"Why I'm as cold as ice, what a goose! Now let's see what's in this wonderful trunk to make me feel so funny; something splendid I guess, but I couldn't help opening it, I really couldn't,—oh dear!"

It was of disappointment, for there was nothing there but a queer old basket, a pillow, with a plain little slip, and a worn faded letter on top.

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CHAPTER XI.

WHERE IS ERNESTINE?

"Er-nes-tin-e-e, cakes are getting cold," with an amount of energy and noise that might have reached that young lady, had she been sitting on the top-most round of the farthest chimney; but there was no response of any kind, neither was there any indications of a light up stairs, so Kat went back, remarking, as she again fell to work:

"She's put on her new toggery, most likely, and gone somewhere."

"But where should she go?" asked Bea with a strange uneasiness.

"Anywhere, just so people see her new things, and say how pretty she looks," answered Kat, who was not uneasy.

So they eat supper and waited; but no appearance of the delinquent. The twins began to clear up, putting a good supply in the oven to keep warm; but the dishes were through with, and all put away, and no Ernestine. Kittie began to feel anxious and worried, but Kat made fun of her, though she herself began to grow more quiet, as the evening went on. Eight. Nine. No Ernestine. What should they do?

Bea sprang up from her seat at the window, all in a pale tremor.

"I cannot stand it. Oh, Olive, what shall we do?"

"Why, I don't know," said Olive, putting down the book in which she had read nothing. "Have you looked for her hat and cloak?"

No. No one had. So they all rushed up stairs, as though it required five pairs of eyes to discover a hat and cloak, which was found lying on the bed, just as she had thrown them on coming up stairs. Bea went to her boxes, with a vague idea that the gloves and feather were in some way connected with the mystery; but they were put away with greatest possible care, and Kat, who always did the absurd things in hasty moments, reported that all her clothes and dresses were in their places, so she couldn't have gone away.

"Of course not; there's no place for her to go to," answered Olive.

"Mrs. Dane's, perhaps," suggested Kittie.

This was plausible.

"But what would she go for?" asked Bea in a moment. "And without any hat or shawl, and stay so late?"

Nobody knew, and all looked irresolute and anxious.

"Her blue shawl is gone," exclaimed Kat, in the midst of her second rummage in the closet; for what, no one knew, since it was impossible for Ernestine to be hanging over a hook; or settled in one of her pockets. "And her straw hat!"

At that, all five dived into the closet, with no clearly defined purpose, but it seemed the only thing to do just then; and in the scramble that followed, the missing straw hat was found on the floor, but no blue shawl kept its company. They all took hold of it in turn, looking at it solemnly, and turning it over and over, as though it possessed the secret of its missing mistress. But if it knew, it kept its knowledge, and only flapped its ribbons in feeble protest at being twisted about so. No one said any thing, until Bea discovered two long golden hairs clinging to the straw, then she threw it down, and burst into tears. Everybody looked aghast, and Bea cried out between her sobs:

"I can't help it—indeed—I feel as if something dreadful had happened—and I'm so frightened."

Just then the clock struck ten, such slow solemn strokes, echoing through the still house, and everybody shivered drearily, and looked fearfully out into the dark hall; wishing, oh, how fervently, that mother was home. Bea stopped crying with a great effort, and seemed to feel that she must do something—but what? She looked at the girls in anxious inquiry. Kittie and Kat were sitting on the bed, trembling and frightened. Olive was so dreadfully pale and still; and Beatrice was nearly at her wits end.

"Perhaps—perhaps—" ventured Kittie, looking around as though her voice frightened her: "she may be trying to frighten us; you know we were a little fussy when she came up stairs this afternoon."

Nobody seemed to think so, it might be a rather good joke, but Ernestine wouldn't keep it up until ten o'clock.

"Let's look in the rooms and then go down stairs, said Olive taking up the light. Perhaps she has gone to Mrs. Dane's after all, and is staying late to frighten us, as Kittie says. Come on, and when she comes, don't pretend to be surprised or a bit scared."

This being Olive's first suggestion, it was received as bearing some weight, as indeed suggestions and advice always are when they come from people who do not always have them at tongue's end, ready for all, or any occasions. A little brighter feeling dawned upon the forlorn group, as they went to the twin's and Olive's rooms, without finding any trace, and then returned to the sitting-room. Bea half hoped and expected that they would find Ernestine sitting by the fire, full of laugh, and ready to tease them on their fright and search; but she was disappointed, for the room was dreary and lonely, the light wood fire having died of neglect; and everything looked unutterably forlorn to their anxious eyes. In an ominous silence all four sat down on the lounge, closely huddled together, and tried to talk; but it was a vain attempt. It seemed impossible to bring any voice low enough so as that it did not sound like a trumpet in the painful stillness of the house; every one jumped when any one spoke, so by and by, they were perfectly still, while the clock ticked so loudly and every moment brought a deeper fear and trembling anxiety.

Eleven! Twelve!

"Let us go to bed," whispered Olive. Somehow it seemed that whispering was the only admissible thing then. "See, the lamp was not filled fresh to-day, and it's burning down; we'll be in the dark in a few minutes."

"Oh, I'm so afraid," quavered Kat. "Let's all sleep together."

No one seemed to object, for really it was something to chill even a brave heart. Those four girls alone in the great still house at midnight, with the terrible fear at their hearts, and their wildest imagination in full play. They went up stairs as softly as though Ernestine lay dead in the house; and all went with their eyes shut except Olive, who carried the lamp, and even she kept her eyes away from everything save right where she walked. No one had cried yet but Bea; so when they knelt about the bed for prayer, each one broke down, and they finally dropped asleep, sobbing softly, with their arms about each other.

Morning came, with the brightest of sunshine, and put a more cheerful face upon things, as daylight always does. The girls jumped up merrily, quite convinced that it was all a joke, and that they were foolish to have been so frightened. Ernestine had gone to Mrs. Dane's and stayed all night; she would be home pretty soon and they would all have a good laugh over it. So they thought, and flew about lively with their work; but breakfast was over and cleaned up, the house was all in order, and the day fairly begun; still no Ernestine had arrived, and Olive had not gone.

"Seems to me, I can't go until we know something," she said, standing in the door and looking down the street. "I will be home to dinner, and surely she will be here by that time."

"I suppose so, of course," said Bea, feeling last night's fear beginning to tug at her heart again.

"Seems to me nothing could happen with a morning so lovely as this," said Kittie, looking anxious and sleepy.

"Well, I suppose I must go," said Olive at last. "I'm an hour late now, and I don't know what to tell Mr. Dane; but then, it's the first time I've ever been tardy, so he may not speak of it."

"If she comes pretty soon, I'll trot down and tell you," volunteered Kat, who was stretching on the stairs, and pretty near strangling with a succession of gasps.

"All right," said Olive, going out reluctantly.

Morning went slowly and heavily; the girls tried to study as usual, but found it impossible. There was only one thought in their minds; Ernestine! Ernestine! where was she?

"Kittie," said Bea, when it was nearly noon, "Olive is so tired, I expect, being worried and up so late, and then bothering over her business this morning, suppose you take her dinner down to her, and then go round by Mrs. Dane's?"

"All right," answered Kittie, glad of something to work off her feverish impatience. "You fix the basket, while I run up stairs and get ready; it will only take me a minute."

Olive was sitting at her desk, very pale and tired, when Kittie came in. She looked up eagerly, but in a glance, each saw that the other knew nothing.

"I brought your dinner," said Kittie, putting down the basket, "because—she hasn't come, and we thought you'd be so tired."

"I am, and so much obliged," answered Olive, with a grateful smile, thinking, as she put the lunch aside, how kind it was, for Kittie was tired too; and thinking also, that a few weeks ago they wouldn't have done so; but that had been much her own fault, she was quite convinced of it now.

"Mr. Dane went to the city on this morning's train," she said in a moment, "so I have not seen him."

"I'm going there," answered Kittie. "Mrs. Dane's, I mean. If Ernestine is there, I'll come back by here and tell you, and if I don't come you'll know that I haven't heard anything."

They both felt that nothing would be heard, but each said good-bye cheerfully, and Kittie hurried away.

Mrs. Dane was a dear, motherly-hearted lady who had no children of her own, and consequently felt a warm interest in any one's else. She had kept a watchful, loving eye on the Dering girls, especially, since their troubles, going to see them frequently, and dropping much comfort and encouragement in all that she said and did. When she saw Kittie coming, she met her at the door, with a warm, cheery smile and inquired gayly:

"Good morning, my dear; what is going to happen that you are without your mate? and which one are you?"

Kittie laughed as she went up the neat little walk, with early violets blooming either side, but Mrs. Dane noticed that she looked anxiously beyond her, into the house, and that her face was pale and worried, something unheard of, for either of the twins.

"I'm Kittie, and Kat was too busy to come," answered Kittie, as they went in, and she wondered what she should say next.

"It looks strange to ever see you without each other," said Mrs. Dane, detecting an uneasiness. "All well at home, dear?"

"Yes'm, pretty well, except spring fever."

"I saw Ernestine down town yesterday afternoon, and I thought she looked quite pale, but very pretty," continued Mrs. Dane.

"Yes'm," said Kittie again, with her heart jumping into her throat. "Mama is going to have her go out to Mrs. Raymond's for two weeks. Has she been by here this morning?"

"Not that I have seen. I should think it a very good plan for her to be in the country a while, if she will only be quiet; the Raymond home is a very lovely one. I notice here lately that she coughs a good deal."

"Yes'm," answered Kittie, guiltily conscious that she hadn't noticed it. "I hope it isn't much though."

"Nothing more than a spring cold, I fancy; you must all be very careful. Now, my dear, take off your hat, and stay to dinner with me. I'm all alone, to-day."

"I should like to; thank you, Mrs. Dane, but Bea will be expecting me home, and I guess I had better go," said Kittie, so intensely disappointed with her call that she could hardly keep the tears back. So she went, and Mrs. Dane soliloquized, as she recalled the troubled face. "Something the matter, I am quite positive; and those poor, dear, brave little girls all alone. I shall go over this evening and see if I am needed."

Kat was at the gate, and started out the moment she saw Kittie coming, to meet her. She was quite as ashy colored as ever brown-faced, rosy-cheeked Kat could be, and she was trembling as with a fit of ague, and as Kittie saw her, the question died on her lips, and she could only look her fear, as Kat burst forth:—

"She hasn't come—don't know anything about her; but Bea went up in the garret this morning to open the windows, and ever since she came down, she's been crying and pretty near fainted; won't tell me anything, and I thought you never would come. What shall we do?"

"Oh, I don't know; why didn't I tell Mrs. Dane? I felt as if I ought to," cried Kittie, standing still in despair for a moment; then pulling off her hat and shawl, she put them on her sister in a hurry.

"There, Kat, run; I'm so tired, you can go the fastest; go to Mr. Phillips, ask him to take Prince and go for mama, quick;" and, without a second thought, Kat dashed down the street at her most breathless flying speed, not caring who saw, or what they thought, and feeling as though she had done the right thing. Kittie hurried into the house; she was alarmed, indeed, at the violence of Bea's crying, and after trying in vain to find some cause, or give some comfort, gave up in despair.

"Don't ask me," Bea would cry, when questioned. "I can't tell! Oh, if mama was only here! What shall I do?"

"I've sent for her!" exclaimed Kittie, with a great sigh of relief. "Kat has gone now to ask Mr. Phillips, and she'll be here this afternoon, I know."

Bea looked up for an instant, with a flash of relief in her face, then burst out again, crying more bitterly than ever, and with a vehemence that shook her from head to foot.

"What ever can it be?" thought Kittie, flying up stairs, and off to the garret in desperation; but, pausing as she reached the door, and shaking with a sudden terror. What if Ernestine should be in there dead, or something? She shook and hesitated, but finally opened the door, for Kittie was brave, and looked in!

Nothing seemed to be the matter. The sunshine came warmly in at the windows and illumined every corner. The little black trunk stood there, but it was closed, and she did not notice it, though she went all around, and amazed to find nothing out of place. Over in an unused corner, for the garret was very large, stood a big dry-goods box that Mr. Dering had long kept some things packed in, but on the very day before his sudden death, he had been up in the garret, unnailed the heavy cover, and gone to the bottom for some things that he wanted, and then hurried away, intending to repack, and nail up, on his return; but in the little act, was a mighty working of Providence, or fate; the box had remained just so, with its dislodged contents at its side, the little black trunk among them, and the garret having been rarely entered during the winter, it had not been noticed or remedied.

Kittie, happening to glance that way, saw it; and with a vague idea that Ernestine might be in the box, went over to it, pushed the little black trunk nearer, and stood on it to look in; but saw only a confused lot of things, tumbled up in her father's haste, and so she got down, and left the garret slowly, more perplexed and bewildered than ever.

As she went down the stairs, she heard, she surely heard an unmistakable moan, that stopped her in an instant, and made her heart beat fast and loud with terror; and as she stood and listened, it came again, and it did not come from the garret either.

As I said, Kittie was brave. Kat would have torn wildly down stairs, and declared that the house was haunted; but she stood there, quite still, until that feeble moan came again; then with a thought as quick as lightning, she cleared the remaining steps with one jump, flew across the hall, and into the spare room!

There, at last, after all these hours of painful anxiety and fright, there, so near, that by simply opening an unused door, they would have found her—lay Ernestine.

As Kittie burst into the room, Ernestine tossed her arms above her head, and uttered that feeble moan again; and too astonished to utter a word of any kind, Kittie saw that she was unconscious, that her face was scarlet with fever, and that the dazed, wide open eyes recognized nothing.

She never exactly remembered how she got down stairs, and told Bea; or how it happened that Kat was with them when they went back; she only knew that Bea threw down her handkerchief, and worked swift and silent, that she helped, and that Kat flew off again to bring Mrs. Dane, and was back in just a moment, for that lady, being so forcibly impressed with an idea that something was wrong, had started over, and met Kat just a few minutes after she came tearing out of the gate.

It did not take long to get Ernestine into her own bed, to bathe her burning hands and face, and smooth her tangled hair, that lay all over the pillow like stray sun-beams. She submitted passively to all of it, and appeared to notice no one, except now and then to turn her eyes to Mrs. Dane, with a puzzled, pleading look, and mutter with a wistful longing: "It isn't so, is it? I know it isn't;" then would drift into some unintelligible murmurings, or lay quiet with no expression of any kind in her face.

"She was perfectly well yesterday," said Bea, in answer to Mrs. Dane's questions. "She came up stairs singing, about four o'clock, and that was the last we saw of her until just now, when Kittie found her."

"Poor child! What did you do all night?"

"We sat up until twelve o'clock, and it seemed like a week nearly, Olive said, and we all hoped that she had gone to spend the night with you, and that is what kept us from giving up entirely. We were having a little argument when she left us," added Bea, dropping her eyes, but feeling that a little explanation was necessary. "So we thought perhaps she went off without saying anything, so as to frighten us."

Kittie looked at Bea in curious amazement. She was so rejoiced that Ernestine was found, that she wondered why Bea should still be so white and tremble, and sit down every once in a while, as though too faint to stand. Finally concluding that it was fatigue and worrying, Kittie hurried down to the kitchen, built a fire, and had water boiling for tea in a hurry, and in just a little while, brought a cup of that invigorating beverage, and insisted on Bea's drinking it, and another, too, if she could.

"How kind you are," said Bea, looking grateful, and trying to smile, but failing utterly. "You better go and drink some yourself. Where is Kat?"

"She rushed right off again to tell Olive," answered Kittie, sitting down on the floor. "Poor dear, she will be tired to death. Oh, Bea, aren't you glad we found her before mama came?"

Bea nodded yes, and hid her face in the tea-cup, while Kittie hearing Kat down stairs, hurried down to have a social and rejoicing cup of tea with her.

Mrs. Dering arrived late in the afternoon; the twins threw open the big gate, shouting the good news as they did so, and Prince came gayly up the old familiar drive with a joyous whisk of his tail, and a loud neigh of recognition, and as Kittie and Kat fell to hugging him wildly, Mrs. Dering hurried into the house, and was met by Bea at the door.

"Were is she? What does it all mean?" cried the terrified mother.

"She was in the spare room—sick—we found her this afternoon," answered Bea, speaking as though the words choked her. "Come—come into the sitting-room, mama, and—let me tell you."

Mrs. Dering followed, with a terrible fear at her heart, and was obliged to sit down, so trembling and faint was she; and Beatrice meeting that anguished, imploring look, could not utter a word, but simply put her hand in her pocket, and drew out a worn, faded letter.

Mrs. Dering looked at it for an instant, then uttered a broken cry, and threw out her hands beseechingly.

"Oh, Beatrice! my daughter! Not that, not that, surely!"

"Yes, mama."

Mrs. Dering dropped her face in her hands with a moan that came from the depths of her heart, and overcome with the confirmation of her fears, Bea sank into a chair and burst into tears; and nothing but her sobs were heard for several moments.

Under all circumstances, Mrs. Dering was a woman of wonderful self control; so in a moment she looked up and asked:

"Do you know anything about it?"

"No, mama," answered Bea, then repeated the circumstances in the case, adding, with a look of loving sympathy into the grief-stricken face opposite, "When I went up into the garret this morning, I saw one of your trunks open, and your green silk and white lawn lying on the floor by the little black trunk, which was open also, and the letter was dropped on the floor, and I knew she had been there, and thought perhaps it was something she had left, so I read—only a part of it, and—oh, mama!"

Mrs. Dering vouchsafed no explanation, as Bea paused with a sob; but looked out of the window with a world of puzzled inquiry in her face, and murmured to herself:

"How did it ever come out of the box?"

"Papa," answered Bea, catching the words, "He was up there the day before he—died, and I remember when he came down with what he wanted, he said that he had gone clear to the bottom of the big box for it, and that he would put things back, and nail it up when he came back home, and they were all left just that way, mama; and oh—please tell me—is it true?"

"Yes, Beatrice, it is true, too true," answered Mrs. Dering, sadly, then went up stairs, and left Bea sobbing on the lounge.

In just a few minutes Kittie came running in, and paused astonished at the sitting-room door, but as she surveyed her sister, and heard how bitterly she was sobbing, she went in and knelt by the lounge.

"Bea, can't you tell me yet, what the matter is?"

"No-o," sobbed Bea.

"Well, please tell me just one thing: I'm so frightened about something, I don't know what. But, is Ernestine very very sick, and is that what you are crying about? or—or, has something happened that we don't know anything about? Please tell me just this, Bea, and I won't ask any more."

"Yes, something has," was Bea's answer; and Kittie went sorrowfully away to tell Kat and Olive not to rejoice so much, yet.

It was quite late that night, and every one had gone to bed, except Mrs. Dering, who sat sleeplessly beside the bed, holding Ernestine's hot hand, and Bea, who nestled quietly in a large rocking chair, equally sleepless, and looking alternately from the loving, watchful face of mother, to the flushed, restless one on the pillow, while the big tears dropped unheeded down her cheeks.

The doctor had said, on leaving in the evening, that when Ernestine awoke, she would be herself, and for some time Mrs. Dering had been watching the feverish flush give way to pallor, and the restless, uneasy tossing to quiet slumber, and she knew, that before long, Ernestine would be herself, and ask a dreaded question. The house was painfully still. Bea shivered as the clock's ticking sounded loudly through the halls, and thought of last night when they all stood there, in that same room, and wondered where Ernestine was; and Mrs. Dering shivered, though, for quite another reason, for her mind held far different memories.

Just then, Ernestine turned, as though awakening, and the clock began to strike twelve. Through the dozen slow strokes she did not move again, but the moment they ceased, she moaned just a little bit, in a feeble, tired way, and opened her eyes.

At the same instant, Mrs. Dering held a tiny glass to her lips, raised the pillow and said quietly:

"Drink, dear."

Ernestine did so, unresistingly, and lay for several minutes perfectly quiet, with her eyes wide open; and then they began to grow startled, and went suddenly to Bea's face, and stopped there. Bea smiled, notwithstanding she was trembling violently, and leaving her seat, came to the bed. But Ernestine was not noticing her now; she was looking all about the room in a terrified way, and suddenly sat up straight in bed, pushed her hair back, and saw her mother. For an instant she did not seem to know what it was she wanted; but it came to her suddenly, and with a beseeching cry, she threw out her arms.

"Oh, mama, mama! is it true? Am I somebody else's child?"

Bea turned away, and fell into her chair again, unable to see that pitiful, anguished face; and Mrs. Dering, sitting down on the bed, drew the trembling figure closely to her heart.

"My darling, you are my own dear little girl—" but Ernestine interrupted, with a pitiful cry:

"Oh! tell me if that letter is so, or if it means some other Ernestine? just tell me that, quick, mama, oh please do!"

What could Mrs. Dering say, with those clinging arms about her neck, and that pleading face, and the despairing eyes never moving from hers?

"You are dreaming, darling," she began soothingly; but Ernestine threw her head back, and her voice rose to a terrified shriek:

"You won't tell me; you won't tell me," she cried wildly. "Oh, I must know if it is true; I must. Oh, mama, say it isn't; tell me that you are my own mama, that the letter don't mean me; oh mama! mama!"

"Ernestine, darling, listen;" said Mrs. Dering, with the tears running down her pale face. "You shall know the truth. You have been my little girl ever since you were two months old, but your own mother gave you to me just before she went to heaven, and she was my—;" but it was needless to say more; Ernestine gave a little moan, and dropped her head, and Mrs. Dering was sobbing, as she laid her back on the pillow; while Bea ran for some water.

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CHAPTER XII.

THE STORY.

"We were all living in Virginia at the time, dear. Papa Dering lived with his uncle Ridley. Uncle Walter Dering lived in Staunton, and your mama's home and mine, also in the city, were only a little way apart, and we saw a great deal of each other. Florence Granger was her name, and she was the most beautiful girl that I have ever seen, except the little daughter here, who is going to be her mother's very image. She was lovable in every way, but possessed a restless, impatient, dissatisfied spirit, that brought her much unhappiness. She constantly yearned for some kind of life that would give her eager, uncontrollable spirits free play; she hated the restraints of home, and frequently threw out dark hints to me of what she would do sometimes, when the right moment presented itself. I often begged her to give up such restless longings, and be happy at home; for she certainly had a lovely one, and might have been the happiest of girls; but she would kiss me and laugh, and call me 'dear little proper Bess,' and really be so happy and gay for a time that I would lose my fears, and think her threats all lively fun. About this time, papa and I became engaged, and I, confiding to him a secret that I had discovered, that his brother Walter loved Florence, he said that Walter had confessed it to him but that he despaired of ever gaining her heart, and that he dreaded the depressing effect of discouragement on his health, for Walter was very delicate. So I promised to do all I could towards helping him, and finding out the true state of Florence's heart towards him, and I did so quite successfully, though it has always been a source of bitterest regret to me. I found, with very little trouble that she had no thought or feeling of love for him, and one day, when she was thoughtlessly laughing at him for something, I told her, in a hasty moment, how he loved her, and how the disappointment might kill him. I never can forget how surprised and grieved she looked, nor how bitterly I regretted my hastiness, for a more tender-hearted girl never lived, and it was impossible to guess, how, in a generous, impulsive moment, she might sacrifice herself. That night she stayed with me, and both Walter and papa called; and I saw in an instant, that in her generous pity, she was going to do a work that could never be undone. Poor Walter was nearly beside himself with joy and encouragement. She sang for him, and oh, how many times have I gone back to that night, when you have been singing to me, with your mother's voice, dear. She promised to ride with him next day, and as papa watched them, he said to me in great relief: 'She loves him, and they will be happy;' and I could only say 'I hope so, truly,' and pray that I might be forgiven for what I had done; for I knew she did not love him.

"In a few days, she came rushing to me in a perfect passion of stormy, bitter tears, and frightened me greatly with her fierce vehemence. She declared that she hated him, that she could not endure the sight of him, and yet, not half an hour before, she had promised to marry him, and now, if I did not say something to comfort her, she would do something dreadful, sure. I was perfectly at a loss what to say or do, and trembled for the end of it all, but I knew the only way to quiet her would be to appeal to her pity and tenderness, so I talked and talked for a great while about him, how he loved her, how the disappointment now would surely kill him, how happy we would be as sisters when married, and how we would all go to Europe if papa inherited uncle Congreve's estate; and so finally won her over to a more pleasing view of the case. In the weeks that followed, I had the same thing to do many, many times, and found it more difficult to accomplish each time. She was wildly rebellious, and in an unguarded moment, let fall her passion for stage life, and then confided to me all her former plans, hopes, and aspirations. She had been in correspondence with members of the profession and had many secret plans laid for carrying out her ideas. She showed me several letters from Clarence Clare, then a famous actor, and I did not dream, could not even realize then, how far matters had gone. She was to have joined his troupe when he reached Staunton, left her home and gone out into the world under an assumed name, to taste and know its bitterness, when it was all too late. I was in an agony of fear, and besought her to give it up and think, before she lost herself to home and friends, but she told me I need not worry, she had written to him that morning that she was to be married, and could not fulfill her plans with him, and that I could rest in peace, for she was going to be a really good girl now, and settle down as properly as I could wish. I believed her, and was entirely deceived by the quiet, contented aspect that marked her from that day, and was overjoyed at the happiness that seemed to come to her as the day of our double marriage drew near. She spent much of her time with Walter, and the rest almost entirely with me, and we had hours of delightful chatter of when we would be sisters indeed, and always live together, for papa and Walter were devoted brothers.

"It all comes back to me now, so terribly clear, how the day before our wedding came, and Florence was in such a state of ecstatic happiness; she left me in the evening with the warmest, tenderest kisses and embraces, and said she would be on hand early in the morning, for we were to be married at ten o'clock. While we were at breakfast next morning, her maid came over in great haste, to know if she was with me, that she wasn't at home, and evidently had not been, as her room was untouched. It seemed for a moment that I could not move, so great was the terror that possessed me; then I jumped up, snatched a hat and ran all the way to her home, without once thinking of amazed observers. She was gone. There was a little note left for me, and no word for any one else; she had gone with Clarence Clare, who had arrived the day before, and, perhaps, even as I stood there reading her hurried words, she was being married, or was already his wife. I can never tell you of the tempest of grief that fell upon two homes, or how we ever got through that wretched day. Papa came to me for just a few minutes, then hurried off to stay with Walter who had not spoken, or betrayed any signs of consciousness since the word of Florence's desertion reached him. We knew from that day that he could not live, and though he was never ill, he died slowly, lingering with us only about six months, and his last words were to papa and me, spoken just before he died: 'If she ever comes back, tell her I forgave her, that I loved her to the last, and prayed God every hour that she might be happy.'

"A little while after, papa and I were married, and moved to Richmond. He received nothing from Uncle Congreve, you know, so we both had to go to work, and we were very happy, for papa was brave, strong and honorable, and he prospered; so that in a little while we had a cosy home of our own, and envied no one their riches.

"Mr. and Mrs. Granger, your grandparents, were very proud, and left Staunton, rather than stay where their daughter had disgraced them, and we never knew where they went to, or whether they are still living or not. Two years went by, and in that time I sent many a loving, anxious thought to Florence, where ever she was, and wondered if we were ever to meet again; and one night my answer came to me. It was a bitter night, snowing hard and blowing fiercely. Papa and I, were sitting in our cosy, warm room, and Bea was sleeping, rosy and sweet, in her little crib, when there came the feeblest kind of a ring at the door-bell, and papa went to the door. In just a second he called me, and I hurried there, to find him holding a basket, with a queer bundle in it, and looking amazed out into the night; then he set it down suddenly, and hurried out. I had not collected my thoughts, when he came in again with a fainting figure in his arms; a woman with a face uncovered, and we both recognized her in an instant. She was nearly dead with exposure, and it was a long time before she was able to speak a word, but we doctored her strongly, got her into a hot bed, and after a while she opened her eyes, and knew us. When she could talk, she told us how unhappy she had been; how, after submitting to her husband's neglect and the trials of stage life, for over a year, she had left him, and as soon as her baby was born, began looking for us. She was very feeble, and after leaving her burden on the steps, fainted in the snow before reaching the gate."

Here Ernestine, who had lain motionless all the while, gave a quick sob, and shivered from head to foot, and bending down to kiss her tenderly, Mrs. Dering went on:

"She died with us, dear, in just a few days after, and with her last breath, gave you to me; and ever since I took you, a tiny, little babe from her arms, you have been just as dear to me as though God had sent you to me, my very own."

Ernestine was shivering violently, and as Mrs. Dering finished, hid her face deeper in the pillow with a pitiful heart-broken moan, that was hard to hear, and Mrs. Dering said softly:

"Here, darling, in this box are some things that were to belong to you, in case you ever knew the truth, though with her last breath, your mother besought us to keep it from you, if we could, and we have tried, that being one reason why we afterwards left Virginia for New York State. But God knows best; it is right for you to know, or it would not have been so. The ring in the box is the one given by Walter to your mother, and she wished you, if you ever knew the story, to wear it."

Some time after Mrs. Dering left the room, Ernestine slowly turned her head, looked at the box, and with trembling fingers lifted the cover. The first thing that met her eyes, was a picture, an exquisite face painted on porcelain, and she uttered a smothered cry as she looked at the face of her mother, of whom she was the living image. There was the same brown eyes, with their slender arches; the same fine straight nose, and wilful, determined mouth, and the same halo of sunny hair, covering the proud little head. But Ernestine, looking at it then, thought of the sweet, true, dear woman, she had always called mother, and threw it down with a bitter cry of pain. There was also a tiny note, written in a beautiful dashing hand, and after a while she read it slowly.

There were many little trinkets, beside the diamond ring, which Ernestine declared she could never wear; and in a tiny little box, with "My Baby," written on the top, were four round bits of gold, each a five dollar piece.

It really seemed as though the girls could never recover from the shock. Their faces were pale and tear-stained for many days; and only Olive, whose self-control was greatest, could venture into Ernestine's presence, without bursting into tears, and having to beat a hasty retreat. Every fault that she had ever possessed, they lost sight of now; they only thought how they all loved her, how happy and sweet she had always been about home, how lovely she was, and how dreadful it would be if they were to lose her. For Mrs. Dering had told them some things that she had not told Ernestine, among them these:

"You have many times noticed how much more careful and anxious I have been of Ernestine's health than of yours. That was because I knew that God had given me my girls well and strong, and poor little Ernestine came, burdened with the fatal seeds of her mother's disease, consumption. I have known always, for the doctor told me, that she would become its victim sooner or later; and that if she lived to womanhood, he would be surprised. I also saw in early childhood, that she had inherited her mother's restless, eager, dissatisfied disposition, though the difference in her home life has modified it greatly; and knowing the weakness that would assail her if she lived, I have battled against it, and prayed that she might ever be spared a trial, or that a greater strength would be hers, than had been her mother's. As she has grown older, I have been grieved and troubled, beyond expression, to watch the growth of that spirit, and of a selfishness, that must have been her father's, as not an atom of it belonged to her mother, and many times I would have been discouraged utterly, if I had not had the faith that God would do all things for the best, and that all He wanted was for me to do all in my power, and trust the rest to Him."

As the days went by, Ernestine did not seem to grow any better, and friends hearing she was ill, began making kindly visits of sympathy, and were greatly surprised to find her so terribly altered by the brief illness. At first she refused to see any one; but Mrs. Dering asked if she could not, as they would think it strange, and she immediately assented.

It was indeed sad to look at her face, changed so suddenly from its laughing, exquisite beauty to such a pallid, hollow-eyed, heart-broken look, and every one pitied, and wondered, and privately talked it over. Miss Strong, who had industriously circulated the report of her visit, with many additions and wonderfully sly, meaning looks, now felt called upon to supply the public with a reason, so she told her dearest friend that Ernestine Dering had had a foolish little love affair, and broken her heart over it; and before twenty-four hours, the whole of Canfield had heard from, or told their dearest friend, the same thing; while Mrs. Dane, and a few other sensible ladies, were indignantly denying it, with what success, persons who deny rash stories, can guess.

"I declare," cried Kat one day in desperation, "I can't bear to go up stairs. I just dream about how sad she looks, and I can't keep from crying just to think that she really isn't our sister any more than—than Susie Darrow or any of the other girls. Oh, Kittie, just suppose we were ever to find out that we were not sisters, or belonged to somebody else, or something dreadful!"

Kittie gave a long, expressive shiver, and hugged her "fac-simile" by way of satisfaction, for such a dreadful thought.

"How often we have wondered where she got her lovely hair and eyes," she said slowly. "And how many times we fretted because mama watched her so, and seemed to humor her, where she never did us. I expect we have made mama unhappy lots of times by acting jealous that way."

"Like as not," answered Kat remorsefully. "It's all dreadful, every bit of it. I'd give worlds if it had never happened."

They all tried, by every way in their power, to win Ernestine back to something of her old self; but it seemed impossible. She spent hours and hours by herself, just sitting with her hands folded, looking out of the window with no sign of life or interest in her colorless face, and rarely speaking. Just brooding, brooding, and nursing her grief, until the doctor said she must go away, take a complete change, and then she would come back herself again. He accepted the lover-story, as indeed, most every one did, for surely the general behavior and symptoms were much the same, and then, besides, what could the reason be if it wasn't that?

Ernestine was perfectly indifferent about a visit anywhere. She was selfish in her grief, as in everything else, and took no interest in all their plans for her, expressing no satisfaction at the decision that Bea should go with her, and saying that she did not care when or where they went.

One afternoon, Kittie went up stairs and found her writing something and crying bitterly over it. She so seldom cried, that Kittie was alarmed, but Ernestine said it was only because she was nervous; then put her writing away, and took her old, listless attitude in the chair by the window.

That night Olive heard something; she was sure that she did, and started up in bed for a moment to listen, but everything was perfectly still, so in a moment she lay down again, but could not get to sleep until long after the whistle had blown for the midnight train that went through to the city.

Next morning Ernestine did not come to breakfast, but it was nothing unusual, so Kittie fixed a tempting waiter and took it up stairs.

In a few minutes she called "mama," in a frightened way, and Mrs. Dering instantly sprang up, followed by the girls, and ran up stairs.

Since her sickness, Ernestine had slept alone, and Bea had gone over with Olive; so now, as they hurried in, they saw her untumbled bed, with just the slight pressure made where she had lain down, as though gone to bed for the night; everything else was unchanged. Mrs. Dering sank trembling into a chair, and pointed to a paper lying on the table. Olive reached it, and read aloud in a frightened, awe-struck voice: