LITTLE GENEVRA.

Morris had telegraphed to New York, receiving in reply that Wilford was hourly expected home, and would at once hasten on to Silverton. The clergyman, Mr. Kelly, had also been seen, but owing to a funeral which would take him out of town, he could not be at the farmhouse until five in the afternoon, when, if the child still lived, he would be glad to officiate as requested. All this Morris had communicated to Katy, who listened in a kind of stupor, gasping for breath, when she heard that Wilford would so soon be there, and moaning "that will be too late," when told that the baptism could not take place till night. Then, kneeling by the crib where the child was lying, she fastened her great, sad blue eyes upon the pallid face with an earnestness as if thus she would hold till nightfall the life flickering so faintly and seeming so nearly finished. The wailings had ceased, and they no longer carried it within their arms, but had placed it in its crib, where it lay perfectly still, save as its eyes occasionally unclosed and turned wistfully toward the cups, where it knew was something which quenched its raging thirst. Once, indeed, as the hours crept on to noon and Katy bent over it so that her curls swept its face, it seemed to know her, and the little wasted hand was for a moment uplifted and rested on her cheek with the same caressing motion it had been wont to use in health. Then hope whispered that it might live, and with a great cry of joy Katy sobbed: "She knows me, Morris—mother, see; she knows me. Maybe she will live."

But the dull stupor which succeeded to that act swept all hope away, and again Katy resumed her post, watching first her dying child, and then the long hands of the clock which crept on so slowly, pointing to only two when she thought it must be five. Would that hour never come, or coming, would it find baby there? None could answer that last question—they could only wait and pray, and as they waited thus the warm September sun neared the western sky till its yellow beams came stealing through the window and across the floor to where Katy sat watching its onward progress and looking sometimes out upon the hills where the purplish autumnal haze was lying just as she once loved to see it; but she did not heed it now, or care how bright the day with the flitting shadows dancing on the grass, the tall flowers growing by the door and old Whitey standing by the gate, his head stretched toward the house in a kind of dreamy, listening attitude, as if he, too, knew of the great sorrow hastening on so fast. The others saw all this, and it made their hearts ache more as they thought of the beautiful little child, so much fairer than sky or day or flowers could be, going from their midst when they wished so much to keep her. But Katy had only one idea, and that was of the child growing very restless now and throwing up its arms as if in pain. It is striking five, and with each stroke the dying baby moans, while Katy strains her ear to catch another sound, the sound of horses' hoofs hurrying up the road. The clergyman has come and anon the inmates of the house gather around in silence, while he makes ready to receive the child into Christ's flock, where it so soon will really be.

Mrs. Lennox had questioned Helen about the name and Helen had answered: "Katy knows, I presume. It does not matter," but no one had spoken directly to Katy, who had scarcely given it a thought, caring more for the rite she had deferred so long.

"He must hasten," she said to Morris, her eyes fixed upon the panting child she had lifted to her own lap, and thus abjured the clergyman failed to make the usual inquiry concerning the name he was to give.

Calm and white as a marble statue, Marian Hazelton glided to the back of Katy's chair, pressing both her hands upon it, and leaning over Katy so that her eyes too were fixed upon the little face, from which they never turned but once, and that when the clergyman's voice was heard asking for a name. There was an instant's silence, and Katy's lips began to move, when one of Marian's hands was laid upon her head, while the other took in its own the limp, while baby fingers, and Marian's voice was very steady in its tone as it said: "Genevra."

"Yes, Genevra," Katy whispered, and then the solemn words were heard: "Genevra, I baptize thee in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost."

Softly the baptismal waters fell upon the pale forehead, and at their touch the little Genevra's eyes unclosed, the waxen fingers withdrew themselves from Marian's grasp, and again sought the mother's cheek, resting there for an instant; while a smile broke around the baby lips, which tried to say "Mam-ma." Then the hand fell back, down upon Marian's, the soft eyes closed, the limbs grew rigid, the shadow of death grew deeper, and while the prayer was said, and Marian's tears fell with Katy's upon the brow where the baptismal waters were not dried, the angel came, and when the prayer was ended, Morris, who knew what the rest did not, took the lifeless form from Katy's lap, and whispered to her gently: "Katy, your baby is dead!"

An hour later, and the sweet little creature, which had been a sunbeam in that house for a few happy days, lay upon the bed where Katy said it must be laid; its form shrouded in the christening robe which Grandma Cameron had bought, flowers upon its pillow, flowers upon its bosom, flowers in its hands, which Marian had put there; for Marian's was the mind which thought of everything concerning the dead child; and Helen, as she watched her, wondered at the mighty love which showed itself in every lineament of her face, the blue veins swelling in her forehead, her eyes bloodshot, and her lips shut firmly together, as if it were by mere strength of will that she kept back the scalding tears as she dressed the little Genevra. They spoke of that name in the kitchen when the first great shock was over, and Helen explained why it had been Katy's choice. Poor stricken Katy, it was Morris' task to comfort her—Morris, who sat by her holding the hot, feverish hand she had placed in his, and telling her of the blessed Savior who loved the little children while here on earth, and to whom her darling had surely gone.

"Safe in His arms it would not come back if it could," he said, "and neither would you have it."

But Katy was the mother, and human love could not so soon submit, but went out after the lost one with a piteous agonizing wail, which hurt Morris cruelly.

"Oh, I want my baby back. I know she is safe, but I want her back. She was my life—all I had to love," Katy moaned, rocking to and fro in this first hour of her bereavement.

"You forget your husband," Morris said. "You have him left, and husbands, I supposed, were dearer than one's children."

"Yes," Katy answered, "I have Wilford, and am glad of that; but he will blame me so much for bringing baby here to die. He will say it was my fault; and that I can't bear. I know it was, know I killed my baby; but I did not mean to. I would give my life for hers, if like her I was ready," and into Katy's face there came a look of fear which Morris failed to understand, not knowing Wilford as well as Katy knew him.

Surely no man could reproach the half-crazed creature, who all that night sat by the bedside of her dead child, sleeping a little in her chair, but obtaining no real rest, so that by the morning her face was like some white rose on which a fierce storm has beaten, breaking off its petals and crushing out its life. At nine o'clock there came to her a telegram. Wilford had reached New York and would be in Silverton that afternoon, accompanied by Bell. At this last Marian Hazelton caught eagerly as an excuse for what she intended doing. She could not remain there after Wilford came, nor was it necessary. Her task was done, or would be when she had finished the wreath and cross of flowers she was making for the coffin. Laying them on baby's pillow, Marian went in quest of Helen, to whom she explained that as Bell Cameron was coming, and the house would be full, she had decided upon going to West Silverton, especially as she wished to see the lady with whom she once boarded, and who had been so kind to her.

"I might stay," she added, as Helen began to protest, "but you do not need me. I have done all I can, and would rather go where I can be quiet for a little."

To this last argument there could be no demur, and so the same carriage which at ten o'clock went for Wilford Cameron carried Marian Hazelton to the village where she preferred being left.

In much anxiety and distress Wilford Cameron read the telegram announcing baby's illness.

"At Silverton!" he said. "How can that be when the child was at New London?" and he glanced at the words:

There could be no mistake, and Wilford's face grew dark, for he guessed the truth, censuring Katy much, but censuring her family more. They, of course, had encouraged her in the plan of taking her child from New London, where it was doing so well, and this was the result. Wilford was proud of his daughter now, and during the few weeks he had been with it the little thing had found a strong place in his love. Many times he had thought of it during his journey West, indulging in bright anticipations of the coming winter, when he would have it home again. It would not be in his way now. On the contrary, it would add much to his luxurious home, and the young father's heart bounded as Wilford Cameron had never believed his heart could bound, with thoughts of the beautiful baby as he had last seen it in Katy's arms, crowing its good-by to him and trying to lisp his name, its sweet voice haunting him for weeks, and making him a softer, better man, who did not frown impatiently as he used to do upon the children in the cars, but who took notice of them all, even laying his hand once on a little curly head which reminded him of baby's.

Alas for him, he little dreamed of the great shock in store for him. The child was undoubtedly very sick, he said, but that it could die was not possible; and so, though he made ready to hasten to it, he did withhold his opinion of the rashness, as he termed it, which had brought it to such peril.

"Had Katy obeyed me it would not have happened," he said, pacing up and down the parlor and preparing to say more, when Bell came to Katy's aid, and lighting furiously upon him, asked what he meant by blaming his wife so much.

"For my part," she said, "I think there has been too much fault-finding and dictation from the very day of the child's birth till now, and if God takes it, as he may, I shall think it a judgment upon you. First you were half vexed with Katy because it was not a boy, as if she were to blame; then you did not like it because it was not more promising and fair; next it was in your way, and so you sent it off, never considering Katy any more than if she were a mere automaton, to turn which way you said. Then you must needs forbid her taking it home to her own family, as if they had no right, no interest in it. I tell you, Will, it is not all Cameron—there is some Barlow blood in its veins—Aunt Betsy Barlow's, too, and you cannot wash it out. Katy had a right to take her own child where she pleased, and you are not a man if you censure her for it, as I see in your eyes you mean to do. Suppose it had stayed in New London and been struck with lightning—you would have been to blame, of course, according to your own view of things."

There was too much truth in Bell's remarks for Wilford to retort, even had he been disposed, and he contented himself with a haughty toss of his head as she left the room to get herself in readiness for the journey she insisted upon taking. Wilford was glad she was going, as her presence at Silverton would relieve him of the awkward embarrassment he always felt when there; and magnanimously forgiving her for the plainness of her speech, he was the most attentive of brothers until Silverton was reached and he found Dr. Grant waiting for him. Something in his face, as he came forward to meet them, startled both Wilford and Bell, the latter of whom asked quickly:

"Is the baby better?"

"Baby is dead," was the brief reply, and Wilford staggered back against the doorpost, where he leaned a moment for support in that first great shock for which he was not prepared.

"Dead," he repeated, "our baby dead," and Morris was glad that he said our, as it indicated a thought of Katy as a mutual sharer in the loss.

Upon the doorstep Bell sat down, crying quietly, for she had loved the little child, and she listened anxiously while Morris repeated the particulars of its illness and then spoke of Katy's reproaching herself so bitterly for having brought it from New London. "She seems entirely crushed," he continued, when they were driving toward the farmhouse. "For a few hours I trembled for her reason, while the fear that you might reproach her added much to the poignancy of her grief."

Morris said this very calmly, as if it were not what he had all the while intended saying, and his eye turned toward Wilford, whose lips were compressed with the emotion he was evidently trying to control. It was Bell who spoke first. Bell who said impulsively; "Poor Katy, I knew she would feel so, but it is unnecessary, for none but a savage would reproach her now, even if she were in fault."

Morris blessed Bell Cameron in his heart, knowing how much influence her words would have upon her brother, who brushed away the first tear he had shed, and tried to say that "of course she was not to blame."

They were in sight of the farmhouse now, and Bell, with her city ideas, was looking curiously at it, mentally pronouncing it a nicer, pleasanter place than she had supposed, inasmuch as it reminded her of the description she had read of the Virginia farmhouse, where a young officer was encamped for a few days, an officer who wore a lieutenant's uniform and who signed himself as Bob. It was very quiet about the house, and old Whitey's neigh as Morris' span of bays came up was the only sound which greeted them. In the woodshed door Uncle Ephraim sat smoking his clay pipe and likening the feathery waves which curled above his head to the little soul so recently gone upward, while by his side, upon a log of wood, holding a pan of the luscious peaches she was slicing up for tea, sat a woman whom Bell knew at once for Aunt Betsy Barlow, thinking more of the peaches than of the old lady who, pan in hand, came forward to met her, curtseying very low when introduced by Morris, and asking to be excused from shaking hands, inasmuch as hers were not fit to be touched. Bell's quick eye took her in at a glance, from her clean spotted gown to her plain muslin cap tied with a black ribbon, put on that day with a view to mourning, and then darted off to Uncle Ephraim, who won her heart at once when she heard how his voice trembled as he took Wilford's hand and said so pityingly, so father-like: "Young man, this is a sad day for you and you have my sympathy, for I remember well how my heart ached when, on just such a day as this, my only child lay dead as yours is lying."

Every muscle of Wilford's face quivered then, but he was too proud to show all that he felt, and he was glad when Helen appeared in the door, as that diverted his mind somewhat, and he greeted her most cordially, even stooping down and kissing her smooth forehead, a thing he had never done before. But sorrow is a great softener and Wilford was very sorry, feeling his loss more here where everything was so quiet, so suggestive of death.

"Where is Katy?" he asked.

"She is sleeping for the first time since the baby died. She is in here with the child. She will stay nowhere else," Helen said, opening softly the door of the bedroom and motioning Wilford in.

With hushed breath and a beating heart, Wilford stepped across the threshold and Helen closed the door, leaving him alone with the living and the dead. Pure and beautiful as some fair blossom, the dead child lay upon the bed, the curls of golden hair clustering about its head, and on its lips the smile which had settled there when it tried to say "mamma"—its dimpled hands folded upon its breast, where lay the cross of flowers which Marian Hazelton had made—flowers upon its pillow, flowers around its head, flowers upon its shroud, flowers everywhere, and itself the fairest flower of all, Wilford thought as he stood gazing at it and then let his eye move on to where poor, tired, worn-out Katy had crept up so close beside it that her breath touched the marble cheek and her own disordered hair rested upon the pillow of her child. Even in her sleep her tears kept dropping from the long eyelashes, and the pale lips quivered in a grieved, touching way. Hard indeed would Wilford have been had he cherished one bitter thought against the wife so wounded. He could not when he saw her, but no one ever knew just what passed through his mind during the half hour he sat there beside her, scarcely stirring and not daring to kiss his child lest he should awaken her. He could hear the ticking of his watch and the beating of his heart as he waited for the first sound which should herald Katy's waking.

Suddenly there was a low, gasping moan, and Katy's eyes unclosed and rested on her husband. He was bending over her in an instant, and her arms were around his neck, while she said to him so sadly:

"Our baby is dead—you've nobody left but me; and oh! Wilford, you will not blame me bringing baby here? I did not think she would die. I'd give my life for hers if that would bring her back. Say, Wilford, would you rather it was me lying as baby lies, and she here in your arms?"

"No, Katy," Wilford answered, and by his voice Katy knew that she was wholly forgiven, crying on his neck in a plaintive, piteous way, while Wilford soothed and pitied and caressed, feeling subdued and humbled, and we must confess it, feeling too how very good and generous he was to be thus forbearing, when but for Katy's act of disobedience they might not now be childless!

With a great gust of tears Bell Cameron bent over the little form, and then enfolded Katy in a more loving embrace than he had ever given her before; but whatever she might have said was prevented by the arrival of the coffin and the confusion which followed.

Much Wilford regretted that New York was so far away, for a city coffin was more suitable, he thought, for a child of his, than the one which Dr. Grant had ordered. But that was really of less consequence than the question where should the child be buried? A costly monument at Greenwood was in accordance with his ideas, but all things indicated a contemplated burial there in the country churchyard, and sorely perplexed he called on Bell as the only Cameron at hand, to know what he should do.

"Do just as Katy prefers," was Bell's reply, as she led him to the coffin and pointed to the name: "Little Genevra Cameron, aged nine months and twenty days."

"What is it, Wilford—what is the matter?" she asked, as her brother turned whiter than his child, and struck his hand upon his head as if a blow had fallen there.

Had "Genevra Lambert, aged twenty-two," met his eye, he could not have been more startled than he was; but soon rallying, he said to Morris, who came near:

"The child was baptized then?"

"Yes, baptized Genevra. That was Katy's choice, I understand," Morris replied, and Wilford bowed his head, wishing the Genevra across the sea might know that his child bore her name.

"Perhaps she does," he thought, and his heart grew warm with the fancy that possibly in that other world, whose existence he never really doubted, the Genevra he had wronged would care for his child, if children there need care. "She will know it is mine at least," he said, and with a thoughtful face he went in quest of Katy, whom he found sobbing by the side of the mourning garments just sent in for her inspection.

Wilford was averse to black. It would not become Katy, he feared, and it would be an unanswerable reason for her remaining closely home for the entire winter.

"What's this?" he asked, lifting the crape veil and dropping it again with an impatient gesture as Helen replied: "It is Katy's mourning veil."

Contrary to his expectations, black was becoming to Katy, who looked like a pure white lily, as, leaning on Wilford's arm next day, she stood by the grave where they were burying her child.

Wilford had spoken to her of Greenwood, but she had begged so hard that he had given up that idea, suggesting next, as more in accordance with city custom, that she remain at home while he only followed to the grave; but from this Katy recoiled in such distress that he gave up too, and bore, magnanimously, as he thought, the sight of all the Barlows standing around that grave, alike mourners with himself, and all a right to be there. Wilford felt his loss deeply, and his heart ached to its very core as he heard the gravel rattling down upon the coffin lid which covered the beautiful child he had loved so much. But amid it all he never for a moment forgot that he was Wilford Cameron, and infinitely superior to the crowd around him—except, indeed, his wife, his sister, Dr. Grant, and Helen. He could bear to see them sorry, and feel that by their sorrow they honored the memory of his child. But for the rest—the village herd, with the Barlows in their train—he had no affinity, and his manner was as haughty and distant as ever as he passed through their midst back to the carriage, which took him again to the farmhouse.

AFTER THE FUNERAL.

Had there been a train back to New York that afternoon Wilford would most certainly have suggested going, but as there was none he passed the time as well as he could, finding Bell a great help to him, but wondering that she could assimilate so readily with such people, declaring herself in love with the farmhouse, and saying she should like to remain there for weeks, if the days were all as sunny as this, the dahlias as gorgeously bright, and the peaches by the well as delicious and ripe. To these the city girl took readily, visiting them the last thing before retiring, while Wilford found her there when he arose next morning, her dress and slippers nearly spoiled with the heavy dew, and her hands full of the fresh fruit which Aunt Betsy knocked from the tree with a quilting rod; her dress pinned around her waist, and disclosing a petticoat scrupulously clean, but patched and mended with so many different patterns and colors that the original ground was lost, and none could tell whether it had been red or black, buff or blue. Between Aunt Betsy and Bell the most amicable feeling had existed ever since the older lady had told the younger how all the summer long she had been drying fruit, "thimble-berries, blue-berries and huckleberries" for the soldiers, and how she was now drying peaches for Willard Buxton—once their hired man. These she should tie up in a salt bag, and put in the next box sent by the society of which she seemed to be head and front, "kind of fust directress," she said, and Bell was interested at once, for among the soldiers down by the Potomac was one who carried with him the whole of Bell Cameron's heart; and who for a few days had tarried at just such a dwelling as the farmhouse, writing back to her such pleasant descriptions of it, with its fresh grass and shadowy trees, that she had longed to be there too. So it was through this page of romance and love that Bell looked at the farmhouse and its occupants, preferring good Aunt Betsy because she seemed the most interested in the soldiers, working as soon as breakfast was over upon the peaches, and kindly furnishing her best check apron, together with pan and knife for Bell, who offered her assistance, notwithstanding Wilford's warning that the fruit would stain her hands, and his advice that she had better be putting up her things for going home.

"She was not going that day," she said, point-blank, and as Katy too had asked to stay a little longer, Wilford was compelled to yield, and taking his hat sauntered off toward Linwood; while Katy went listlessly into the kitchen, where Bell Cameron sat, her tongue moving much faster than her hands, which pared so slowly and cut away so much of the juicy pulp, besides making so frequent journeys to her mouth, that Aunt Betsy looked in alarm at the rapidly disappearing fruit, wishing to herself that "Miss Cameron had not listed."

But Miss Cameron had enlisted, and so had Bob, or rather he had gone to do his duty, and as she worked, she repeated to Helen the particulars of his going, telling how, when the war first broke out, and Sumter was bombarded, Rob, who, from long association with Southern men at West Point, had imbibed many of their ideas, was very sympathetic with the rebelling States, gaining the cognomen of a secessionist, and once actually thinking of casting in his lot with that side rather than the other. But the remembrance of a little incident saved him, she said. The remembrance of a queer old lady whom he met in the cars, and who, at parting, held her wrinkled hand above his head in benediction, charging him not to go against the flag, and promising her prayers for his safety if found on the side of the Union.

"I wish you could hear Bob tell the story, the funny part, I mean," she continued, narrating, as well as she could, the particulars of Lieutenant Bob's meeting with Aunt Betsy, who, as the story progressed and she recognized herself in the queer old Yankee woman, who shook hands with the conductor and was going to law about a sheep pasture, dropped her head lower and lower over her pan of peaches, while a scarlet flush spread itself all over her thin face, but changed into a grayish white as Bell concluded with "Bob says the memory of that hand lifted above his head haunted him day and night, during the period of his uncertainty, and was at last the means of saving him from treachery to his country."

"Thank God!" came involuntarily from Aunt Betsy's quivering lips, and, looking up, Bell saw the great tears running down her cheeks, tears which she wiped away with her arm, while she said faintly: "That old woman, who made a fool of herself in the cars, was me!"

"You, Miss Barlow, you!" Bell exclaimed, forgetting in her astonishment to carry to her mouth the luscious half peach she had intended for that purpose, and dropping it untasted into the pan, while Katy, who had been listening with some considerable interest, came quickly forward, saying: "You, Aunt Betsy! When were you in New York, and why did I never know it?"

It could not be kept back, and, unmindful of Bell, Helen explained to Katy as well as she could the circumstances of Aunt Betsy's visit to New York the previous winter.

"And she never let me know it, or come to see me, because—because—" Katy hesitated, and looked at Bell, who said, pertly: "Because Will is so abominably proud, and would have made such a fuss. Don't spoil a story for relations' sake, I beg," and the young lady laughed good humoredly, restoring peace to all save Katy, whose face wore a troubled look, and who soon stole away to her mother, whom she questioned further with regard to a circumstance which seemed so mysterious to her.

"Miss Barlow," Bell said, when Katy was gone, "you will forgive one for repeating that story as I did. Of course I had no idea it was you of whom I was talking."

Bell was very earnest, and her eyes looked pleadingly upon Aunt Betsy, who answered her back: "There's nothing to forgive. You only told the truth. I did make an old fool of myself, but if I helped that boy to a right decision, my journey did some good, and I ain't sorry now if I did go to the playhouse. I confessed that to the sewing circle, and Mrs. Deacon Bannister ain't seemed the same toward me since, but I don't care. I beat her on the election to first directress of the Soldiers' Aid. She didn't run half as well as me. That chap you call Bob, is he anything to you? Is he your beau?"

It was Bell's turn now to blush and then grow white, while Helen lightly touching the superb diamond on her first finger, said: "That indicates as much. When did it happen, Bell?"

Mrs. Cameron had said they were not a family to bruit their affairs abroad, and if so, Bell was not like her family, for she answered frankly: "Just before he went away. It's a splendid diamond, isn't it?" and she held it up for Helen to inspect.

The basket was empty by this time, and as Aunt Betsy went to fill it from the trees, Bell and Helen were left alone, the former continuing in a low, sad tone: "I've been so sorry sometimes that I did not tell Bob I loved him, when he wished me to so much."

"Not tell him you loved him! How then could you tell him yes, as it appears you did?" Helen asked, and Bell answered: "I could not well help that; it came so sudden and he begged so hard, saying my promise would make him a better man, a better soldier and all that. It was the very night before he went, and so I said that out of pity and patriotism I would give the promise, and I did, but it seemed too much for a woman to tell a man all at once that she loved him, and I wouldn't do it, but I've been sorry since; oh, so sorry, during the two days when we heard nothing from him after that dreadful battle at Bull Run. We knew he was in it, and I thought I should die until his telegram came saying he was safe. I did sit down then and commence a letter, confessing all I felt, but I tore it up, and he don't know now just how I feel."

"And do you really love him?" Helen asked, puzzled by this strange girl, who laughingly held up her soft, white hand, stained and blackened with the juice of the fruit she had been paring, and said: "Do you suppose I would spoil my hands like that and incur _ma chère-mamma's_ displeasure, if Bob were not in the army and I did not care for him? And now that I have confessed so much, allow me to catechise you. Did Mark Ray ever propose and you refuse him?"

"Never!" and Helen's face grew crimson, while Bell continued: "That is funny. Half our circle think so, though how the impression was first given I do not know. Mother told me, but would not tell where she received her information. I heard of it again in a few days, and have reason to believe that Mrs. Banker knows it too and feels a little uncomfortable that her son should be refused when she considers him worthy of the empress herself."

Helen was very white, and her limbs shook as she asked: "And how with Mark and Juno?"

"Oh, off and on," Bell replied; "that is, Juno is always on, while Mark is more uncertain, and Juno really has improved in some respects. As I wrote you once, she is very docile when with Mark, and acts as if trying to atone for something—her old badness, I guess. You are certain you never cared for Mark Ray?"

This was so abrupt and Bell's eyes were so searching that Helen grew giddy for a moment and grasped the back of the chair, as she replied: "I did not say I never cared for him. I said he never proposed; and that is true; he never did."

"And if he had?" Bell continued, never taking her eyes from Helen, who, had she been less agitated, would have denied Bell's right to question her so closely. Now, however, she answered blindly: "I do not know. I cannot tell. I thought him engaged to Juno."

"Well, if that is not the rarest case of cross-purposes that I ever knew," Bell said, wiping her hands upon Aunt Betsy's apron, and preparing to attack the piled up basket just brought in.

Further conversation was impossible, and, with her mind in a perfect tempest of thought, Helen went away, trying to decide what it was best for her to do. Some one had spread the report that she had refused Mark Ray, telling of the refusal, of course, or how else could it have been known? and this accounted for Mrs. Banker's long-continued silence. Since Helen's return to Silverton Mrs. Banker had written two or thee kind, friendly letters, which did her so much good; but these had suddenly ceased, and Helen's last remained as yet unanswered. She saw the reason now, every nerve quivering with pain as she imagined what Mrs. Banker must think of one who could make a refusal public, or what was tenfold worse, pretend to an offer she never received. "She must despise me, and Mark Ray, too, if he has heard of it," she said, resolving one moment to ask Bell to explain to Mrs. Banker, and then changing her mind and concluding to let matters take their course, inasmuch as interference from her might be construed by the mother into undue interest in the son. "Perhaps Bell will do it without my asking," she thought, and this hope did much toward keeping her spirits up on that last day of Katy's stay at home, for she was going back in the morning. Wilford would not leave her, though she begged to stay. He did not like the sad expression of her face, and he must take her where she would have more excitement, hoping thus to win her from her grief, and perhaps induce her to lay aside her black, which would be so serious a hindrance to his enjoyment. But Katy clung to that as to a strict, religious duty, saying to Helen, as in the twilight they sat together up in their old room, talking of the ensuing winter, which would be so different from the last:

"If anything besides the feeling that she is so much happier, could reconcile me to baby's loss, it is the knowing that my mourning will keep me from the society in which I could not mingle so soon," and her tears dropped upon the somber robes, which had transformed her so suddenly from the gay, airy creature of fashion into the sober, quiet woman who seemed older, soberer than even Helen herself.

They did not see Marian Hazelton again, and Katy wondered at it, deciding that in some things Marian was very peculiar, while Wilford and Bell were slightly disappointed, as both had a desire to meet and converse with one who had been so like a second mother to the little dead Genevra. Wilford spoke of his child now as Genevra, but to Katy it was baby still; and, with choking sobs and passionate tears, she bade good-by to the little mound underneath which it was lying, and then went back to her city home.

THE FIRST WIFE.

Softly and swiftly the hazy September days glided into dun October, who shook down leafy showers of crimson and of gold upon the withered grass, and then gave place to the dark November rains, which made the city seem doubly desolate to Katy, who, like the ghost of her former self, moved listlessly about her handsome home, starting quickly as a fancied baby cry fell on her ear, and then weeping bitterly as she remembered the sad past and thought of the still sadder present. Katy was very unhappy, and the world, as she looked upon it, seemed utterly cheerless. For much of this unhappiness Wilford was himself to blame. After the first few days, during which he was all kindness and devotion, he did not try to comfort her, but seemed irritated that she should mourn so deeply for the child which, but for her indiscretion, might have been living still. Her seclusion from gay society troubled him. He did not like staying at home, and their evenings, when they were alone, passed in gloomy silence. At last Mrs. Cameron, annoyed at what annoyed her son, brought her influence to bear upon her daughter-in-law, trying to rouse her to something like her olden interest in the world; but all to no effect, and matters grew constantly worse, as Wilford thought Katy unreasonable and selfish, while Katy tried hard not to think him harsh in his judgment of her, and exacting in his requirements. "Perhaps she was the one most in fault; it could not be pleasant for him to see her so entirely changed from what she used to be," she thought, one morning late in November, when her husband had just left her with an angry frown upon his face and reproachful words upon his lips.

Father Cameron and his daughters were out of town, and Mrs. Cameron, feeling lonely in their absence, had asked Wilford and Katy to dine with her. But Katy did not wish to go, and so Wilford had left her in anger, saying "she could suit herself, but he should go at all events."

Left alone, Katy began to feel that she had done wrong in declining the invitation. Surely she could go there, and the echo of the bang with which Wilford had closed the street door was still vibrating in her ear, when her resolution began to give way, and while Wilford was riding moodily downtown, thinking harsh things against her, she was meditating what she thought might be an agreeable surprise. She would go around and meet him at dinner, trying to appear as much like her old self as she could, and so atone for anything which had hitherto been wrong in her demeanor.

It was strange how much better Katy felt when this decision was reached, and Esther, below stairs, raised her finger warningly for the cook to listen as her mistress trilled a few notes of a song. It was the first time since her return from Silverton that a sound like that had been heard within the house, and it seemed the precursor of better days. At lunch, too, Katy's face was very bright, and Esther was surprised when, later in the day, she was sent for to arrange her mistress' hair, as she had not arranged it since baby died. Greatly annoyed, Wilford had been by the smooth bands combed so plainly back, and at the blackness of the dress; but now there was a change, and graceful curls fell about the face, giving it the girlish expression which Wilford liked. The somberness of the dark dress was relieved by simple folds of white crape at the throat and wrists, while the handsome jet ornaments, the gift of Wilford's father, added to the style and beauty of the childish figure, which had seldom looked lovelier than when ready and waiting for the carriage. At the door there was a ring, and Esther brought a note to Katy, who, recognizing her husband's handwriting, tore it quickly open and read as follows: