DISAPPEARED.

All the next day Wilford was very busy arranging his affairs, and a casual looker-on would have seen nothing unusual in the face always so grave and cold. But to Tom Tubbs, casting furtive glances over his book and wondering at his employer's sudden activity, it was terrible in its dark, hard, unrelenting expression, while even his mother, upon whom he called that evening, looked at him anxiously, asking what was the matter, but not mentioning the conversation held with her the previous day respecting Katy.

She was still at Yonkers, Wilford said, and his voice was very natural as he added: "I am expected to go out there to-morrow night with Beverley and Lincoln, whose wives are also at Mrs. Mills'; quite a gay party we shall make," and he tried to smile, but it was a sickly effort and made his face look still more ghastly and strange.

"What ails you, Wilford?" his mother asked, but he answered pettishly: "Nothing, so pray don't look at me so curiously as if I was hiding some terrible secret."

He was hiding a secret, and it almost betrayed itself, when at last he said good-by to his mother, who followed him to the door and stood looking after him in the darkness until the sound of his footsteps died away upon the pavement. There was a fire in his room and Wilford sat down to write the brief note he would leave, for when the night shut down again he would not be there. He could not feel that the parting from Katy would be final, because he did not believe she had sinned as he counted sin, but she certainly preferred another to himself; she had deceived him and played the successful hypocrite. This was Wilford's accusation against his wife; this for what she must be punished, until such time as his royal clemency saw fit to forgive and take her back as he meant to. He had no fear of her going to Morris, or to the farmhouse either, for much as she was attached to her family, he believed she would shrink from a return to poverty, choosing rather the luxuries of her city home. And he would put no impediment in the way of her staying there as long as she liked; he would arrange that for her, feeling himself very magnanimous as he thought of giving her permission to invite her mother to New York as a kind of protection against scandalous remarks. Mrs. Lennox and Helen too should come. That certainly was generous, and lest his goodness should abate he seized his pen and wrote:

Had Wilford read this letter over, he might not have left it, but he did not read it, and in recalling its contents he gave himself great credit for his forbearance when speaking of Morris, whom he hated so cordially. Sealing the letter, and laying it in Katy's drawer just above where she had left his, he tried to sleep; but the morning found him haggard and tired, and Esther, as she poured his coffee, asked if he was sick.

"No," he answered, and then as he pushed back his chair, he said: "I shall not be home again to-day, as Mrs. Cameron expects me to spend Sunday at Yonkers."

And so all that day and the next, the doors were locked, the shutters closed, the curtains dropped, while an ominous silence reigned throughout the house; but when Monday came, and was halfway gone there were inquiries made for Mr. Cameron by young Beverley and Lincoln, whose faces looked anxious and disturbed at Esther's answer:

"He went to Yonkers, Saturday. I have not seen him since."

Out at Yonkers on Saturday night, three young wives had waited for their husbands, and none more eagerly than Katy, who, fair as a lily, in her dark dress, with her soft hair curling about her face, sat by the window watching for the carriage from the station, hers the first ear to catch the sound of wheels, and here the first form upon the piazza.

"Where's Wilford?" she asked, as only two alighted, and neither of them her husband.

But no one could answer that question. The gentlemen had looked for him at Chambers Street, expecting him every moment to join them. Perhaps he was detained, he might come yet at twelve, they said, trying to comfort Katy, who, with a sad foreboding, went back into the parlor, and tried to join in the laugh and jest which seemed almost like mockery. Something had happened to Wilford she was sure when the night train did not bring him; and all the next day, while the Sunday bells pealed their music in her ears, and the sounds of thoughtless mirth came up from the room below, where the elaborate dinner was in progress, she lay upon her pillow, her head almost bursting with pain, and her heart aching so sadly as she tried to pray that no harm had befallen her husband. She never dreamed of his desertion, even when about noon of the next day a telegram came from Father Cameron, bidding her hasten to the city. Wilford was sick or dead, probably the latter, was the feeling uppermost in her mind, as she was borne rapidly to New York, where Mr. Cameron met her, his face confirming her fears, but not preparing her for the great shock awaiting her.

"Wilford is not dead," he said, when at last she was in the carriage. "It is worse than that, I fear. We have traced him to the Philadelphia train, which he took on Saturday. His manner all that day and the previous one was very strange, while from some words he dropped my wife is led to suppose there was trouble between you two. Was there?" and Father Cameron's gray eyes rested earnestly on the white, frightened face which looked up so quickly as Katy gasped:

"No, oh, no; he never was kinder to me than when we parted last Friday morning at Mrs. Mills'. There is some mistake. He would not leave me, though he has not been quite the same since—"

Katy was interrupted by the carriage stopping before her home; but when they had been admitted to the parlor where a fire was lighted, Father Cameron said:

"Go on now. Wilford has not been the same since when?"

Thus importuned Katy continued:

"Since baby died. I think he blamed me as the cause of its death."

"Don't babies die every day?" Father Cameron growled, kicking at the hearth rug, while Katy, without considering that he had never heard of Genevra, continued:

"And then it was worse after I found out about Genevra, his first wife."

"Genevra! Genevra, Wilford's first wife! Thunder and lightning! what are you talking about?" and Father Cameron bent down to look in Katy's face, thinking she was going mad.

But Katy was not mad, and knowing it was now too late to retract, she told the story of Genevra Lambert to the old man, who, utterly confounded, stalked up and down the room, kicking away chairs and footstools, and whatever came in his way, and swearing promiscuously at his wife and Wilford, whom he pronounced a precious pair of fools, with a dreadful adjective appended to the fools, and an emphasis in his voice which showed he meant what he said.

"It's all accounted for now," he said, "the piles of money that boy had abroad, his privacy with his mother, and all the other tomfoolery I could not understand. Katy," and pausing in his walk, Mr. Cameron came close to his daughter-in-law, who was lying with her face upon the sofa. "Katy, be glad your baby died. Had it lived it might have proved a curse just as mine have done—not all, for Bell, though fiery as a pepper-pod, has some heart, some sense—and there was Jack, my oldest boy, a little fast, it's true; but when he died over the sea, I forgave all that, forgetting the chair he broke over a tutor's head, and the scrapes for which I paid as high as a thousand at one time. He sowed his wild oats, and died before he could reap them, died a good man, I believe, and went to heaven. Juno you know, and you can judge whether she is such as would delight a parent's heart; while Wilford, my only boy, to deceive me so; though I knew he was a fool in some things, I did trust Wilford."

