THE FEVER AND ITS RESULTS.

On every business paper Wilford wrote or signed, and in every object he met in his journey, one face had been prominent, and that the face of Katy as it looked in the gray dawn when it lifted itself up to kiss him, while the white lips tried to speak his pardon. Sometimes Wilford was very sorry and full of remorse, knowing how Katy was suffering for his sin; and then, when he remembered her long refusal to pardon him, notwithstanding that he sued for it so earnestly, his self-importance was touched, and he felt she had no right to be so obstinate. He did not deserve it. He was a very kind, indulgent husband, who had raised her from the humblest position to the very highest, and she ought not to feel so indignant because he had kept from her an act which, after all, did not affect her materially. If Genevra was living, and on this side of the water, he could understand how it might be unpleasant for Katy and for him, too, knowing, as they both did, that she was innocent of the charges alleged against her.

"I should not myself like to run the risk of meeting a divorced wife at any time," he thought; "but Genevra is dead, and Katy ought to be more reasonable. I did not suppose there was so much spirit in her."

But reason as he might, Wilford could not forget Katy's face, so full of reproach. It followed him continually, and was the magnet which turned his steps homeward before his business was quite done, and before the telegram found him. Thus it was with no knowledge of existing circumstances that he reached New York just at the close of the day after Katy's return, and ordering a carriage, was driven rapidly toward home. All the shutters in the front part of the house were closed and not a ray of light was to be seen in the parlors as he entered the hall, where the gas was burning dimly.

"Katy is at home," he said, as he went into the library, where a shawl was thrown across a chair, as if some one had lately been there.

It was his mother's shawl, and Wilford was wondering if she was there, when down the stairs came a man's rapid step, and the next moment Dr. Grant stepped into the room, starting when he saw Wilford, who felt intuitively that something was wrong.

"Is Katy sick?" was his first question, which Morris answered in the affirmative, holding him back as he was starting for her room, and saying to him: "Let me send your mother to you first." What passed between Wilford and his mother was never known exactly, but at the close of the interview Mrs. Cameron was very pale, while Wilford's face looked dark and anxious, as he said: "You think he understands it, then?"

"Yes, in part. Of course he cannot make a very connected story out of her ravings; but that he believes you had a wife before Katy, I am sure, just as I am that the world will be none the wiser for his knowledge. I knew Dr. Grant before you did, and there are few men living whom I respect as much, and no one whom I would trust as soon."

Mrs. Cameron had paid a high compliment to Morris Grant, and Wilford bowed in assent, asking next how she managed Dr. Craig.

"That was easy, inasmuch as he believed it an insane freak of Katy's to have no other physician than her cousin. It was quite natural, he said, adding that she was as safe with Dr. Grant as any one. So that is settled, and I was glad, for I could not have a stranger know of that affair. If I thought it would save her life to retain him, I should feel differently, of course."

"Yes, certainly," Wilford rejoined, while at his heart there was the germ of a feeling which, if in the slightest degree encouraged, would almost have given Katy's life to save his darling self-love and honor in the eyes of the world.

Few men are as thoroughly selfish as Wilford Cameron, and though he was very much concerned for Katy, he thought more of preserving a secret which, if known at this late day, would subject him to much censure and reproach, than he did of her. So when his mother told him next that Helen had been sent for, his morbid fears took alarm.

"Why was it necessary to bring another here?" he asked, so indignantly that tears sprang to his mother's eyes as she pleaded her own weariness and inability to remain always in the sickroom, and charged him with ingratitude for all she had done in his behalf.

Wilford could not afford to quarrel with his mother, and he quieted her as soon as possible, admitting that if she must have an assistant he would rather it were Helen than Bell or Juno, or even Esther, who, in spite of the alarm about malignant fever, would willingly have administered to her young mistress, had she been allowed to do so.

"You will go up now," Mrs. Cameron said to her son, when peace was fully restored, and a moment after Wilford stood in the dimly-lighted room, where Katy was talking of going to the hospitals, and of Marian Hazelton, and was only kept upon her pillow by the strong arm of Morris, who stood over her when Wilford entered, telling her to "wait until to-morrow—it would be better then, and she had not seen her husband yet."

"I have no husband," she replied, her lip curling with scorn, and her eyes just then falling upon Wilford, who stood appalled at the fearful change which had passed over her since he left her three days before.

She knew him, and writhing herself away from Morris' arms, she raised up in bed and said to him:

"I've been at the bottom of things, and Genevra is not in that grave at St. Mary's. Nobody is there; consequently, she is living, and you are not my husband. So if you please you can leave the house at once. Morris will do very well. He will settle the estate, and no bill shall be sent in for your board and lodging."

In some moods Wilford would have smiled at being thus summarily dismissed from his own house and assured that no bill should be sent after him for board and lodging; but he was too sore now, too sensitive to smile, and his voice was rather severe as he laid his hand on Katy's, and said:

"Don't be foolish, Katy. Don't you know me? I am Wilford, your husband."

"That was, you mean," Katy rejoined, drawing her hand quickly away. "Go find your first love, where bullets fall like hail, and where there is pain, and blood, and carnage. Genevra is there."

She would not let Wilford come near her, and grew so excited by his presence that he was forced either to leave the room or sit where she could not see him. He chose the latter, and from his seat by the door watched with a half-jealous, half-angry heart, Morris Grant doing for his wife what he should have done.

With Morris Katy was gentle as a little child, talking still of Genevra, but talking quietly, and in a way which did not wear her out as fast as her excitement did.

"What God hath joined together let not man put asunder," was the text from which she preached several short sermons as the night wore on, but just as the morning dawned she fell into the first quiet sleep she had had during the last twenty-four hours. And while she slept Wilford ventured near enough to see the sunken cheeks and hollow eyes which wrung a groan from him as he turned to Morris, asking what he supposed was the immediate cause of her sudden illness?

"A terrible shock, the nature of which I understand, but you have nothing to fear from me," Morris replied. "I accuse you to no man, but leave you to settle it with your conscience whether you did right to deceive her so long."

Morris spoke as one having authority, and Wilford simply bowed his head, feeling then no resentment toward one who had ventured to reprove him. Afterward he might remember it differently, but now he was too anxious to keep Morris there to quarrel with him, and so he made no reply, but sat watching Katy as she slept, wondering if she would die, and feeling how terrible life would be without her. Suddenly Genevra's warning words rang in his ear:

"God will not forgive you for the wrong you have done me."

Was Genevra right? Had God remembered all this time, and overtaken him at last? It might be, and with a groan Wilford hid his face in his hands, believing that he repented of his sin, and not knowing that his fancied repentance arose merely from the fact that he had been detected. Could the last few days be blotted out, and Katy stand just where she did, with no suspicion of him, he would have cast his remorse to the winds, and as it is not such repentance God accepts, Wilford had only begun to sip the cup of retribution presented to his lips.

Worn out with watching and waiting, Mrs. Cameron, who would suffer neither Juno nor Bell to come near the house, waited uneasily for the arrival of the New Haven train, which she hoped would bring Helen to her aid. Under ordinary circumstances she would rather not have met her, for her presence would keep the letter so constantly in her mind, but now anybody who could be trusted was welcome, and when at last there came a cautious ring she went herself to the hall, starting back with undisguised vexation when she saw the timid-looking woman following close behind Helen, and whom the latter presented as "My mother, Mrs. Lennox."

Convinced that Morris' sudden journey to New York had something to do with Katy's illness, and almost distracted with fears for her daughter's life, Mrs. Lennox could not remain at home and wait for the tardy mail or careless telegraph. She must go to her child, and casting off her dread of Wilford's displeasure, she had come with Helen, and was bowing meekly to Mrs. Cameron, who neither offered her hand nor gave any token of greeting except a distant bow and a simple "Good-morning, madam."

But Mrs. Lennox was too timid, too bewildered, and too anxious to notice the lady's haughty manner as she led them to the library and then went for her son. Wilford was not glad to see his mother-in-law, but he tried to be polite, answering her questions civilly, and when she asked if it was true that he had sent for Morris, assuring her that it was not—"Dr. Grant happened here very providentially, and I hope to keep him until the crisis is past, although he has just told me he must go back to-morrow," Wilford said, mentally hoping Mrs. Lennox might think it best to go with him, or if she did not, wondering how long she did intend to stay. It hurt his pride that she, whom he considered greatly his inferior, should learn his secret; but it could not now be helped, and within an hour after her arrival she was looking curiously at him for an explanation of the strange things she heard from Katy's lips.

"Was you a widower when you married my daughter?" she said to him, when at last Helen left the room, and she was alone with him.

"Yes, madam," he replied, "some would call me so, though I was divorced from my wife. As this was a matter which did not in any way concern your daughter, I deemed it best not to tell her. Latterly she has found it out, and it is having a very extraordinary effect upon her."

Mrs. Lennox was too much afraid of the man addressing her so haughtily to make him any reply, and so she only wept softly as she bent to kiss her child, still talking of Genevra and the empty grave at St. Mary's, where she once sat down.

And this was all Mrs. Lennox knew until alone with Helen, who had heard from Morris all he knew of the sad story except the part relating to Marian Hazelton. His sudden journey to New York was thus accounted for, and Helen explained it to her mother as well as she could, advising her to say nothing of it either to Wilford or Mrs. Cameron, as it was quite as well for them not to know it yet. Many messages Helen brought to her cousin from his patients, and Morris felt it was his duty to go to them for a day or so at least.

"You have other physicians here," he said to Wilford, who objected to his leaving. "Dr. Craig will do as well as I."

Wilford admitted that he might; but it was with a sinking heart that he saw Morris depart, and then went to Katy, who began to grow very restless and uneasy, bidding him go away and send Dr. Morris back. It was in vain that they administered the medicine just as Morris had directed. Katy grew constantly worse, until Mrs. Lennox asked that another doctor be called. But to this Wilford did not listen. Fear of exposure and censure were stronger than his fear for Katy's life, which seemed balancing upon a thread as that long night and the next day went by. Three times Wilford telegraphed for Morris, and it was with unfeigned joy that he welcomed him back at last, and heard that he had so arranged his business now as to stay with Katy while the danger lasted.

With a monotonous sameness the days now came and went, people still shunning the house as if the plague was there. Once Bell Cameron came around to call on Helen, holding her breath as she passed through the hall, and never asking to go near Katy's room. Two or three times, too, Mrs. Banker's carriage stood at the door, and Mrs. Banker herself came in, seeming surprised when she met Helen and appearing so cool and distant that the latter could scarcely keep back her tears as she guessed the cause. Mark never came, but from the window Helen saw him riding by with Juno, who kept her face turned toward him, as if in close and confidential chat.

"They were engaged," Esther said, adding that "he was about joining the army as first lieutenant in a company composed of the finest young men in the city."

Helen doubted if this were true, until one day, when driving with her mother, she met him arrayed in his new uniform, looking so handsome and proud. He, too, was driving with a brother officer, and as he passed he lifted his cap in token of recognition; but the olden look which Helen remembered so well, and which had been wont to make her pulses thrill with a most exquisite delight, was gone, and Helen felt more than ever the wide gulf some hand had built between them. The next she heard was from Mrs. Banker, whose face looked pale and worn as she incidentally remarked: "I shall be very lonely now that Mark is gone. He left me to-day for Washington."

There were tears on the mother's face, and her lip quivered as she tried to keep them back, looking from the window into the street instead of at her companion, who, overcome with the rush of feeling which swept over her, laid her face on the sofa arm and sobbed aloud.

"Why, Helen! Miss Lennox, I am surprised! I had supposed—I was not aware—I did not think you would care," Mrs. Banker exclaimed, coming closer to Helen, who stammered out: "I beg you will excuse me, I cannot help it. I care for all our soldiers. It seems so terrible."

At the words "I care for all the soldiers," a shadow of disappointment flitted over Mrs. Banker's face. She knew her son had offered himself and been refused, as she supposed, and she believed, too, that Helen had given publicity to the affair, feeling justly indignant at this breach of confidence and lack of delicacy in one whom she had liked so much and whom she still liked in spite of the wounded pride which had prompted her to seem so cold and distant.

"Perhaps it is all a mistake," she thought, as she continued standing by Helen, whose tears did not cease, "or it may be she has relented," and for a moment she felt tempted to ask why her boy had been refused.

But Mark would not be pleased with her interference, she knew, and so the golden moment fled, and when she left the house the misunderstanding between herself and Helen was just as wide as ever. Wearily after that the days passed with Helen until all thoughts of herself were forgotten in the terrible fear that death was really brooding over the pillow where Katy lay, insensible to all that was passing around her. The lips were silent now, and Wilford had nothing to fear from the tongue hitherto so busy. Juno, Bell and Father Cameron all came to see her, dropping tears upon the face looking so old and worn with suffering, but yet so sweet and pure, and treading softly as they left the room and went out into the sunshine where Katy might never go again. In the kitchen there was mourning, too; Phillips weeping for her mistress, while Esther, with her apron over her head, sobbed passionately, wishing she, too, might die if Katy did. Mrs. Cameron also was very sorry, very sad, but managed to find some consolation in mentally arranging a grand funeral, which would do honor to her son, and wondering if "those Barlows in Silverton would think they must attend." And while she thus arranged, the mother who had given birth to Katy wrestled in earnest prayer that God would spare her child, or at least grant some space in which she might be told of the world to which she was hastening. What Wilford suffered none could guess. His face was very white and his expression almost stern as he sat watching the young wife who had been his for little more than two brief years, and who but for his sin might not have been lying there unconscious of the love and grief around her. Like some marble statue Morris seemed as with lip compressed and brows firmly knit together he, too, sat watching Katy, feeling for the pulse and bending his ear to catch the faintest breath which came from her parted lips, while in his heart there was an earnest prayer for the safety of the soul hovering so evenly between this world and the next. He did not ask that she might live, for if all were well hereafter he knew it was far better for her to die in her young womanhood than to live till the heart now so sad and bleeding had grown calloused with sorrow. And yet it was terrible to think of Katy dead; to know that never again would her little feet dance on the grass, or her bird-like voice break the silence of his home; terrible to think of that face and form laid away beneath the turf of Greenwood, where those who loved her best could seldom go to weep.

And as they sat thus the night shadows stole into the room and the hours crept on till from a city tower a clock struck ten, and Morris, motioning Helen to his side, bade her go with her mother to rest. "We do not need you here," he said, "your presence can do no good. Should a change occur you shall be told at once."

Thus importuned Helen and her mother withdrew and only Morris and Wilford remained to watch that heavy slumber so nearly resembling death.

MORRIS' CONFESSION.

Gradually the noise in the streets died away; the tread of feet, the rumbling wheels and the tinkle of the car bells ceased, and not a sound was heard, save as the distant fire bells pealed forth their warning voices, or some watchman went hurrying by. The great city was asleep, and to Morris the silence brooding over the countless throng was deeper, more solemn than the silence of the country where nature gives out her own mysterious notes and lullabies for her sleeping children. Slowly the minutes went by, and Morris became at last aware that Wilford's eyes, instead of resting on the pallid face which seemed to grow each moment more pallid and ghastly, were fixed on him with an expression which made him drop the pale hand he held between his own, pooring it occasionally as a mother might poor and pity the hand of her dying baby.

Before his marriage a jealous thought of Morris Grant had found a lodgment in Wilford's breast; but remembering the past he had tried to drive it out, and fancied that he had succeeded, experiencing a sudden shock when he felt it lifting its green head, and poisoning his mind against the man doing for Katy only what a brother might do, or rather, against the motives which prompted this man's devotion. He forgot that it was his own entreaties which had kept Morris there, refusing to let him go even for a day to the other patients missing him so much, and complaining of his absence. Jealous men never reason clearly, and in this case Wilford did not reason at all, but jumped readily at his conclusion, calling to his aid as proof all that he had ever seen pass between Katy and her cousin. That Morris Grant loved Katy was, after a few moment's reflection, as fixed a fact in his mind as that she lay there between them, her eyelids quivering, and her lips moaning feebly as if about to speak. Years before, when Genevra was the wife, jealousy had made Wilford almost a madman, and it now held him again in its powerful grasp, whispering suggestions he would have spurned in a calm frame of mind. There was a clinching of his fist, a knitting of his brows, and a gathering blackness in his eyes as he listened while Katy, rousing partially from her lethargy, talked of the days when she was a little girl, and Morris had built the playhouse for her by the brook, where the thorn apples grew and the waters fell over the smooth, white rocks.

