of Anna, and who told you?’

“‘Sarah Felton; and I know more than I wish I did,’ I answered, my voice full of tears, which I could not repress.

“‘Felton!’ he repeated in dismay. ‘Unless her reputation for veracity has improved, I would not vouch for the truth of what she might say, though she liked Anna. Shall I tell you her history, Dora?’

“I knew it would cost him a mighty effort to do so, but I must hear the story. I should never be happy till I had, and I answered eagerly:

“‘Yes, tell me of Anna.’”