The old man's voice shook now, and Katy felt his tears dropping on her hair as he stooped down over her. Checking them, however, he said:

"And he was cross because you found him out. Was there no other reason?"

Katy thought of Dr. Morris, but she could not tell of that, and so she answered:

"There was—but please don't ask me now. I can't tell, only I was not to blame. Believe me, father, I was not to blame."

"I'll swear to that," was the reply, as Father Cameron commenced his walking again. "He may have left some word, some line," he said. "Suppose you look. It would probably be upstairs."

Katy had not thought of this, but it seemed reasonable that it should be so, and going to her room, followed by Father Cameron, she went, as by some instinct, to the very drawer where the letter lay.

There was perfect silence while she read it through, Mr. Cameron never taking his eyes from the face which turned first white, then red, then spotted, and finally took a leaden hue as Katy ran over the lines, comprehending the truth as she read, and when the letter was finished, lifting her dry, tearless eyes to Father Cameron, and whispering to herself:

"Deserted!"

She let him read the letter, and when he had finished explained the parts he did not understand, telling him now what Morris had confessed, telling him too that in her first sorrow, when life and sense seemed reeling, she had gone to Dr. Grant, who had brought her back, as a brother might have done, and this was the result.

"Why did you say you went to him—that is, what was the special reason?" Mr. Cameron asked, and after a moment's hesitancy, Katy told him her belief that Genevra was living—that it was she who made the bridal trousseau for Wilford's second wife, who nursed his child until it died, giving to it her own name, arraying it for the grave, and then leaving, as she always did, before the father came.

"I never told Wilford," Katy said. "I felt as if I would rather he should not know it yet. Perhaps I was wrong, but if so, I have been terribly punished."

Mr. Cameron could not look upon the woman who stood before him, so helpless and stricken in her desolation, and believe her wrong in anything. The guilt lay in another direction, and when as the terrible reality that she was indeed a deserted wife came rushing over Katy, she tottered toward him for help, he stretched his arms out for her, and taking the sinking figure in them, laid it upon the sofa as gently, as kindly as Wilford had ever touched it in his most loving days.

Katy did not faint nor weep. She was past all that, but her face was like a piece of marble, and her eyes were like those of the hunted fawn when the chase is at its height and escape impossible.

"Wilford would come back if he knew just how it was," the father said, "but the trouble is where to find him. He speaks of writing to me, as I presume he will in a day or so, and perhaps it will be as well to wait till then. What the plague—who is ringing that bell enough to break the wire?" he added, as a sharp, rapid ring echoed through the house and was answered by Esther. "It's my wife," he continued, as he caught the sound of her voice asking if Mrs. Cameron had returned. "You stay here while I meet her first alone. I'll give it to her for cheating me so long and raising thunder generally!"

Katy tried to protest, but he was halfway down the stairs, and in a moment more was with his wife, who had come around armed and equipped to censure Katy as the cause of Wilford's disappearance, and to demand of her where she was the night she pretended to spend at No. —— Fifth Avenue. But the lady who came in so haughty and indignant was a very different personage from the lady who, after listening for fifteen minutes to a fearful storm of oaths and reproaches, mingled with startling truths and bitter denunciations against herself and her boy, sank into a chair, pale and trembling, and overwhelmed with the harvest she was reaping.

But her husband was not through with her yet. He had reserved the bitterest drop for the last, and coming close to her he said:

"And who think you the woman is—this Genevra, Wilford's and your divorced wife? You were too proud to acknowledge an apothecary's daughter! See if you like better a dressmaker, a nurse to Katy's baby, Marian Hazelton!"

He whispered the last name, and with a shriek the lady fainted. Mr. Cameron would not summon a servant, and as there was no water in the room, he walked to the window, and lifting the sash scraped from the sill a handful of the light spring snow which had been falling since noon. With this he brought his wife back to consciousness, and then marked out her future course.

"I know what is in your mind," he said. "You would like to have all the blame rest on Katy; but, madam, hear me—just so sure as through your means one breath of suspicion falls on her. I'll _bla at_ out the whole story of Genevra. Then see who is censured. On the other hand, if you hold your tongue, and make Juno hold hers, and stick to Katy through thick and thin, acting as if you would like to swallow her whole, I'll say nothing of this Genevra. Is it a bargain?"

"Yes," came faintly from the sofa cushions, where Mrs. Cameron had buried her face, sobbing in a confused, frightened way, and after a moment finding voice to say: "What will you do with Phillips and Esther? He must have questioned them."

"The deuce he did! I'll see to that I'll throttle them if they venture to speak!" and summoning both the females to his presence, Mr. Cameron demanded if either had reported what Wilford had said to them.

Except to each other they had not, though Phillips confessed to a great desire to do so when a cousin was in the previous night.

"Hang the cousin, and you, too, if you do!" Mr. Cameron replied, and giving them some very strong advice, couched in very strong language, he dismissed the servants to the kitchen, satisfied that so far Katy was safe. "But who is the villain who first informed? If I had him by the neck!" the enraged man continued, just as there came a second ring—a timid, hesitating ring, as if the new arrival were half afraid to present himself and his errand.

"Speak of angels and you hear the rustle of their wings," is a proverb as true and much pleasanter of thought than its opposite, and whether Tom Tubbs were an angel or not, it was he who stood twirling his cap in the hall, asking for Mrs. Cameron.

"She can't see you, but I'll take the message. Is it about my son?" Father Cameron said, striding up to the boy, who began to wish himself away.

Ever since inquiries had been made at the office for Wilford's whereabouts, Tom had been uneasy, for he could not forget the savage look in Wilford's face when he first told him of Katy and Dr. Grant; and when he heard that instead of going to Yonkers Wilford had taken the cars for Philadelphia, he was certain something was wrong, and longed to confess to Katy what he knew of the matter. He had no idea of meddling, but came with the kindest intentions, thinking he should feel better when the load was off his mind. He was then poorly prepared for his fierce reception from Mr. Cameron, who asked so energetically what he had to say.

"It wasn't much," Tom began. "I only wanted to tell her maybe I was to blame for repeating what I saw."

"What did you see?" and Mr. Cameron laid his hand on Tom's coat collar as if to shake the information out of him.

But there was no need of this, for the frightened youth told quickly what he had come to tell, seeming so sorry and appearing so hurt withal that the elder Cameron grew very gracious, and dismissed him with the conviction that Katy had nothing to fear from Tom Tubbs. Mrs. Cameron was with her now, giving her kisses and words of sympathy, telling her Wilford would come back, and adding that in any event no one could or should blame her.

"I have heard the whole from husband; it was a misunderstanding, that is all. Wilford was wrong to deceive you about Genevra. I was wrong to let him; but we will have no more concealments. You think she is living still—that she is Marian Hazelton?" and Mrs. Cameron smoothed Katy's hair as she talked, trying to be motherly and kind, while her heart beat more painfully at thoughts of a Genevra living than it ever had on thoughts of a Genevra dead.

She did not doubt the story, although it seemed so strange, and it made her faint as she wondered if the world would ever know and what it would say if it did. That her husband would tell if she failed in a single point she was sure, but she should not fail; she would swear Katy was innocent of everything, if necessary, while Juno and Bell should swear too. Of course they must know and she should tell them that very night, she said to herself, and hence it was that in the gossip which followed Wilford's disappearance not a word was breathed against Katy, whose cause the family espoused so warmly. Bell and the father because they really loved and pitied her, and Mrs. Cameron and Juno because it saved them from the disgrace which would have fallen on Wilford had the fashionable world known then of Genevra.

The sudden disappearance of a man like Wilford Cameron could not fail even in New York to cause some excitement, especially in his own immediate circle of acquaintances, and for several days the matter was discussed in all its phases, and every possible opinion and conjecture offered as to the cause of his strange conduct. Insanity! how many sins it is made to cover, and how often is it pleaded for an excuse when no other can be found. This is especially true in the higher walks of life, and so in Wilford's case it was put forward, cautiously at first by Mrs. Cameron herself, who wondered at the avidity with which the suggestion was seized and handed from one to another, some remembering little things which tended to confirm the belief, others slyly shrugging their shoulders as they responded: "Very probable," but all tacitly allowing the understanding to prevail that insanity had made Wilford Cameron a voluntary wanderer from home. They could not believe in domestic troubles when they saw how his family clung to and defended Katy from the least approach of censure, Juno taking up her abode with her "afflicted sister" until such time as Wilford could be heard from or more definite arrangements be made; Mrs. Cameron driving around each day to see her; Bell always speaking of her with genuine affection, while the father clung to her like a hero, the quartet forming a barrier across which the shafts of scandal could not reach.

WHAT FOLLOWED.

And where the while was Wilford? Fortunate, indeed, is it for the disappointed, desperate men of the present day that when their horizon is blackest and life seems not worth preserving, they can leave the past behind and find a refuge in the army. To Wilford it presented itself at once as the place of all others. Anything which could divert his mind was welcome, and ere the close of that first day of Katy's return from Yonkers, his name was enrolled in the service of his country. He had gone directly to Washington, stumbling accidentally upon an old college acquaintance who was getting up a company, and whose first lieutenant had disappointed him. Learning Wilford's wishes he offered him the post, which was readily accepted, and ere four days were gone Lieutenant Wilford Cameron, with no regret as yet for the past, marched away to swell the ranks of men who, led by General McClellan, were pressing on, as they believed, to Richmond and victory. A week of terrible suspense went by and then there came a note to Mr. Cameron from his son, requesting him to care for Katy, but asking no forgiveness for himself.

"I have disgraced you all," he wrote, "and I know just how you feel, but I am not sorry for the step I've taken. When I am I shall probably come back, provided that day finds me alive."

And that was all the proud man wrote. Not one word was there for Katy, whose eyes, which had not wept since she knew she was deserted, moved slowly over the short letter, weighing every word, and then were lifted sadly to her father's face as she said: "I will write and tell him all the truth, and on his answer will depend my future course."

This she said referring to the question she had raised as to whether in case Wilford did not come back she should remain in New York or go to Silverton, where as yet they were ignorant of her affliction, for Uncle Ephraim had not told of the telegram, and Katy would not alarm them until she knew something definite.

And so the days went by, while Katy's letter was sent to Wilford, together with another from his father, who confirmed all Katy had protested of her innocence and ended by calling his son a "confounded fool" and telling him to throw up his shoulder straps, which "only honest men had a right to wear, and come home where he belonged."

To this there came an angry, indignant answer, bidding the father attend to his own business, and allow the son to attend to his. To Katy, however, Wilford wrote in a different strain, showing here and there marks of tenderness and relenting, but saying what he had done could not now be helped—he was in for a soldier's life of two years, and should abide his choice. At the idea of Genevra's being alive he scoffed; he knew better than that, and even if she were why need Katy have gone with it to Morris. Surely she should have had the discretion to keep something to herself.

This was the purport of Wilford's letter to Katy, who when she had finished reading said, sorrowfully:

"Wilford never loved me. It was a mere fancy, a great mistake, and I cannot stay in his home, knowing that I am not trusted and respected as a wife should be. I will go to Silverton. There is room for me there. I shall write to Helen to-day."

Meanwhile at Silverton, Uncle Ephraim, still keeping the telegram a secret, grew more and more anxious as there came no news of Katy. What did the silence mean? Uncle Ephraim pondered the matter all day long, holding conversations with himself upon the subject, and finally making up his mind to the herculean task of going to New York to see what was the matter. To the family, who asked the reason of his sudden journey, he said: He had a notion that something ailed Katy, and he was going to see.

No one ever thought of opposing Uncle Ephraim, and the following day found him ready for the journey Aunt Betsy had taken before him.

Presuming upon her experience as a traveler, that good dame had proffered sundry pieces of advice with reference to what it was best for him to do on the road, telling him which side of the car to sit, where to get out, and above all things not to shake hands with the conductor when asked for his ticket.

Uncle Ephraim heard her good-humoredly, and stuffing into his pocket the paper of ginger-snaps, fried cakes and cheese, which Aunt Hannah had prepared for his lunch, he started for the cars, and was soon on his way to New York.

In his case there was no Bob Reynolds to offer aid and comfort, and the old man was nearly torn in pieces by the burly hackman, who, the moment he appeared to view, pounced upon him as lawful prey, each claiming the honor of taking him wherever he wished to go, and raising such a din about his ears that he finally turned away thoroughly disgusted, telling them:

"He had feet and legs, and common sense, and he guessed he could find his way without 'em. 'Bleeged to you, gentlemen, but I don't need you," and with a profound bow the honest-looking old deacon walked away, asking the first man he met the way to Madison Square, and succeeded in finding the number without difficulty.

"This is it," he said, stopping in front of the tall building, and examining it closely from the roof to the basement.

Now that he was really there, a misgiving as to the propriety of the act assailed him for the first time, and he began to wish he had not come.

"I won't pull that nub," he said, glancing at the silver knob. "I'll go down to the kitchen door, as like enough they've company."

Accordingly Esther, who chanced to be in the basement, was startled by a heavy knock, and was startled still more at the tall, white-haired man who addressed her as "Sis," and asked if "Miss Cameron was to hum."

"A man in the kitchen asking for me!" Katy exclaimed, when Esther reported the message, and with her mind full of possible news from Wilford, she ran hastily down the basement stairs, and with a loud scream of joy threw herself into Uncle Ephraim's arms, an act which so astonished Phillips that she dropped the dish of soup she was preparing for the dinner table, the greasy liquid bespattering Katy's dress, and bringing her to a sense of where she was, and that she should not be there.

"Come upstairs," she said, holding Uncle Ephraim's hand, and leading him to the parlor, while the first tears she had shed since she knew she was deserted rained in torrents over her face.

"What is it, Katy-did? I mistrusted something was wrong. What has happened?" Uncle Ephraim asked, and with his arm thrown protectingly around her, Katy told him what had happened, and then asking what she should do.

"Do?" the old man repeated. "Go home with me to your own folks until he comes from the wars. He is your husband, and I shall say nothing agin' him, but if it was to do over I would forbid the banns. That chap has misused you the wust way. You need not deny it, for it's writ all over your face," he continued, as Katy tried to stop him, for sore as was her heart with the great injustice done her, she would not have Wilford blamed.

He was her husband still, and she had loved him so fondly that, whether worthy or not of her love, she could not turn from him so soon.

"I wrote to Helen yesterday, so they will be prepared for me," she said, anxious to change the conversation, and feeling glad when dinner was announced.

Leading him to the table, she presented him to Juno, whose cold nod and haughty stare were lost on the old man presiding with so much patriarchal dignity at the table, and bowing his white head so reverently as he asked the first blessing which had ever been said at that table, except as Helen or Morris had breathed a prayer of thanks for the bounty provided.

It had not been a house of prayer—no altar had been erected for the morning and evening sacrifice. God had almost been forgotten, and now He was pouring His wrath upon the handsome dwelling, making it so distasteful that Katy was anxious to leave it, and expressed her willingness to accompany Uncle Ephraim to Silverton as soon as the necessary arrangements could be made.

"I don't take it she comes for good," Uncle Ephraim said that evening, when Mr. Cameron, to whom she referred the matter, opposed her going, "for when the two years are gone, and her man wants her back, as he will, she must come, of course. But she grows poor here in the city. It don't agree with her like the scent of the clover and the breeze from the hills. So, shet up the house for a spell, and let the child come with me."

Mr. Cameron knew that Katy would be happier at Silverton, and though he disliked to part with her, he finally consented to her going, and placed at her disposal a sum which seemed to the deacon a little fortune in itself.

In the kitchen there were sad faces when the servants heard of the arrangement which was to deprive them not only of a pleasant home, but of a mistress whom they both respected and loved. Esther pleaded hard to go with Katy, and only the latter's promise that possibly she might come by and by was of any avail to stay the tears which dropped so fast as she put up her mistress' dresses, designed for Silverton, and laid away the gayer, richer ones, which would be so sadly out of place upon her now.

To Mrs. Cameron and Juno it was a relief to have Katy taken from their hands, and though they made a show of opposition, they were easily quieted, and helped her off with alacrity, the mother promising to see that the horse was promptly called for, and Juno offering to send the latest fashion which might be suitable, as soon as it appeared. Bell was heartily sorry to part with the young sister who seemed going from her forever.

"I know you will never come back. Something tells me so," she said as she stood with her arms around Katy's waist, and her lips occasionally touching Katy's forehead. "But I shall see you," she continued; "I am coming to the farmhouse in the summer, to stay ever so long; and you may say to Aunt Betsy that I like her ever so much, and"—here Bell glanced behind her, to see that no one was listening, and then continued—"tell her a certain officer was sick a few days in a hospital last winter, and one of his men brought to him a dish of the most delicious dried peaches he ever ate. That man was from Silverton, and the fruit was sent to him, he said, in a salt bag, by a nice old lady, for whose brother he used to work. Just to think, that the peaches I helped to pare, coloring my hands so that the stain did not come off in a month, should have gone so straight to Bob," and Bell's fine features shone with a light which would have told Bob Reynolds he was beloved, even if the lips did not refuse to confess it.

"I'll tell her," Katy said, and then bidding them all good-by, and putting her hand on Uncle Ephraim's arm she went with him from the home where she had lived but two short years, and those the saddest, most eventful ones of her short life.

MARK AND HELEN.

There was much talk and wonder in Silverton when it was known that Katy had come home to stay until her husband returned from the war, and at first the people were inclined to gossip and hint at some mystery or possible estrangement; but this was brought to an end when the postmaster's wife told of a letter which had come to Mrs. Wilford Cameron from the Army of the Potomac, and of the answer returned within three days to Lieutenant Wilford Cameron, Co., —th Regt., N. Y. V., etc. It must be all right, the gossips said, after that, but they watched Katy curiously as she came among them again, so quiet, so subdued, so unlike the Katy of old that they would hardly have recognized her but for the beauty of her face and the sunny smile she gave to all, but which rested oftenest on the poor and suffering, who blessed her as the angel of their humble homes, praying that God would remember her for all she was to them. The gold was purified at last, the dross removed, and Katy, in her beautiful consistent life, seemed indeed like some bright angel straying among the haunts of men, rather than the weak and ofttimes sorely tempted mortal, which she knew herself to be.

Wilford's letters, though not unkind, were never very satisfactory, and always brought on a racking headache, from which she suffered intently. He had censured her at first for going back to Silverton, when he preferred she should stay in New York, hinting darkly at the reason of her choice, and saying to her once, when she told him how the Sunday before her twenty-first birthday she had knelt before the altar and taken upon herself the vows of confirmation: "Your saintly cousin is, of course, delighted, and that I suppose is sufficient, without my congratulations."

Perhaps he did not mean it, but he seemed to take delight in teasing her, and Katy sometimes felt she should be happier without his letters than with them. He had never said he was sorry he had left her so suddenly—indeed he seldom referred to the past in any way; or if he did it was in a manner which showed that he thought himself the injured party, if either. Once, indeed, he did admit that, in calmly reviewing the whole thing, he saw no reason now to believe that in the matter of Dr. Grant she had been to blame, except in going to him with her trouble and so bringing about the present unfortunate state of affairs. This was the nearest to a concession on his part of anything he made; but it did Katy a world of good, brightening up her face, and making her even dare to meet Morris alone and speak to him naturally. Ever since her return to Silverton she had studiously avoided him, and a stranger might have said they were wholly indifferent to each other; but that stranger would not have known of Morris' daily self-discipline or of the one little spot in Katy's heart kept warm and sunny by the knowing that Morris Grant had loved her, even if the love had died, as she hoped it had. It would be better for them all, and so, lest by word or deed she should keep the germ alive, she seldom addressed him directly, and never went to Linwood unless some one was with her to prevent her being left with him alone. A life like this could not be pleasant for Morris, and as there seemed to be a lack of competent physicians in the army, he, after prayerful deliberation, accepted a situation offered him as surgeon in a Georgetown hospital, and early in June left Silverton for his new field of labor.

True to her promise, Bell came at the last of July to Silverton, proving herself a dreadful romp as she climbed over the rocks in Aunt Betsy's famous sheep pasture, or raked the hay in the meadow, and proving herself, too, a genuine woman, as with blanced cheek and anxious heart she waited for tidings from the battles before Richmond, where the tide of success seemed to turn, and the North, hitherto so jubilant and hopeful, wore weeds of mourning from Maine to Oregon. Lieutenant Bob was there, and Wilford, too; and so was Captain Ray, digging in the marshy swamps, where death floated up in poisonous exhalations—plodding on the weary march, and fighting all through the seven days, where the sun poured down its burning heat and the night brought little rest. No wonder, then, that the three faces at the farmhouse grew white with anxiety, or that three pairs of eyes grew dim with watching the daily papers. But the names of neither Wilford, Mark, nor Bob were ever found among the wounded, dead, or missing, and with the fall of the first autumn leaf Bell returned to the city, more puzzled, more perplexed than ever with regard to Helen Lennox's real feelings toward Captain Ray.

Rapidly autumn went by, bringing at last the week before Christmas, when Mark came home for a few days, looking ruddy and bronzed from exposure and hardship, but wearing the disappointed, listless look which Bell was quick to detect, connecting it in some way with Helen Lennox. Only once did he call at Mr. Cameron's, and then as Juno was not present Bell had him all to herself, talking a great deal of Silverton, of Helen and Katy, in the latter of whom he seemed far more interested than in her sister. Many questions he asked concerning Katy, expressing his regret that Wilford had ever left her, and saying he believed Wilford was sorry, too. He was in the hospital now, with a severe cold and a touch of the rheumatism, he said; but as Bell knew this already she did not dwell long upon that subject, choosing rather to talk of Helen—"as much interested in the soldiers," she said, "as if she had a brother or a lover in the army," and her bright eyes glanced meaningly at Mark, who answered carelessly:

"Dr. Grant is there, you know, and that may account for her interest."

Mark knew he must say something to ward off Bell's attacks, and so he continued talking of Dr. Grant and how much he was liked by the poor wretches who needed some one as kind and gentle as he to keep them from dying of homesickness if nothing else. Once, too, he spoke of a nurse, a second Nightingale, whose shadow on the wall the soldiers had not kissed perhaps, but who was worshiped by the pale, sick men to whom she ministered so tenderly.

"She is very beautiful," he added, "and every man of us would willingly try a hospital cot for the sake of being nursed by her."

Bell thought at once of Marian, but as Mark knew nothing of their private affairs she would not question him, and after a few bantering words concerning Lieutenant Bob and the picture he carried into every battle, buttoned closely over his heart. Mark Ray took his leave, while Bell, softened by thoughts of Cob, ran upstairs to cry, going to her mother's room, as a seamstress was occupying her own. Mrs. Cameron was out that afternoon, and that she had dressed in a hurry was indicated by the unusual confusion of her room. Drawers were left open and various articles scattered about, while on the floor just as it had fallen from a glove box lay a letter which Bell picked up, intending to replace it.

"Miss Helen Lennox," she read in astonishment. "How came Helen Lennox's letter here in mother's room, and from Mark Ray, too," she continued, still more amazed as she took the neatly folded note from the envelope and glanced at the name. "Foul play somewhere. Can it be mother?" she asked, as she read enough to know that she held in her hand Mark's offer of marriage which had in some mysterious manner found its way to her mother's room. "I don't understand it at all," she said, racking her brain for a solution of the mystery. "But the letter at least is safe with me. I'll send it to Helen this very day and to-morrow I'll tell Mark Ray."

Procrastination was not one of Bell Cameron's faults, and for full half an hour before her mother and Juno came home, the stolen letter had been lying in the mail box where Bell herself deposited it, together with a few hurriedly written lines, telling how it came into her hands, but offering no explanation of any kind.

"Mark is home now on a leave of absence which expires day after to-morrow," she wrote, "but I am going around to see him, and if you do not hear from him in person I am greatly mistaken."

Very closely Bell watched her mother when she came from her room, but the letter had not been missed, and in blissful ignorance Mrs. Cameron displayed her purchases and then talked of Wilford, wondering how he was and if it were advisable for any of them to go to him.

The next day a series of hindrances kept Bell from making her call as early as she had intended doing, so that Mrs. Banker and Mark were just rising from dinner when told she was in the parlor.

"I meant to have come before," she said, seating herself by Mark, "but I could not get away. I have brought you some good news. I think—that is—yes, I know there has been some mistake, some wrong somewhere, whether intended or not. Mark Ray," and the impetuous girl faced directly toward him, "if you could have any wish you might name what would it be? Come now, imagine yourself a Cinderella and I the fairy godmother. What will you have?"

Mark knew she was in earnest and her manner puzzled him greatly, but he answered, laughingly: "As a true patriot I should wish for peace on strictly honorable terms."

"Pshaw!"

The word dropped very prettily from Bell's lips as with a shrug she continued:

"You men are very patriotic, I know, especially if you wear shoulder straps, but isn't there something dearer than peace? Suppose, for instance, Union between the North and South on strictly honorable terms, as you say, was laid upon one scale and union between yourself and Helen Lennox was laid upon the other, which would you take?"

Mark's lips were very white now, but he tried to laugh as he replied: "I should say the Union, of course."

"Yes, but which union?" Bell rejoined, and then as she saw that Mrs. Banker was beginning to frown upon her she continued: "But to come directly to the point. Yesterday afternoon I found—no matter where or how—a letter intended for Helen Lennox, which I am positive she never saw or heard of; at least her denial to me that a certain Mark Ray had ever offered himself is a proof that she never saw what was an offer made just before you went away. I read enough to know that, and then I took the letter and—"

She hesitated, while Mark's eyes turned dark with excitement, and even Mrs. Banker, scarcely less interested, leaned eagerly forward, saying:

"And what? Go on, Miss Cameron. What did you do with that letter?"

"I sent it to its rightful owner, Helen Lennox. I posted it myself, so it's sure this time. But why don't you thank me, Captain Ray?" she asked, as Mark's face was overshadowed with anxiety.

"I was wondering whether it were well to send it—wondering how it might be received," he said, and Bell replied:

"She will not answer no. As one woman knows another I know Helen Lennox. I have sounded her on that point. I told her of the rumor there was afloat, and she denied it, seeming greatly distressed, but showing plainly that had such offer been received she would not have refused it. You should have seen her last summer, Captain Ray, when we waited so anxiously for news from the Potomac. Her face was a study as her eyes ran over the list of casualties, searching not for her amiable brother-in-law, nor yet for Willard Braxton, their hired man. It was plain to me as daylight, and all you have to do is to follow up that letter with another, or go yourself, if you have time." Bell said, as she arose to go, leaving Mark in a state of bewilderment as to what he had heard.

Who withheld that letter? and why? were questions which troubled him greatly, nor did his mother's assurance that it did not matter so long as it all came right at last, tend wholly to reassure him. One thing, however, was certain. He would see Helen before he returned to his regiment—he would hear from her own lips what her answer would have been had she received the letter. He would telegraph in the morning to Washington, and then run the risk of being a day behind the time appointed for his return to duty. Never since the day of Aunt Betsy's revelations had Mark felt as light and happy as he did that night, scarcely closing his eyes in sleep, but still not feeling tired when next morning he met his mother at the breakfast table and disclosed in part his plans. He would not tell her all there was in his mind lest it should not be fulfilled, but when at parting with her he did say:

"Suppose you have three children when I return instead of two, is there room in your heart for the third?"

"Yes, always room for Helen," was the reply, as with a kiss of benediction Mrs. Banker sent her boy away.

CHRISTMAS EVE AT SILVERTON.

There was to be a Christmas tree at St. John's, and all the week the church had been the scene of much confusion. But all the work was over now; the church was swept and dusted, the tree with its gay adornings was in its place, the little ones, who, trying to help, had hindered and vexed so much, were gone, as were their mothers, and only tarried with the organ boy to play the Christmas carol, which Katy was to sing alone, the children joining in the chorus as they had been trained to do. It was very quiet there, and very pleasant too, with the fading sunlight streaming through the chancel window, lighting up the cross above it, and falling softly on the wall where the evergreens were hung with the sacred words: "Peace on earth and good will toward men." And Helen felt the peace stealing over her as by the register she sat down for a moment ere going to the organ loft where the boy was waiting for her. Not even the remembrance of the dark war cloud hanging over the land disturbed her then, as her thoughts went backward eighteen hundred years to Bethlehem's manger and the little child whose birth the angels sang. And as she thought, that Child seemed to be with her, a living presence to which she prayed, leaning her head upon the railing of the pew in front and asking Him to keep her in the perfect peace she felt around her now. She had given Mark Ray up, and giving up had made a cruel wound, but she did not feel it now, although she thought of him in that quiet hour, asking God to keep him in safety wherever he might be, whether in the lonely watch or kneeling as she hoped he might in some house of God, where the Christmas carols would be sung and the Christmas story told.

A movement of her hand as she lifted up her head struck against the pocket of her dress, where lay the letter brought to her an hour or so ago—Bell's letter—which, after glancing at the superscription, she had put aside until a more convenient season for reading it.

Taking it out, she tore open the envelope, starting suddenly as another letter, soiled and unsealed, met her eye. She read Bell's first, and then, with a throbbing heart, which as yet would not believe, she took up Mark's, and understanding now much that was before mysterious to her. Juno's call, too, came to her mind, and though she was unwilling to charge so foul a wrong upon that young lady, she could find no other solution to the mystery. There was a glow of indignation—Helen had scarcely been mortal without it; but that passed away in pity for the misguided girl and in joy at the happiness opening so broadly before her. That Mark would come to Silverton she had no hope, but he would surely write—his letter, perhaps, was even then on the way; and kissing the one she held she hid it in her bosom and went up to where the organ boy had for several minutes been kicking at stools and books, and whistling "Old John Brown" by way of attracting attention. The boy was in a hurry, and asked in so forlorn a tone: "Is we going to play?" that Helen answered good-humoredly: "Just a few minutes, Billy. I want to try the carol and the opening, which I've hardly played at all."

With an air of submission Bill took his post and Helen began to play, but she could only see before her: "I have loved you ever since that morning when I put the lilies in your hair," and she played so out of time and tune that Billy asked: "What makes 'em go so bad?"

"I can't play now; I'm not in the mood," she said at last. "I shall feel better by and by. You can go home if you like."

Billy needed no second bidding, but catching up his cap ran down the stairs and out into the porch, just as up the step a young man came hurriedly, the horse he had hitched to a tree smoking from exercise and himself looking eager and excited.

"Hello, boy," he cried, grasping the collar of Bill's roundabout and holding him fast, "who's in the church?"

"Darn yer, old Jim Sykes, you let me be, or I'll—" the boy began, but when he saw his captor was not Jim Sykes, but a tall, fine-looking man, wearing a soldier's uniform, he changed his tone, and standing still, answered civilly: "I thought you was Jim Sykes, the biggest bully in town, who is allus hectorin' us boys. Nobody is there but she—Miss Lennox—up where the organ is," and having given the desired information, Bill ran off, wondering first if it wasn't Miss Helen's beau, and wondering next, in case she should some time get married in church, if he wouldn't fee the organ boy as well as the sexton. "He orto," Bill soliloquized, "for I've about blowed my gizzard out sometimes, when she and Mrs. Cameron sings the 'Te Deum.'"

Meanwhile Mark Ray, who had driven first to the farmhouse in quest of Helen, entered the church, glancing in upon the festooned walls, and then as he heard a sound in the loft, stealing noiselessly up the stairs to where Helen sat in the dim light, reading again the precious letter withheld from her so long. She had moved her stool near to the window, and her back was toward the door, so that she neither saw nor heard, nor suspected anything, until Mark, bending over her so as to see what she had in her hand, as well as the tear she had dropped upon it, clasped both his arms about her neck, and drawing her face over back, kissed her fondly, calling her his darling, and saying to her as she tried to struggle from him:

"I know I have a right to call you darling by that tear on my letter and the look upon your face. Dear Helen, we have found each other at last."

It was so unexpected that Helen could not speak, but she let her head rest on his bosom, where he had laid it, and her hot, trembling hand crept into his, so that he was answered, and for a moment he only kissed and caressed the fair girl he knew now was his own. They could not talk together there very long, for Helen must go home; but he made good use of the time he had, telling her many things, and then asking her a question which made her start away from him as she replied: "No, no, oh! no, not to-night—not so soon as that!"

"And why not, Helen?" he asked, with the manner of one who is not to be denied. "Why not to-night, so there need be no more misunderstanding? I'd rather leave you as my wife than my betrothed. Mother will like it better. I hinted it to her and she said there was room for you in her love. It will make me a better man, a better soldier, if I can say 'my wife,' as other soldiers do. You don't know what a charm there is in that word, Helen—keeping a man from sin, and if I should die I would rather you should bear my name and share in my fortune. Will you, Helen, when the ceremonies are closed, will you go up to that altar and pledge your vows to me? I cannot wait till to-morrow; my leave of absence expired to-day. I must go back to-night, but you must first be mine."

Helen was shaking as with a chill, but she made him no reply, and wrapping her cloak and furs about her, Mark led her down to the sleigh, and taking his seat beside her, drove back to the farmhouse, where the supper waited for her. Katy, to whom Mark first communicated his desire, warmly espoused his cause, and that went far toward reassuring Helen, who, for some time past had been learning to look up to Katy as to an older sister, so sober, so earnest, so womanly had Katy grown since Wilford went away.

"It is so sudden, and people will talk," Helen said, knowing while she said it how little she cared for people and smiling at Katy's reply:

"They may as well talk about you a while as me. It is not so bad when once you are used to it."

After Katy, Aunt Betsy was Mark's best advocate. It is true this was not just what she had expected when Helen was married. The "infair" which Wilford had declined was still in Aunt Betsy's mind; but that, she reflected might be yet. If Mark went back on the next train there could be no proper wedding party until his return, when the loaves of frosted cake, and the baked fowls she had seen in imagination should be there in real, tangible form, and as she expressed it they would have a "high." Accordingly she threw herself into the scale beginning to balance in favor of Mark, and when at last old Whitey stood at the door ready to take the family to the church, Helen sat upon the lounge listening half bewildered, while Katy assured her that she could play the voluntary, even if she had not looked at it, that she could lead the children without the organ, and in short do everything Helen was expected to do except go to the altar with Mark.

"That I leave for you," and she playfully kissed Helen's forehead, as she tripped from the room, looking back when she reached the door, and charging the lovers not to forget to come, in their absorption of each other.

St. John's was crowded that night, just as churches always are on such occasions, the children occupying the front seats, with looks of expectancy upon their faces, as they studied the heavily laden tree, the boys wondering if that ball, or whistle, or wheelbarrow was for them, and the girls appropriating the tastefully dressed dolls, showing so conspicuously among the dark-green foliage. The Barlows were rather late, for upon Uncle Ephraim devolved the duty of seeing to the license, and as he had no seat in that house, his arrival was only known by Aunt Betsy's elbowing her way to the front, and near to the Christmas tree which she had helped to dress, just as she had helped to trim the church. She did not believe in such "flummmeries" it is true, and she classed them with the "quirks," but rather than "see the gals slave themselves to death," she had this year lent a helping hand. Donning two shawls, a camlet cloak, a knit scarf for her head, and a hood to keep from catching cold, she had worked early and late, fashioning the most wonderfully shaped wreaths, tying up festoons, and even trying her hand at a triangle; but turning her back resolutely upon crosses, which were more than her Puritanism could endure. The cross was a "quirk," with which she'd have nothing to do, though once, when Katy seemed more than usually bothered and wished somebody would hand her tacks. Aunt Betsy relented so far as to bring the hoop she was winding close to Katy, holding the little nails in her mouth, and giving them out as they were wanted; but with each one given out, conscientiously turning her head away, lest her eyes should fall upon what she conceived the symbol of the Romish Church. But when the whole was done, none were louder in their praises than the good Aunt Betsy, who was guilty of asking Mrs. Deacon Bannister when she came in to inspect, "why the orthodox couldn't get up some such doin's for their Sunday school. It pleased the children mightily."

But Mrs. Deacon Bannister answered with some severity:

"We don't believe in shows and plays, you know," thus giving a double thrust, and showing that the opera had never been quite forgotten. "Here's a pair of skates, though, and a smellin' bottle. I'd like to have put on for John and Sylvia," she added, handing her package to Aunt Betsy, who, while seeing the skates and smelling bottle suspended from a bough, was guilty of wondering if "the partaker wasn't most as bad as the thief."

This was in the afternoon and was all forgotten now, when with her Sunday clothes she never would have worn in that jam but for the great occasion, Aunt Betsy elbowed her way up the middle aisle, her face wearing a very important and knowing look, especially when Uncle Ephraim's tall figure bent for a moment under the hemlock boughs, and then disappeared in the little vestry room where he held a private consultation with the rector. That she knew something her neighbors didn't was evident. But she kept it to herself, turning her head occasionally to look up at the organ where Katy was presiding. Others, too, there were who turned their heads as the soft liquid music began to fill the church, and the heavy bass rolled up the aisles, making the floor tremble beneath their feet and sending a thrill through every vein. It was a skillful hand which swept the keys that night, for Katy's forte was music, and she played with her whole soul, not the voluntary there before her in printed form, nor any one thing she had ever heard, but taking parts of many things, and mingling them with strains of her own improvising, she filled the house as it had never been filled before, playing a soft, sweet refrain when she thought of Helen, then bursting into louder, fuller tones, when she remembered Bethlehem's child and the song the angels sang, and then as she recalled her own sacrifice since she knelt at the altar a happy bride, the organ notes seemed much like human sobs, now rising to a stormy pitch of passion, wild and uncontrolled, and then dying out as dies the summer wind after a fearful storm. Awed and wonderstruck the organ boy looked at Katy as she played, almost forgetting his part of the performance in his amazement, and saying to himself when she had finished:

"Guy, though, ain't she a brick," and whispering to her: "Didn't we go that strong?"

Katy knew she had made an impression, and her cheeks were very red as she went down to the body of the church, joining the children with whom she was to sing, but she soon forgot herself in the happiness of the little ones, who could scarcely be controlled until the short service was over and the gifts about to be distributed. Much the people had wondered where Helen was, as, without the aid of music, Katy led the children in their carols, and this wonder increased when as time passed on it was whispered around that "Miss Lennox had come and was standing with a man back by the register."

After this Aunt Betsy grew very calm. She knew Helen was there and could now enjoy the distributing of the gifts, going up herself two or three times, and wondering why anybody should think of her, a good-for-nothing old woman. The skates and the smelling bottles both went safely to Sylvia and John, while Mrs. Deacon Bannister looked radiant when her name was called and she was made the recipient of a jar of butternut pickles, such as only Aunt Betsy Barlow could make.

"Miss Helen Lennox. A soldier in uniform, from one of her Sunday school scholars."

The words rang out loud and clear, the rector holding up the sugar toy before the amused audience, who turned to look at Helen, blushing so painfully, and trying to hold back the real man in soldier's dress who went quietly up the aisle, receiving the gift with a bow and smile which turned the heads of half the ladies near him, and then went back to Helen, over whom he bent, whispering something which made her cheeks grow brighter than they were before, while she dropped her eyes modestly.

"Who is he?" a woman asked, touching Aunt Betsy's shoulder.

"Captain Ray, from New York," was the answer, as Aunt Betsy gave to her dress a little broader sweep and smoothed the bow she had tried to tie beneath her chin just as Mattie Tubbs had tied it on the memorable opera night.

"Miss Helen Lennox. A sugar heart, from one of her scholars," the rector called again, the titters of the audience almost breaking into cheers as they began to suspect the relation sustained to Helen by the handsome young officer, going up the aisle after Helen's heart and stopping to speak to good Aunt Betsy, who pulled his coat skirt as he passed her.

The tree by this time was nearly empty. Every child had been remembered, save one, and that Billy, the organ boy, who, separated from his companions, stood near Helen, watching the tree wistfully, while shadows of hope and disappointment passed alternately over his face as one after another the presents were distributed and nothing came to him.

"There ain't a darned thing on it for me," he exclaimed at last, when boy nature could endure no longer, and Mark turned toward him just in time to see the gathering mist which but for the most heroic efforts would have merged into tears.

"Poor Billy," Helen said, as she too heard his comment, "I fear he has been forgotten. His teacher is absent and he so faithful at the organ too."

Mark knew now who the boy was and after a hurried consultation with Helen, who knowing Billy well, suggested that money would probably be more acceptable than even skates or jackknives, neither of which were possible now, folded something in a bit of paper, on which he wrote a name and then sent it to the rector.

"Billy Brown, our faithful organ boy," sounded through the church, and with a brightened face Billy went up the aisle and received the little package, ascertaining before he reached his standpoint near the door that he was the owner of a five-dollar bill, and mentally deciding to add both peanuts and molasses candy to the stock of apples he daily carried into the cars.

"You gin me this," he said, nodding to Mark, "and you," turning to Helen, "poked him up to it."

"Well then, if I did," Mark replied, laying his hand on the boy's coarse hair, "if I did, you must take good care of Miss Lennox when I am gone. I leave her in your charge. She is to be my wife."

"Gorry, I thought so," and Bill's cap went toward the plastering just as the last string of popcorn was given from the tree, and the exercises were about to close.

It was not in Aunt Betsy's nature to keep her secret till this time, and simultaneously with Billy's going up for his gift she whispered it to her neighbor, who whispered it to hers, until nearly all the audience knew of it, and kept their seats after the benediction was pronounced.

At a sign from the rector, Katy went with her mother to the altar, followed by Uncle Ephraim, his wife, and Aunt Betsy, while Helen, throwing off the cloud she had worn upon her head, and giving it, with her cloak and fur, into Billy's charge, took Mark's offered arm, and with beating heart and burning cheeks passed between the sea of eyes fixed so curiously upon her, up to where Katy once had stood on the June morning when she had been the bride. Not now, as then, were aching hearts present at that bridal. No Marian Hazelton fainted by the door; no Morris felt the world grow dark and desolate as the marriage vows were spoken; and no sister doubted if it were all right and would end in happiness. Only Katy seemed sad as she recalled the past, praying that Helen's life might not be like hers.

The ceremony lasted but a few moments, and then the astonished audience pressed around the bride, offering their kindly congratulations, and proving to Mark Ray that the bride he had won was dear to others as well as to himself. Lovingly he drew her hand beneath his arm, fondly he looked down upon her as he led her back to her chair by the register, making her sit down while he tied on her cloak and adjusted the fur about her neck.

"Handy and gentle as a woman," was the verdict pronounced upon him by the female portion of the congregation as they passed out into the street, talking of the ceremony, and contrasting Helen's husband with the haughty Wilford, who was not a favorite with them.

It was Billy Brown who brought Mark's cutter around, holding the reins while Mark helped Helen, and then tucking the buffalo robes about her with the remark: "It's all-fired cold, Miss Ray. Shall you play in church to-morrow?"

Assured that she would, Billy walked away, and Mark was alone with his bride, slowly following the deacon's sleigh, which reached the farmhouse a long time before the little cutter, so that a fire was already kindled in the parlor when Helen arrived, and also in the kitchen stove, where the teakettle was placed, for Aunt Betsy said "the chap should have some supper before he went back to York."

Four hours he had to stay, and they were well spent in talking of himself, of Wilford, and of Morris, and in planning Helen's future. Of course she would spend a portion of her time at the farmhouse, he said, but his mother had a claim upon her, and it was his wish that she should be in New York as much as possible.

"Now that you have Mrs. Cameron, you do not need my wife," he said to Mrs. Lennox, with an emphasis upon the last word, which he seemed very fond of using.

Much he wished to stay with the wife so lately his, but as that could not be, he asked at last that she go with him to Washington. It might be some days before his regiment was ordered to the front, and in that time they could enjoy so much. But Helen knew it would not be best, and so she declined, promising, however, to come to him whenever he should need her.

Swiftly now the last moments went by, and a "Merry Christmas" was said by one and another as they took their seats at the plentiful repast Aunt Betsy had provided, Mark feasting more on Helen's face than on the viands spread before him. It was hard for him to leave her, hard for her to let him go, but the duty was imperative, and so when at last the frosty air grew keener as the small hours of night crept on, he stood with his arms about her, nor thought it unworthy of a soldier that his own tears mingled with hers as he bade her good-by, kissing her again and again, and calling her his precious wife, whose memory would make his camp-life brighter and shorten the days of absence. There was no one with them when at last Mark's horse dashed from the yard over the creaking snow, leaving Helen alone upon the doorstep, with the glittering stars shining above her head and her husband's farewell kiss wet upon her lips.

"When shall we meet again?" she sobbed, gazing up at the clear blue sky, as if to find the answer there.

But only the December wind sweeping down from the steep hillside, and blowing across her forehead, made reply to that questioning, as she waited till the last faint sound of Mark Ray's bells died away in the distance, and then shivering with cold re-entered the farmhouse.