"Take me back there," she said, "and let me lie on the grass again. It is so long since I was there, and I've suffered so much since then. Wilford meant to be kind, but he did not try to understand or know how I loved the country with its birds and flowers and springing grass by the well, where the shadows come and go. I used to wonder where they were going, and one day when I watched them I was waiting for Wilford, and wishing he would come. Would it have been better if he had never come?"

Wilford's body shook with strong emotion as he bent forward to hear Katy's answer to her question.

"Were there no Genevra," she said, "no verse 'what God hath joined together let no man put asunder,' I should not think so; but there is such a verse, and now I don't know what I think, only I must go. Come, Morris, we will go together, you and I."

She turned partly toward Morris, who made her no reply. He could not, with those fiery eyes fixed upon him, and he sat erect in his chair, while Katy talked of Silverton, and the days gone by until her voice grew very faint, ceasing at last as she fell into a second sleep, heavier, more death-like, than the first. Something in her face alarmed Morris, and in spite of the eyes watching him he bent every energy to retain the feeble pulse, and the breath which grew shorter with each respiration.

"Do you think her dying?" Wilford asked, and Morris replied: "Not yet; but the look about the mouth and nose is like the look which so often precedes death."

And that was all they said until another hour went by, when Morris' hand was laid upon the forehead and moved up under the golden hair where there were drops of perspiration.

"She is saved, thank God, Mr. Cameron, Katy is saved," was his joyful exclamation, and burying his head in his hands, he wept for a moment like a child, for Katy was restored again.

On Wilford's face there was no trace of tears. On the contrary, he seemed hardening into stone, and in his heart fierce passions were contending for the mastery, and urging him on to an act from which, in his right mind, he would have shrunk. Rising slowly at last, he came around to Morris' side, and grasping his shoulder, said:

"Morris Grant, you love Katy Cameron."

Like the peal of a bell on the frosty air the words rang through the room, starting Morris from his bowed attitude, and for an instant curdling his blood in his veins, for he understood now the meaning of the look which had so puzzled him. In Morris' heart there was a moment's hesitancy to know just what to answer, an ejaculatory prayer for guidance, and then lifting up his head, his calm blue eyes met the eyes of black unflinchingly, as he replied:

"I have loved her always."

A blaze like sheet lightning shot from beneath Wilford's eyelashes, and a taunting sneer curled his lip, as he said:

"You, a saint, confess to this?"

It was quite natural, and in keeping with human nature for Wilford to thrust Morris' religion in his face, forgetting that never on this side the eternal world can man cease wholly to sin, that so long as flesh and blood remain, there will be temptation, error and wrong, even among God's children. Morris felt the sneer keenly; but the consciousness of peace with his Maker sustained him in the shock and, with the same tone he had at first assumed, he said:

"Should my being what you call a saint prevent my confessing what I did?"

"No, not the confession, but the fact," Wilford answered, savagely. "How do you reconcile your acknowledged love for Katy with the injunctions of the Bible whose doctrines you indorse?"

"A man cannot always control his feelings, but he can strive to overcome them and put the temptation aside. One does not sin in being tempted, but in listening to the temptation."

"Then according to your own reasoning you have sinned, for you not only have teen tempted, but have yielded to the temptation," Wilford retorted, with a sinister look of exultation in his black eyes.

For a moment Morris was silent, while a struggle of some kind seemed going on in his mind, and then he said:

"I never thought to lay open to you a secret which, after myself, is, I believe, known to only one living being."

"And that one—is—you will not tell me that is Katy?" Wilford exclaimed, his voice hoarse with passion, and his eyes flashing with fire.

"No, not Katy. She has no suspicion of the pain which, since I saw her made another's, has eaten into my heart, making me grow old so fast, and blighting my early manhood."

Something in Morris' tone and manner inspired Wilford with awe, making him relax his grasp upon the arm, and sending him back to his chair while Morris continued:

"Most men would shrink from talking to a husband of the love they bore his wife, and an hour ago I should have shrunk from it, too, but you have forced me to it, and now you must listen while I tell you of my love for Katy. It began longer ago than she can remember—began when she was my baby sister, and I hushed her in my arms to sleep, kneeling by her cradle and watching her with a feeling I have never been able to define. She was in all my thoughts, her face upon the printed page of every book I studied, and her voice in every strain of music I ever heard. Then, when she grew older, I used to watch the frolicsome child by the hour, building castles even then of the future, when she would be a woman and I a man, with a man's right to win her. I know that she shielded me from many a snare into which young men are apt to fall, for when the temptation was greatest, and I was at its verge, a thought of her was sufficient to lead me back to virtue. I carried her in my heart across the sea, and said when I go back I will ask her to be mine. I went back, but at my first meeting with Katy after her return from Canandaigua she told me of you, and I knew then that hope for me was gone, praying for strength to bear my loss and hide my love from her. God grant that you nor she may never experience what I experienced on that day which made her your wife, and I saw her go away. It seemed almost as if God had forgotten me as the night after the bridal I sat alone at home, and met that dark hour of sorrow. In the midst of it Helen came, discovering my secret, and sympathizing with me until the pain at my heart grew less, and I could pray that God would grant me a feeling for Katy which should not be sinful. And He did at last, so I could think of her without a wish that she was mine. Times there were when the old love would burst forth with fearful power, and then I wished that I might die. These were my moments of temptation which I struggled to overcome. Sometimes a song, a strain of music, or a ray of moonlight on the floor would bring the past to me so vividly that I would stagger beneath the burden, feeling that it was greater than I could bear. But God was very merciful and sent me work which took up all my time, leaving little leisure for regrets, and driving me away from my own pain to soothe the pain of others. When Katy came to us last summer there was an hour of trial, when faith in God grew weak, and I was tempted to question the justice of His dealing with me. But that, too, passed, and in my love for your child I forgot the mother in part, looking upon her as a sister rather than the Katy I had loved so well. I would have given my life to have saved that child for her, even though it was a bar between us, a something which separated her from me more than the words she spoke at the altar. Though dead, that baby is still a bar, and Katy is not the same to me she was before that little life came into being. It is not wrong to love her as I do now. I feel no pang of conscience save when something unexpected carries me back to the old ground where I have fought so many battles."

Morris paused a moment, thinking of the time when Katy came to him with her story of Genevra, and wondering if it were best to repeat the incidents of that night. It was not, he finally concluded. It would be better for Katy to tell it herself, and so he added at last: "What I have borne has told upon me terribly. My people say I work too hard, but they look only on the surface—they have never seen that inner chamber of my heart, where only you have been fully admitted. Even Helen knows not half what's there, but I felt that it was due to you, and so have told you all, asking that no shadow of censure shall fall on Katy, who would be greatly shocked to know what you know now."

Morris' manner was that of a man who spoke with perfect sincerity, and it carried conviction to Wilford's heart, disarming him for a time of the fierce anger and resentment he had felt while listening to Morris' story. Acting upon the good impulse of the moment, he arose, and offering his hand to Morris, he said:

"You have done nobly, Dr. Grant, I believe in your religion now. Forgive me that I ever doubted it. I exonerate you from blame."

And thus they pledged their faith, Wilford meaning then all he said, and feeling only respect for the man who had confessed his love for Katy. After what had passed, Morris felt that it would be pleasanter for Wilford if he were gone, and after a time he suggested returning to Silverton at once, inasmuch as the crisis was past and Katy out of danger. There was a struggle in Wilford's mind as to the answer he should make to this suggestion. It would not be pleasant to see Morris there now, for though he had said he forgave him, there was a feeling of disquiet at his heart, and he at last signified his willingness for him to leave when he thought best.

It was broad day when Katy awoke, so weak as to be unable to turn her head upon the pillow, but in her eyes the light of reason was shining, and she glanced wonderingly, first at Helen, at her mother, and then at Wilford, as if trying to comprehend what had happened.

"Have I been sick?" she asked in a whisper, and Wilford, bending over her, replied: "Yes, darling, very sick for nearly two whole weeks—ever since I left home that morning, you know."

"Yes," and Katy shivered a little. "Yes, I know. But where is Morris? He was here the last I can remember."

Wilford's face grew dark at once, and stepping back as Morris came in, he said: "She asks for you." Then with a rising feeling of resentment he watched them, while Morris spoke to Katy, telling her she was better, but must keep very quiet, and not allow herself in any way to be excited.

"Have I been crazy? Have I talked much?" she asked, and when Morris replied in the affirmative there came a startled look into her eye, as she said: "Of what or whom have I talked most?"

"Of Genevra," was the answer, and Katy continued: "Did I mention no one else?"

Morris guessed of whom she was thinking, and answered, indifferently: "You spoke of Miss Hazelton in connection with baby, but that was all."

Katy was satisfied, and closing her eyes fell away to sleep again, while Morris made his preparations for leaving. It hardly seemed right for him to go just then, but the only one who could have kept him maintained a frigid silence with regard to a longer stay, and so the first train which left New York for Springfield carried Dr. Grant, and Katy was without a physician.

Wilford had hoped that Mrs. Lennox, too, would see the propriety of accompanying Morris; but she would not leave Katy, and Wilford was fain to submit to what he could not help. No explanation whatever had he given to Mrs. Lennox or Helen with regard to Genevra. He was too proud for that, but his mother had deemed it wise to smooth the matter over as much as possible, enjoining upon them both the necessity of secrecy.

"When I tell you that neither my husband or daughters know it, you will understand that I am greatly in earnest in wishing it kept," she said. "It was a most unfortunate affair, and though the divorce is, of course, to be lamented, it is better that she died. We never could have received her as our equal."

"Was anything the matter, except that she was poor?" Mrs. Lennox asked, with as much dignity as was in her nature to assume.

"Well, no. She had a good education, I believe, and was very pretty; but it makes trouble always where there is a great inequality between a husband's family and that of his wife."

Poor Mrs. Lennox understood this perfectly, but she was too much afraid of the great lady to venture a reply, and a tear rolled down her burning cheek as she wet the napkin for Katy's head, wishing that she had back again the daughter, whose family she knew the Camerons despised. The atmosphere of Madison Square did not suit Mrs. Lennox, especially when, as the days went by and Katy began to mend, troops of gay ladies called, mistaking her for the nurse, and all staring a little curiously when told that she was Mrs. Cameron's mother. Of course, Wilford chafed and fretted at what he could not help, seldom addressing his mother-in-law on any subject, and making himself so generally disagreeable that Helen at last suggested returning home, inasmuch as Katy was so much better. There was then a faint remonstrance on his part, but Helen did not waver in her decision, though she pitied Katy, who, when the day of her departure came and they were for a few moments alone, took her hand between her own and kissing it fondly, said: "You don't know how I dread your going or how wretched I shall be without you. Everything which once made me happy has been removed or changed. Baby is dead, and Wilford—oh, Helen, I sometimes wish I had not heard of Genevra, for I am afraid it can never be with us as it was once; that is, I have not quite the same trust in him, and he seems so changed. Have you noticed how silent and moody he has grown?"

Helen had noticed it, but she would not say so, and she tried to comfort her sister, telling her she would be very happy yet; "but, Katy darling," she continued, "you have a duty to perform as well as Wilford. Your heart is very sore now because of the deception, but you must not let that soreness appear in your manner. You must be to Wilford just what you always were, unless you wish to wean him from you. He, too, has had a terrible shock; his pride and self-love have been wounded, and men like him do not like being humbled as he has been. You must soothe him, Katy, and smooth his ruffled feathers, proving to him that you can and do forgive the past. And, Katy, remember you have a Friend always near to whom you can carry your burdens, sure that He will listen and heal the smarting pain. Go to Him often and make Him yours indeed. He has come very near to you within the last year, and such visitations have a meaning in them. Listen, then, lest He should come again and visit you with greater sufferings."

"Purified by Suffering." The words came floating back to Katy, just as Uncle Ephraim had spoken them in the pleasant meadowland, and just as they had sometimes haunted her since, but never having so deep a meaning as now, when Helen's words suggested them again. She was suffering, oh, so terribly, but was she purifying, too? She feared not, and after the sad parting with her mother and sister was over she turned her face to her pillow, trying so hard to pray that God would make her His own, and by the suffering He sent purify her for heaven.

DOMESTIC TROUBLES.

From the bathroom, which adjoined Katy's sickroom, Wilford had heard all that passed between the sisters, and his face grew dark as he thought of having his "ruffled feathers smoothed" even by the little thin white hand, which, the first time it had a chance laid itself upon his face with a caressing motion, from which he involuntarily drew back, thinking the affection thus timidly expressed was all put on with a view to being good, as he termed it.

Wilford was in a most unhappy frame of mind. He was not pleased that Katy had heard of Genevra, and imparted his secret to others. He did not like being humbled as he had been, even Mrs. Lennox taking it upon herself to lecture him for his misdemeanors, sobbing as she lectured, and asking "how he could treat Katy so?" He did not like, either, to lose Helen's good opinion, as he was sure he had, while, worse than all the rest, was the galling fact that Morris Grant loved his wife, and was undoubtedly more worthy of her than himself. He had said that he forgave Morris, and at the time he said it he fancied he did, but as the days went by, and thought was all the busier from the moody silence he maintained, there gradually came to life a feeling of dislike, if not of hatred, for the man, whose name he could not hear without a frown, telling Katy very sharply once that he wished she would not talk so much of Cousin Morris, as if there were no other physician in the world! Dr. Craig would have done quite as well, and for his part he wished they had employed him.

Wilford knew he did not mean what he said, but he was in a very unamiable frame of mind, and watched Katy close, to detect, if possible, some sign by which he should know that Morris' love was reciprocated. But Katy was innocence itself, and as the weeks of convalescence went by she tried so hard to do her duty as a wife, going often to the Friend of whom Helen had told her, and finding there the grace which helped her bear what otherwise she could not have borne and lived. The entire history of her life during that wretched winter was never told save as it was written on her face, which was a volume in itself of meek and patient suffering.

Wilford had never mentioned Genevra to her since the day of his return, and Katy sometimes felt that it would be well to talk that matter over. It might lead to a more perfect understanding than existed between them now, and dissipate the cloud which hung so darkly on their domestic horizon. But Wilford repulsed all her advances upon that subject, and Genevra was a dead name in their household, save as it was on Katy's lips when she prayed, asking that she might feel only perfect kindness toward the Genevra who had so darkened her life.

Wilford's home was not pleasant to him now, but the fault was with himself. Katy did well her part, meeting him always with a smile, and trying to win him from the dark mood she could not fathom. Times there were when for an entire day he would appear like his former self, caressing her with unwonted tenderness, calling her his "poor crushed dove," but never asking her forgiveness for all he had made her endure. He was too proud to do that now, and his tenderness always passed away when he remembered Morris Grant and Katy's remark to Helen: "I am afraid it can never be with us as it was once. I have not the same trust in him."

"She had no right to complain of me to Helen," he thought, forgetting the time when he had been guilty of a similar offense in a more aggravated form.

He could not reason upon anything naturally, and matters grew daily worse, while Katy's face grew whiter and her voice sadder in its tone.

Sometimes Wilford would spend the entire evening away from home, tarrying till the clock struck twelve before he came, and Katy would afterward hear that he had been at the house of some friend, or with Sybil Grandon, whose influence over him increased in proportion as her own was lessened.

When the Lenten days came on, oh, how Katy longed to be in Silverton, to kneel again in its quiet church, and offer up her penitential prayers with the loved ones at home. At last she ventured to ask Wilford if she might go, her spirits rising when he did not refuse her request at once, but asked:

"Whom do you wish to see the most?"

His black eyes seemed reading her through, and something in their expression brought to her face the blush which he construed according to his jealousy, and when she answered:

"I wish to see them all," he retorted:

"Say, rather, you wish to see that doctor, who has loved you so long, and who but for me would have asked you to be his wife!"

"What doctor, Wilford? Whom do you mean?" and Wilford replied:

"Dr. Grant, of course. Did you never suspect it?"

"Never," and Katy's face grew very white, as she asked how Wilford knew what he had asserted.

"I had it from his own lips; he sitting on one side of you and I upon the other. I so far forgot myself as to charge him with loving you, and he did not deny it, but confessed as pretty a piece of romance as I ever read, except that, according to his story, it was a one-sided affair, confined wholly to himself. You never dreamed of it, he said."

"Never, no, never," Katy said, panting for her breath, and remembering suddenly many things which confirmed what she had heard.

"Poor Morris, how my thoughtlessness must have wounded him," she murmured, and then all the pent up passion in Wilford's heart burst out in an impetuous storm.

He did not charge his wife directly with returning Morris' love, but he said he was sorry she had not known it earlier; asking her pointedly if it were not so, and pressing her for an answer until the bewildered creature cried out:

"Oh, I don't know. I never thought of it before."

"But you can think of it now," Wilford continued, his cold, icy tone making Katy shiver, as more to herself than him she said:

"A life at Linwood would be perfect rest, compared to this."

Wilford had wrung from her all he cared to know, and believing himself the most injured man in existence, he left the house, and Katy heard his step as it went furiously down the walk. For a time she seemed stunned with what she had heard, and then there came stealing into her heart a glad feeling that Morris deemed her worthy of his love when she had so often feared the contrary. It was not a wicked emotion, nor one faithless to Wilford. She could pray with just as pure a heart as before, and she did pray, thanking God for the love of this good man, and asking that long ere this he might have learned to be content without her. Never once did the thought "It might have been," intrude itself upon her, nor did she picture to herself the life which she had missed. She seemed to rise above all that, and Wilford, had he read her heart, would have found no evil there.

"Poor Morris," she kept repeating, while little throbs of pleasure went dancing through her veins, and the world was not one-half so dreary for knowing he had loved her. Toward Wilford, too, her heart went out in a fresh gush of tenderness, for she knew how one of his jealous nature must have suffered.

"I'll drive down to the office for him this afternoon," she said. "That will surely please him; and to prove still further that I never dreamed of Morris' love, I'll tell him coming home how in the great sorrow about Genevra I went to him for counsel, and how he sent, or rather, brought me back."

But this confession would necessitate her telling that Genevra was not dead, and it was better for them both, she thought, that he should not know this until the relations between herself and him were more as they used to be; so she decided finally to withhold the fact for a time at least. But she would go for him, as she had at first intended, and she counted the hours impatiently, thinking once her watch had stopped, and seeming brighter and happier than she had been since her illness, when at last she stepped into her carriage, and was driven down Broadway.

Business had gone wrong with Wilford that day, and Tom Tubbs had mentally pronounced his master "crosser than a bear," and sighing secretly for the always cheerful Mark, he had taken up his book, and was quietly reading by the office window when Katy came in, her white face seeming whiter from contrast with her black dress, and her eyes looking unnaturally large and bright as she darted across the room to Wilford, who, surprised to see her there, and a good deal displeased withal, inasmuch as he had often said that the office was no place for his wife, never smiled or spoke, but with pent up brows waited for her to open the conversation. Katy saw she was not welcome, and with a tremulous voice she began:

"The day is so fine I thought I would come in the carriage for you. It is early yet, and if you like, we can have a little drive. It might do you good. You look tired," she continued, and unmindful of Tom, trying to smooth his hair.

With an impatient gesture, Wilford drew his hand away from the pale fingers which sought their fellows in a nervous clasp as Katy tried not to think Wilford cross, even after he replied:

"You need not have come for me, as I always prefer a stage; besides that, I can't go home just yet, I am not ready."

Katy stood a moment in silence, a flush on her cheek and a pallor about her lips, which Tom Tubbs saw, secretly shaking his fist and thinking how he would like to knock down the man who could speak so to a wife as beautiful and sweet as Katy seemed.

"I have not been here before since my illness, and I wanted to come once more," she said at last, apologetically, while Wilford, still looking over papers, replied: "A sweet place to come to. I sometimes hate it myself. By the way, I have something to tell you," and his face began to brighten. "Mrs. Mills, from Yonkers, was in town to-day, and as she had not time to see you, she found me and insisted upon your keeping the promise you made last summer of spending some days with her. The Beverleys are there and the Lincolns—quite a nice party—so I ventured to say that you should go out to-morrow and I would come out Saturday afternoon to spend Sunday."

"Oh, Wilford, I can't," and Katy's lip began to quiver at the very thought of meeting people like the Beverleys and Lincolns in her present state of mind.

"You can't! Why not?" Wilford asked, and Katy replied: "I've never been in so much company as I shall meet there since baby died, and then—did you forget that it was Lent?"

"You are getting very good to think a few days' visit in the country will harm you," Wilford replied; "besides that, neither Mrs. Mills, nor the Beverleys, nor Lincolns, are church people, and cannot, of course, sympathize in this superstitious fancy."

Katy looked up in astonishment, for never before had she heard Wilford speak thus of the Fast which his whole family honored. But Wilford was growing hard, and with a sigh Katy turned away, knowing how useless it was to reason with him then. Driving home alone, she gave vent to a passionate flood of tears as she wondered how it all would end. For some reason Wilford had set his heart upon the visit to Mrs. Mills, a pleasant, fascinating woman, who liked Katy very much and had anticipated the promised visit with a great deal of pleasure, making all her plans with a direct reference to Mrs. Cameron, whose absence would have been a great disappointment. Wilford knew this and resolved that Katy should go, and as opposition to his will was always useless, the close of the next day found Katy at Mrs. Mills' handsome dwelling overlooking the broad river and the blue mountains beyond. Wilford was with her; he had come out to spend the night, returning to the city in the morning. Now that he had accomplished his purpose he was in the best of spirits, treating Katy with unwonted kindness and wondering why he hated so to leave her, while she, too, clung to him, wishing he could stay. Their parting was only for two days, for this was Thursday, and he was to return on Saturday, but in the hearts of both there was that dark foreboding which is so often a sure precursor of evil. Twice Wilford turned back to kiss his wife, feeling tempted once to tell her he was sorry for his jealousy and distrust, but such confession was hard for him and so he left it unsaid, looking back to the window against which Katy's face was pressed as she watched him going from her, but little guessing what would be ere she looked on him again.

Tom Tubbs sat reading Chitty as usual when Mr. Cameron came in from his trip up the river. Since Katy's last call at the office Tom had been haunted with her face as it looked when Wilford's cold greeting fell on her ear, and after a private conference with Mattie, who listened eagerly to every item of information with regard to Katy, he had come to the conclusion that his employer was a brute, and that his wife was not as happy as it was his duty to make her.

"It's mean in him to speak so hateful to her," he was thinking just as Wilford came in, appearing so very amiable and good-humored that the boy ventured to inquire for Mrs. Cameron. "She looked so pale and sick, the other day," he said, "almost as bad in fact as she did that night in the cars with Dr. Grant, just before she was so dangerously ill."

"What's that? What did you say?" Wilford asked quickly, and Tom, thinking he had not been understood, repeated his words, while in a voice which Tom scarcely knew, it was so low and husky, Wilford asked: "What night was Mrs. Cameron in the cars with Dr. Grant? When was it, and where?"

As suspicion is an intense magnifier, so the absence of it will blind one completely, and Tom was thus blindfolded as he stated in detail how two months or more ago, while Mr. Cameron was absent, he had been sent by Mr. Ray to Hartford, returning in the early train, that just before him, in the car, a gentleman sat with a lady who seemed to be sick, at all events her head lay on his shoulder and he occasionally bent over her to see if she wanted anything.

"I did not mind much about them," Tom said, "till it got to broad daylight, when I saw the man was Dr. Grant, and when we reached New York the lady threw back her veil and I saw it was Mrs. Cameron."

"Are you sure?" and Wilford grasped Tom's arm with an energy which made the boy wince, while there came over him a suspicion that he had talked too much.

But it could not now be helped, and to Wilford's question he answered:

"Yes, for she bowed to me and smiled."

"Where did they go?" was the next question, put in thunder tones, for Wilford was remembering things Katy said in her delirium, and which were now explained, if Tom's statement was true.

"They went off in a carriage toward your house, and that night I heard she was sick," Tom said, going back to his book, while Wilford seized his hat and started up Broadway. It was not his intention when he left the office to question the servants with regard to his wife, for every feeling and principle of his nature shrank from such an act, but by the time his home could be reached it could scarcely be said that he was in his right mind, and meeting Phillips in the hall, he demanded of her "if she remembered the day when Mrs. Cameron was first taken ill."

Yes. Phillips remembered how sick Esther said she looked when she came home from his father's, where she spent the night.

"Oh, yes; she stayed at my father's then. It was very proper she should," Wilford replied, recollecting himself, and trying to appear natural, so that Phillips would not suspect him of any special purpose in questioning her.

If Katy spent the night at his father's then Tom's statement was not true, and dismissing Phillips he hastened to his mother, to whom he put the question:

"Did Katy stay here a night while I was gone, the night but one after that dinner when she heard of Genevra, I mean?"

"Why, no," Mrs. Cameron replied, in some surprise. "Katy has not stayed here since last October, just after she came from Silverton, and you were in Detroit. Why do you ask? What is the matter? What do you fear?"

Wilford would not tell his mother what he feared, but waived her question by bidding her repeat what she could remember of the day when she was first summoned to Katy, and to tell him also who was there.

"Dr. Grant was there, and Dr. Craig," she said. "The former, as I understood from Esther, had just come to the city and called on Katy, finding her so ill that he sent for me immediately."

"And you do not know that Katy was away from home at all?" was Wilford's next inquiry, to which his mother replied:

"Esther spoke of her looking very sick when she came in, from which I inferred she had been driving or shopping, but she was not here, sure."

Esther, it would seem, was the only one who could throw light upon the mystery, and as by this time the jealous man did not care whom he questioned, he left his mother without a word of explanation, and hurried home, where he found Esther, and in a voice which made her tremble, bade her answer his questions truthfully, without the slightest attempt at evasion.

"Yes, sir," Esther replied, and Wilford continued:

"Where was your mistress the night before Dr. Grant came here, and she was so very sick?"

"I don't know, sir. I had the impression that she at your mother's. Wasn't she there?" and Esther looked very innocent, while Wilford replied:

"It is your business to answer questions, not to ask them. Tell me then the particulars of her going away, and what she said."

As nearly as she could remember Esther repeated what had passed between herself and Katy that morning, but her manner was such as to convince Wilford she was keeping back something, and in a paroxysm of excitement he seized her arm, exclaiming:

"You know more than you admit. Tell me then the truth. Who came home with Mrs. Cameron, and when?"

Esther was afraid of Wilford, and at last between tears and sobs confessed that Mrs. Wilford said she had been out of town, but asked her not to tell, that she guessed it was Silverton where she had been, and also that when she opened the door to her, Dr. Morris was going down the steps; "not in a hurry—not like making off as if there was something wrong," she added, in her eagerness to exonerate her mistress.

"Who hinted there was anything wrong?" Wilford exclaimed, in tones which made poor Esther tremble, for now that he had heard all he cared to hear, he began to be ashamed of having gained his information in the way he had.

"Nobody hinted," Esther sobbed, with her face hidden in her apron; "and if they did it's false. There never was a truer, sweeter lady."

"See that you stick to that whatever may occur, and, mind you, let there be no repeating this conversation in the kitchen or elsewhere," Wilford hurled at her savagely, going next to a telegraph office, and sending over the wires the following: