The rebound from a feeling of perfect security to one of miserable doubt, at finding the field already taken, nearly drove Mr. Murray into a precipitancy that he might have regretted forever. As it was, he answered Kittie's inquiries for Pansy, in a pre-occupied way, that was surprising, and seemed too much pleased with that envelope to ever lay it down; and yet, with all his looking, he failed to discover that the name, in a maze of flourishes, was Miss Kathleen Dering, instead of Miss Katherine. Just so do we make up our minds to see things in a certain light, and see them so, in spite of fate.

How pleasant it was, sitting there in the warm firelight, with Kittie opposite, in the low rocking chair, and no one else near. It seemed so homelike and sweet to this man who had no fireside of his own, and only a memory of one short, happy year, when another girlish face and heart, not unlike Kittie's, had been all his own. He wished now, that no one else would come in to spoil this cozy chat; but they did, in just a moment—Mrs. Dering and Bea; and Kittie resigned the low rocker, for a corner over on the lounge, to his great regret.

They all heard with polite and honest expressions of regret, that he was going to leave for the city on the next day; but after hearing that he was going to leave Pansy behind, Kittie was quite satisfied.

"I have no home, you know," he said, looking at Mrs. Dering, with an expression that caused her kindly heart to pity him. "I shall board, and be hard at work 'till late every night, and poor little Pansy would have a dreary life with a hired nurse. Besides, the influences surrounding her would not be such as I would like. So Sister Julia has kindly promised to keep her until I can make some arrangements, and become a little settled."

He staid for some time; promised to call in and see Olive, who had gone to her studies at last; and then he rose to leave. If he held Kittie's hand a little longer than any of the others, no one noticed it; and if, in that good-bye, his eyes went to her face less guarded in their expression than usual, no one noticed that either, because no one dreamed of such a thing.

"May I have Pansy with me as often as I want her?" asked Kittie, just before he left.

"Certainly; I shall always be pleased to hear that you still love the child, and that she is sometimes with you," he answered, lingering, as if loth to go. But at that instant a step was heard on the porch, and a certain expression in Bea's face warned him that the sitting-room would now be in demand; whereupon he gave a hasty good-bye, and left; not without a little envy for Dr. Barnett, who entered at the same moment, and who came, in the full assurance of recognized right, such as was not yet Paul Murray's.

Of course, the family discreetly retired, after a few words of greeting to the young man, and while the cozy sitting-room took unto itself these

the others went up to Ernestine's room to finish the evening.

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CHAPTER XXII.

TO REAR, TO LOVE, AND THEN TO LOSE.

Spring came, and with it much that was of absorbing interest, of untold importance, and yet so sad. In May, Bea would leave the home of childhood and girlhood, and would be mistress of one of the prettiest little cottages in Canfield. She was blithely happy, and sang and sewed from morning until night, in a blissful content, that made mother and sisters smile and sigh at once; and wonder how home would seem with Bea gone. Such marvels of pretty things as had been made, and such a little gem of a bower, as the new home was, and how happy and gay everything was, to be sure. Every Saturday night, when Olive came home from the city, her first trip was to the little cottage, to see the latest improvements; for there were several, in the way of a verandah, a frail, spidery looking summer-house, with a sick looking vine started over one corner, a new front fence, and a hitching post. Each and every one was of greatest importance and everybody in Canfield was as interested, as though they were one great family, just marrying off their first daughter. Bea visited her future dominion every day, as did the twins; but Ernestine was not to go, until everything was ready for the new occupants, and then she was to pass her opinion on the whole, and suggest any changes that might strike her graceful fancy.

"It must have a name," said Bea, coming in one day, just a week before the wedding. "When Meg got married in 'Little Women,' she went to housekeeping in a little cottage, and they called it Dovecot. What shall I call mine?"

"Call it a house and let it go; better not begin with fancy names and all that, it won't last," advised Kat, rigidly practical.

"Yes, it will—always," asserted Bea, with the fond delusive belief, experienced by every women when in love, that life will be one endless courtship and honey-moon.

"I think a name is a pretty idea," said Kittie, recalling all the Roman titles she had ever heard of. "Call it—let's see, call it Fern-nook."

"Yes, I would," laughed Kat "It's so appropriate. There's not a fern within a mile, and not the ghost of a nook anywhere."

"Well, I thought Bird's-nest a real pretty name," said Bea, swinging her hat by its ribbon, and looking thoughtful. "But, somehow, I want something else."

"What kind of flowers are you going to have?" asked Kittie, with a view to selecting something appropriate this time.

"Geraniums in the big bed in front, with a border of some kind, then I will have vines all over the porch, and a lily in the little urn, and a heart-shaped bed of pansies under that shady side-window. None of those do for a name, though."

Kittie confessed that they did not, but said in a moment:

"We'll go up and ask Ernestine, if she can't think of something no one else can." To which they all agreed, and hurried up stairs forthwith.

Ernestine was sitting up in the big rocker, in a lovely white wrapper, and a little fancy scarlet sacque. She looked very frail and weak, though very lovely, and much interested when the important question was put to her. The girls had perfect faith in her selection, and waited patiently, as her eyes went from the budding trees outside, to the gleams of sunshine playing across the carpet, then to the bunch of purple pansies in the vase on the table.

"Call it Hearts-ease," she said.

"I told you," cried Kittie. "That's just the name."

"Hearts-ease it is, to the end of the chapter;" exclaimed Kat with a flourish as of benediction.

"Yes, that is lovely—and there comes Walter, I'll go right down and tell him," said Bea, and flitted gayly away.

"A penny for your thoughts, Ernestine," said Kat, watching her eyes go out to the sunshine again with a dreamy smile.

"I was thinking how happy everything was," answered Ernestine slowly. "It's all so lovely. Olive is doing so splendidly in her painting. Bea is so happy. Jean is coming home, and—I am here. I can hardly believe it even now, and I so often wonder if I'm happy enough."

"This will be a gay old household," said Kat briskly, warmed into gayety by the sad tone of the invalid's voice. "Uncle Ridley will make Bea a handsome present I expect."

"How strange and delightful it will be to have Jeanie home, bless her precious little heart," cried Kittie with loving eagerness. "I can hardly wait, and mama seems almost too happy to live."

"Jean has not changed much," said Ernestine. "She is taller and sweeter looking, but just the same dear, quiet little thing. She walks with a cane now, and is perfectly straight. How glad I shall be to see her, I wish she was coming to-day!"

She came the next, as if in answer to their eagerness and longing, and this is the way it happened.

Mrs. Dering was in the hall, when she saw a carriage stop at the gate, and though Mr. Congreve and Jean were expected in two or three days, it never occurred to her, that they might come before; so while she took off her apron, and brushed a little flour—having been in the kitchen—from her dress, the arrivals had left the carriage, and were coming in at the gate. She got as far as the door, then paused, and caught her breath as if in a spasm of sudden joy.

Coming up the walk with swiftly flying feet, outstretched arms, and glowing face wildly eager, was a light girlish figure in a pretty travelling suit, and the mother, feeling her strength forsaking her knelt down on the porch and opened her arms, her lips dumb, her eyes blinded with great joyful tears.

Could it be? Oh, had God been so good? Was the flying figure, with strong perfect limbs and bright eager face, her crippled, crooked little Jean? It seemed a dream too blissful to be true but the next moment, their arms were clasped, and Jean's tears and kisses fell like rain, on her mother's face and hair.

"Oh mama; precious darling mama! are you glad? are you happy that I'm well? Speak to me, mama; what are you crying for?"

"I'm so happy, darling. Oh, my little Jean, I'm so glad and grateful," cried Mrs. Dering, with a great sob, as she folded the little girl closer, and kissed her again and again. "I knew you would come back to me better, I did not dream you would come well. Why did you not tell me, darling?"

"I wanted to surprise you," began Jean; but just then Kat came into the hall, beheld the astonishing spectacle, and with one shrill utterance of Jean's name, that summoned the whole family, she had rushed to the porch, and taken the little girl in a great hug.

Well, what a hub-bub there did follow! How everybody hugged and kissed everybody, in the abandonment of joy; how Uncle Ridley was deluged with caresses, and suddenly found himself holding Mrs. Dering in his arms, and patting her wildly on the back, while she cried on his shoulder. And didn't Ernestine creep slowly down stairs, and appear like a frail spirit in their midst, and wasn't she whisked on to the lounge in a hurry, and kissed heartily by every one in the excitement.

"God bless my soul! How happy we all are!" cried Mr. Congreve, with a final gasp of joy, and sitting down with an exhausted smile. "I never expected to be in such a good humor again as long as I lived—no I never did. I'm fairly swelled up with happiness, and I've bust a button right off my vest."

Everybody laughed heartily. Gay words and blithe laughs hung on every one's lips; everything was sunshine, and every one was happy. What a household idol was Jean in the days that followed! How mother and sisters clung to her, watched her walk—oh, joy of all joys—so straight and free; and how many, many times did Mrs. Dering go to Mr. Congreve, and put her arms about his neck, like a child, to thank him, again and again, as the agent whom God had sent to be the means of answering her most fervent prayers!

Well, to be sure, as Kat had said, it was a lively household now.

The day before the wedding, the girls all went over to the new house—to "Hearts-ease." Mr. Phillips sent the buggy over so that Ernestine could go, and she and Bea drove over, while the rest walked. It was a pretty little place, indeed, as they came in sight of it, nestled under a big tree, that was just budding into pale green in the spring sunshine. Everything was ready for the young bride to take possession on the next day, even to the mat laid before the front door on the new porch, and the bright tin cup hanging to the freshly painted pump in the little back yard.

Bea unlocked the door, with an air of proud importance, and they went in, all anxious to show Ernestine and Jean every corner, as it was their first visit. The little mite of a square hall, and the small sitting-room on one side, were covered with brown and white matting, with soft, woolly rugs of brown and white. Curtains of soft, shady brown were at the windows, and the walls were papered in clear creamy white, with a deep border of brown dashed in gold. The chairs were all willow, also a pretty, standing work-basket, already filled with some of Bea's light work; and there, on the table, lay some of the young doctor's books and papers. The tiny dining room next, with its round table and new chairs, its little closet, with the shelves covered with snowy paper, and well stocked with dishes, all plain and cheap, but of pretty shapes and serviceable strength. Then the kitchen, shining with new tin, and a brisk little stove, and the rack hung with neatly-hemmed dish-cloths; the brand new cake of soap on the table, and the orderly line of pots and kettles—oh, it was all a sight to tickle your eyes.

Up stairs, the ceilings were low, and a very tall person would have bumped his head unmercifully, but then, it all looked lovely. The pretty bedroom was all in blue, and nearly everything in it was the work of Bea's hands. She had made all the pretty mats on stands and bureaus, also the carpet ones on the floor. The daintily ruffled Swiss curtains, knotted with blue bows, she had made, washed, fluted and put up. All the fancy, pretty work about the bed was hers; and the bunches of forget-me-nots that adorned the chamber-set, looked as though they had sprung into real life on the snowy surface, instead of having been stuck and artistically plastered on. Oh, it was all lovely, and beyond improvement, every one said, and Bea laughed and looked so proud and happy.

"This is to be my spare room," she said, throwing open the door to the back room. "The view from this window is just as pretty as the front, because it looks off to the hills; and just as soon as we are able, we will furnish it, and I shall fix it just like my room, only in pale pink. Won't it be lovely?"

"Ecstatic!" cried Kat. "Who is it to be for?"

"All of you. I expect you and Kittie will have it first, when mama and Jean and Ernestine go to visit Uncle Ridley next year. There are lots of things we can't afford yet," Bea continued, as they went down stairs. "I haven't anything to put in the hall, and it looks a little bare, but I don't mind it much. Then the parlor hasn't a thing in it except the carpet and curtains; but I can wait easy enough. I don't want Walter to think I'm at all dissatisfied or want to be extravagant, because I think everything is just lovely, and I'm so happy."

"Uncle Ridley said when he started for the city this morning, that it was because he was in a hurry to see Olive, and to bring her home to-night; but I just know he's going to bring you something beautiful!" exclaimed Jean, who had flitted everywhere, like a butterfly, and looked radiant with happiness.

"Of course he'll get something," said Kittie, polishing the slim, shining bannister with her handkerchief. "Let's hurry home; the train has just come in since we left, and I know Ralph has sent something; he said he was going to send his representative."

"I don't see anything that can be changed," said Ernestine slowly, as they took a final peep into the sitting-room, "unless you put that bracket with the figure under the picture over the mantel, and leave that space between the windows for the head that Olive is going to paint for you."

"Yes, I'll do that. And now come; you look so tired, dear. Kittie, unhitch Prince for me, will you, while I lock up?"

"Oh, Bea, dear! I hope you will always be so happy," exclaimed Ernestine, with a wistful sadness in her voice, as they drove slowly home; and she laid her head on Bea's shoulder with a tired sigh. "It all seems so lovely, and I am so glad, though I shall miss you so after you are gone."

"But I'm not gone," said Bea, much touched, as she slipped her arm around the frail form with a loving pressure. "I'll be over home every day, and you will come and stay with me, and everything will be just as it is now, except that Walter will be your brother, and you know he loves you like one now."

"Yes, he is a dear fellow, and he will make you happy, I know. But I will not have you always, as I have since I came home—there, the girls have beaten us home, and Kat is waving her hat over the gate, so I suppose the box has come from Ralph."

Bea drove faster, in pleased anticipation, and as soon as they drew near, Kat cried excitedly:

"Hurry up! It's come! pretty near as big as the woodshed, and awful heavy! Kittie and Jean are getting the nails out. Don't stop to hitch. Prince is too glad to be here to go off of his own accord. Here, Ernestine, let me carry you," and, as she spoke, she caught the frail, light form in her strong young arms, and walked off to the house with perfect ease, while Bea tied Prince, and followed in a flutter. Sure enough, an immense box stood on the back porch, with the whole family around it, waiting for the owner to unpack, and Bea went down on her knees beside it, and began to throw out straw with an excited laugh.

"Oh, my patience! dishes!" cried Kittie, as the first bundles began to appear, and immediately arose the most extravagant cries of delight and approval, as one by one, Bea took out, and unwrapped the daintiest morsels of china, exquisitely painted in grasses, butterflies and flowers. Oh, how lovely they were; the frail, tiny things, looking more like fairy waiters than anything intended for mortal use. Then came a dozen tea-spoons, table-spoons, knives and forks, all engraved; a lovely card basket, swung by a silver chain, from the finger of a winged Mercury; two beautiful napkin rings, marked "Walter" and "Beatrice;" a dozen of the finest damask napkins, with a gorgeous "B." in the corner; and lastly, a fancy dust-pan and brush, an indescribable sweeping cap, six of the most perfect kitchen aprons, a patent stove-hook, and an old shoe, with "Good Luck," painted in red letters on the sole.

"Oh, I declare, I never did!" cried Bea, sitting down on the floor, to laugh and cry at the same time. "Isn't it all too lovely!"

"What does the card say?" asked Jean, as the others began to carry in the china and things. "Just

answered Bea, looking at the card, that had been tied with a white ribbon to the nose of the tea-pot. "How good they are! I'm too happy to live."

So it seemed, as she helped take in the things, laughing and crying, and touching them with careful, caressing fingers. They made a most imposing show when arranged on the table, and during the day more modest presents, that came in from well wishing friends, were added to the collection. There came a fancy clock from Mr. Dane, three dozen handsome towels and four beautiful table spreads from Mrs. Dane; and a variety of little things from the young people, with whom Bea was a favorite.

As soon as Mr. Congreve and Olive arrived, on the evening train, they were taken in to view "the show," but the old gentleman added nothing to it, to every one's surprise; though he seemed pleased with everything there, and said it was a plenty for one bride.

After supper, Olive disappeared and was gone some little time, but where, no one knew, and finally Mr. Congreve jumped up, with the remark, that he had heard her say something about Mrs. Dane's, and as he knew where it was, he guessed he'd walk over after her.

"Never mind, Uncle Ridley, if she is there, Mr. Dane will walk home with her, and you must be tired," said Mrs. Dering.

"God bless my soul, Elizabeth! I'm not an old man," exclaimed the crusty old gentleman of seventy odd years, as he threw open the door, and strode briskly out into the May moonlight. "I think a great deal of your Olive; she's a thorough Congreve, and I'd rather lose my best handkerchief than have anything happen to her—I had indeed. So go in, my dear, go in," and Mrs. Dering obediently went in, as he tramped briskly down the walk.

That last evening of Bea's in the old home came very near being a sad one, in spite of every one's attempt to the contrary. Ernestine stayed down stairs for the first evening since her illness, and the excitement brought a stain of color into her white cheeks that made her look more like her old self, as she lay on the lounge.

Bea sat on the stool at her mother's feet, and Mrs. Dering softly caressed the plump, white hand, that to-morrow she would give away, and now and then a pause would come, when the mother's eyes would fill with tears, and her lips tremble, and then some one would rush in, to break the silence, and thrust irrelevant nonsense into the groove cut for April tears.

Wherever Mr. Congreve and Olive came from, they had a serious talk on the way home. Something evidently disturbed the old gentleman's mind, and he fidgetted nervously, until he had relieved himself with the explosive remark:

"So you sent Roger home, did you?"

"No, sir, he went," answered Olive, with a smile but with some surprise.

"Humph! He did, and what did you say, to make him come home, looking like a criminal expecting to be hung?"

"I said I couldn't love him, and I can't and don't," answered Olive, feeling provoked to think that Roger couldn't keep his own counsel.

"Tut, tut! what did you say that, for?"

"Because it's the truth; I like him very much indeed, but I don't want any lovers, I'm too young, and something else to think about," exclaimed Olive with unmistakable aversion to the thought.

"Heighty-tighty! your mother was married at eighteen," cried the old gentleman briskly.

"I can't help it, sir. I never want, or expect to marry. My work is all I want."

"Yes, but your work will fail you some time, child; a one-sided love on a single altar soon burns itself out for want of fuel. There must be

"The time will come when you may be alone in the world, and I'm much mistaken if your art alone will satisfy the cravings of your woman's heart."

Olive listened in some amaze to such a lengthy speech from the usually short spoken gentleman; and though she felt no less certain of lifelong satisfaction with her art, she asked meekly.

"What would you have me do, Uncle Ridley? I don't love him."

"But are you sure you don't, my child? I knew he loved you all along, and it made my old heart glad; but I never knew how very dear you were to him, until he came back from here, and told me what you had said. You think marriage would interfere with your work, but it will not; why, Roger is as proud and anxious for your success as ever you could be for yourself. He told me that if you would only let him share your work and efforts, that he would take you abroad, that you should see the finest paintings the world holds, and that you should study with the finest masters. You—" but here he paused, for Olive gave a gasp, and turned white as a ghost in the moonlight. Abroad, masters! The words struck her like a flash of lightning, and made her tremble with a great rush of delicious longing. She clung to the old gentleman's arm for a moment, and wondered if she was dreaming; but his next words brought her back; though she heard them but dimly.

"Here is a letter for you; he wanted me to bring it, and Olive, don't make up your mind too quickly. Both you and Roger are very dear to me, and I would like to see you both happy before I die—as I suppose I must before many years, and—and—confound it! where's my snuff?—I hope you will send a different word back to him."

Olive took the letter and put it in her pocket, still in that dazed wonder, and when they reached home, she longed to go off up stairs, and think it over alone, but it would be unkind on Bea's last evening; so she followed Mr. Congreve into the sitting-room, where a chorus of questions met them.

"God bless my soul, what curiosity!" cried the old gentleman, crustily. "She went down town and I went after her, let that do."

So no one asked another question, except Jean, who got on to his lap with the freedom of one who knew that nothing she did would receive reproof; and she whispered something in his ear, that made him smile good-naturedly, and immediately take an immense pinch of snuff.

That night, as on the one so long ago, when Mr. Congreve made his first visit to them, two persons found it hard to sleep, even after silence and slumber had long held the others.

To-night, as on that other, Mrs. Dering sat alone in her room, only now she sat by the window, instead of the dying fire. Now, as then, Jean slept soundly, only now her childish face wore the rosy flush of health instead of feebleness and pallor, and the little form was straight and perfect, instead of crooked and crippled.

Who, but a mother, can appreciate a mother's thoughts, when she stands on the threshold of the first separation; the first giving up of her own into another's love and keeping "for better, for worse, until death should them part." The pale young moon climbed slowly up above the tree-top, and just as its slanting rays reached the window-sill, and fell in across the floor, the door opened carefully, and Olive's voice spoke:

"Mama? You are up?"

"Yes, dear; are you sick? What is the matter?"

"Nothing. I only want to tell you something;" and Olive pushed the stool up as she spoke, and sat down.

"I meant to tell you before, but somehow I never did. Will you listen now?"

"Certainly, dear;" for well enough she knew that something weighed on Olive's mind to bring her there at that time. So Olive told her story, without a blush or hesitancy, from the beginning down to the receipt of the letter; and as Mrs. Dering watched her face in the pale light, so clearly expressing its dislike to any lover, and its rapt devotion to her art, she knew well enough what the decision would be.

"And I'm going to say no," finished Olive, at last. "Have I done right, mama?"

"Perfectly, Olive. I am surprised, and yet not wholly so, for something of the kind occurred to me when he was here. Never marry where you do not love, dear. No possible advantage, influence, or station, that can be gained by a loveless marriage, will ever be sufficient recompense for the galling misery of two hearts, grinding their life out, for want of sympathy and mutual love to oil the way. I admire and think a great deal of Roger Congreve, and you have won the love of a good man, dear, which if true, will bide its time patiently, and when you are older it may seem different to you."

Olive looked up in mute amazement. Even mother said that to her.

"No," she said obstinately, in a moment. "I don't think it will be so. I know it will not. I'm sorry that he loves me, because it will always keep us from being friends. Mama, surely you would not have me do such a thing as get married, and drop my work, as I would have to do, more or less, with so many new duties?"

"No, dear, no; I am only too glad that your heart is still free, for you are too young to think of marriage. I would not consent to it. Besides you are quite right; with the duties and responsibilities of a wife, you could not devote your whole time and love to your art, and I should feel very sorry to think that anything is going to interfere with perfecting the talent which God has given you. But sooner or later, Olive, there comes to every woman, who stands alone, a yearning for love and home; a desire to feel that there is some one whom she can claim as her own, and to whom she is dearer than aught else. Love your art, dear, work faithfully in it, and if it should always satisfy your heart, I will be quite content, for then you will always be my own. If the other feeling ever comes, God will take care of it. Now go, dear; don't let this keep you awake longer, for we want all fresh faces to-morrow. Good night."

The clock struck one, as they gave a kiss in the moonlight, then Olive went slowly away; not a whit less certain, that every one was wrong, and she was right; no number of years could make any difference to her.

Everything joined in making the next day the brightest, and loveliest that had ever dawned. Never did a May morning sun come up with a purer glitter of gold; never had the birds sang so sweetly; and never before, as any one remembered, had the rose-vines over the porch, blossomed before June, and yet this morning, there were three snowy half-blown buds peeping in at the window of Ernestine's room, and she picked them to put in the bride's brown hair.

Pansy Murray came over early in the morning, and brought a beautiful bouquet to each of the sisters, excepting Bea, to whom she said with mysterious smiles: "I couldn't bring your bouquet, but our green-house man's going to come with it;" and then finding that Kittie was too busy to pay much attention to her, she devoted herself to Jean, whom she had seen once before, and fallen quite in love with.

Bea had had some little longings for a stylish wedding, but it had been impossible, besides, she had found that Walter preferred a quiet home one; so this morning, when the girls helped to dress her, and she put on her pretty brown suit, with the white rose-buds in her brown hair, she was perfectly content, and would not have had it otherwise.

"You look lovely," cried Kittie, with a rapturous sigh, when the last thing had been done, and they all drew back to inspect.

"That dress is a beauty, and you look like a daisy."

"What do you think?" cried Kat, rushing in just then. "Raymond's gardener has brought your bouquet, and what do you think it is?"

"What?" cried the girls eagerly.

"A beautiful wedding-bell, all of white flowers; and he's hanging it in the folding doors;" upon which announcement, every one ran down stairs, to view the new beauty, and the bride jerked the flowery clapper by its white ribbon; then departed in haste, and with a sudden shyness, as Dr. Barnett and the minister, were seen coming slowly up the walk.

No one cried when the supreme moment came, though Kittie was heard to sniff suspiciously, and Kat stared straight at a certain spot in the ceiling, until she was pretty near sightless; while Ernestine's eyes rested on the young wife's face, with a loving wistful sadness, that was pathetic, and made Mr. Congreve whisk his handkerchief briskly about his eyes. Mrs. Dering stood with her arm about Jean, Olive was next with her arm in Mr. Congreve's, and so they listened, and watched the little ceremony that gave Bea to another, and left the first vacancy in the home nest. As soon as it was over, and the rush of congratulations and kisses were given, Dr. Barnett took Bea's hand and with a lowly bow, said to them all:

"Mother and sisters, relatives and friends, my wife and I will be pleased to have you come with us to our new home, and help eat our wedding breakfast."

Everybody buzzed with surprise, and looked for explanation to every one else; but no one seemed to know more than another, even Bea, blushing like a rose, as she put on her new hat, looked as surprised as anybody. So there was nothing to be done but wait for some revelation.

The walk from the old home to the new, was very short, and as the gay party took it in the warm sunshine, every one on the way called, or smiled their congratulations to the pretty bride who walked with Uncle Ridley, while the young husband followed with his new-made mother. When they came in sight of the little cottage, there was smoke coming gayly from the kitchen chimney, and the front door stood widely open.

"What is it?" whispered Kittie, in a spasm of curiosity.

"A breakfast already for them," answered Olive. "Dr. Barnett has got Huldah, and Bea doesn't know it."

Well, dear me, what a jolly confusion did follow. Bea was too much overcome to welcome any one to her new home, and nearly gave way to tears when Huldah was seen bowing ecstatically in the back-ground, and saying over and over: "Welcome home, Mrs. Barnett, how-dy-do?"

"This is where Uncle Ridley and Olive were last night," cried Jean excitedly, throwing open the parlor door, and pushing Mrs. Barnett in. "Just look!"

Bea tried to speak, but couldn't, and threw her arms about Mr. Congreve's neck, while everybody else "oh'd" and "ah'd" about the parlor door. For wasn't it furnished with three of the most beautiful easy chairs, a tiny lounge, two spidery-legged tables, with gilded chains—and—oh!—a piano! A shiny, beautiful upright piano, with a blue velvet stool.

"I didn't do it all, Olive did half," cried Mr. Congreve the first chance he had of making himself heard above the babel of admiration and gratitude; whereupon Olive put in a hasty denial. She hadn't done a thing but come over and arrange. Everything was from Uncle Ridley except the silver vase and bracket, between the windows.

"Well, you've seen it now, that'll do. I was invited here to breakfast, and I'd like to have it," cried the old gentleman, in a testy voice, which the good-natured gleam in his sharp eyes denied. So everybody pranced into the dining-room, and Bea was placed behind the coffee-urn, and couldn't do a thing but blush, and look too happy and overcome to attend to her duties.

Perfect silence fell, as the young husband lifted his hand, and in a voice that trembled slightly, asked the minister to request a blessing on this, the first meal in the new home. But when that was done, everybody broke into a babel of fun again, and a merrier meal was never witnessed anywhere.

"I shall come over and call on you this afternoon, Mrs. Barnett," was Kat's good-bye, when good-bye moment came.

"Everything is lovely; may you live long, and always be thus gay," said Kittie, who began to feel a queer sensation in her throat, and wanted to get off in a hurry.

"I don't know what to say, except that I want you to be so happy, Bea dear," Ernestine said, giving a good-bye kiss lingeringly.

"Well, I think weddings are splendid, though I wish you wasn't going to have a new home, Bea," remarked Jean with regret, as she tied on her hat, and shook hands with her new brother.

"I shall miss you dreadfully, and our room will seem so lonely," was Olive's next remark. "But you must not let us be apart much."

"I will not," said Bea with full heart and eyes. "I will never love you any less, and we will all be just the same, except that you'll have a brother, and you know you've always wanted one."

"I hope you'll be happy, dear child, I do indeed," said Mr. Congreve, with an exhaustive hand shake. "But married life is full of swampy places, and you must both be careful. I've only one piece of advice, and that is, whatever you do, don't let your confidence and trust in each other get a shake, for it is the tree of married life, and one shake will knock off more apples of love and happiness than can ever be replaced."

"God bless you both," said Mrs. Dering, with one hand in that of her daughter, the other in that of her new son. "I give her to you freely, Walter, with perfect faith in your love and loyalty, and a dear daughter is the most precious gift a mother ever yielded up. Be worthy of each other's perfect love and trust, and once more, God bless you. Good-bye."

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CHAPTER XXIII.

WHEN GOD DREW NEAR AMONG HIS OWN TO CHOOSE.

"Too proud, Olive, too proud; but then I suppose you are right; indeed, I shouldn't wonder if you were," muttered the old gentleman, walking slowly back and forth with his eyes down. "But I hate to take this word back to the boy, I do indeed."

"Well, I'm sure, he's a man, and I really think by this time, that he is quite reconciled to it. At any rate, he'll get over it before long," said Olive complacently.

"God bless my soul!" cried Mr. Congreve, pausing before her, with a puzzled wonder in his shrewd eyes. "Do you honestly so little realize what Roger's nature is, or how much the boy loves you, and how he is waiting to hear what word I bring!"

"He ought to know by this time that it is the same I gave to him. I told you, no, the day after you gave me the letter; surely, you told him so when you wrote."

"But I didn't, though. I thought, like as not, with the prospect of travel, you might change your mind after you'd thought about it more, and I told him that I was giving you time."

"You must think I am very weak and uncertain," said Olive with some impatience. "If he really is anxious for an answer, it is unkind to keep him waiting."

"Well, well, that's so, I know, but I must confess that I thought the masters and travel would bring you 'round," and Mr. Congreve shook his head, as if in dire perplexity.

"I had rather work day and night, and win my own success, be it ever so little, than to owe the widest fame to another. Besides, I don't want to be married, I wouldn't be for anything; I want to belong to myself, and do as I please!" cried Olive, vehemently; then slipped her arm through his, with a little coaxing gesture, such as she sometime used with the crusty old man, and said:

"There, Uncle Ridley, it is all settled, so let's not speak of it any more. There come Walter and Bea; we'll walk down to the gate and meet them."

This was all a month after the wedding, and it was the loveliest June Sunday, imaginable. Mr. Congreve had dreaded so to go back to Virginia without Jean, that he had yielded to their entreaties, and spent that length of time with them; but now he was going on the next day; and the old gentleman's feelings were so deeply stirred with the thought that he was obliged to resort to his crusty manners to hide them. He had most fervently hoped that Olive would change her mind, though possessed with an inward conviction that she would not; yet even while he so deeply regretted her decision, he could not but admire the independence, that refused to sit with idle hands, and receive every advantage and advancement from another. Surely, if Olive ever did marry, she would bring something to her husband besides her dependent self, and he might know, above all doubts, that indeed, he was truly loved in her heart of hearts.

Every member of the family had grown to dearly love the crusty, abrupt, peculiar old man, who wore the goodness of his heart like a mantle about him, yet so modest with it. They never knew, until after he had left them, how much good he had quietly done in his morning walks about Canfield. How he had bought poor little lame Katie Gregg a great wax doll, that could speak and cry; filled the pantry of the hard-working widow mother with packages unnumbered, pretending to be so innocent of the deed, when she found who was the giver, and tried to thank him. There came to them, for many days after he had gone, reports, here and there, of the little deeds of kindness and acts of thoughtful generosity, the need of which, he had discovered at odd times and said nothing about, with the modesty which is characteristic of the true giver.

The parting was a truly sad one, yet not without its funny side, for the old gentleman was so torn up in mind that his actions were irresistibly funny. He whisked his red handkerchief about with such energy that its edges were pretty near in strips; and he blew his poor old nose in such repeated and violent fashions, that it clearly resembled a highly colored tomato.

"There won't be any little girl any where," he said, mournfully. "It will be so lonesome in the morning, and in the evening, and all in the day, and I will wonder if Jeanie is never coming down stairs to sit in my lap in the old library. I shall get cross, and ugly as a bear, for want of two little hands to smooth the wrinkles out of my old forehead, and a dear little girl to keep my heart in good working order. It will all be dreadful! dreadful!"

There was something pathetic in the picture they made, sitting there. The old man, with his white head and tear dimmed eyes, holding Jean in his lap, with her arms about his neck, and his wrinkled cheek rested on her curly hair.

"I haven't very much longer to live," he went on, in that pathetic way, "and I shall have to crawl through the last little while all by myself. I suppose the dear good Lord knows best, but I don't see why He gave me two little girls to love, and then took them both away. Even Olive won't go back with me, and Roger will go off, and it will be dreadful! dreadful!"

So far down had the poor man's spirits gone, that he seemed perfectly lost in pathetic resignation. Even the apparently unquenchable handkerchief hung limp and inactive from a coat-tail pocket, where it had been jammed in a moment of unresigned despair; and the big tears dropped one by one on Jeanie's hair, as he talked now in that quiet, grieved way.

"Will you come back to us?" asked Mrs. Dering, much touched, and laying her hands on his shoulder. "We should so love to have you, Uncle Ridley, all of us. Go home and send Roger off if he wants to go; leave the Hall with such old servants as you can trust, and then come back to us, and call this home. Will you?"

"Will I?" Mr. Congreve jumped up, and the handkerchief came out in all its color and activity. "Are you really in earnest, Elizabeth? Would you have such a crusty old humbug as I am, around?"

"In the truest and warmest earnest, Uncle Ridley."

"Oh, please do," cried Jean eagerly; and the other girls echoed it.

"If I ever! God bless my soul! I never did!" exclaimed Mr. Congreve, falling back into his chair, perfectly overcome. "You will let me come and stay till next summer, then you and Jean and Ernestine go home with me, as you promised?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Dering.

"Well, well, I might have known that the good Lord would fix it some way. That's just the thing. I'll do it, Elizabeth; I will. Where's my snuff-box and satchel! It's pretty near train time."

Jean ran to get them, while Mr. Congreve went up stairs to say good-bye to Ernestine; and when he went off at last, it was in the gayest possible spirits, with promises to be back as soon as Roger started abroad; and so all the sadness was taken from the parting.

They thought he would be back in, at least, a month, but the time lengthened itself into three and four, and yet he did not come. Roger was sick, to begin with, and did not gain strength very rapidly, and nothing could have made the old man leave him.

"But I can stand it very well," he wrote. "I know that it's not going to last, so I can keep up plenty of spirits, with thinking of the time when I will come. The boy is getting better fast, and as soon as he settles up a little business, he is off, and then I will shut up and be off likewise, in a hurry."

But they at home, found hands and hearts busy with new work that was sadly brief and bitter. As the warm weather came, Ernestine began to fail rapidly. She suffered no new pain, and uttered no complaint, but as the days went by, and the intense heat of summer burned all purity and life from the air, she just seemed to droop, and bow her head feebly beneath the oppressive heat; and the frail stem of life snapped, with the weight of its own slight self. They had hoped against hope, that the sad end could be fought off, and with the first coming of warm days, Mrs. Dering had proposed going to the sea-side with her; but Dr. Barnett, who had fought eagerly and desperately with the dread disease, told them that it would do no good. The excitement might only hasten the end, and better to leave her quiet, and so contentedly happy as she seemed, than to bring new faces and new scenes to worry and distract the last feeble remnant of her strength. So they submitted themselves to his word, as one of authority, and took upon themselves the sad duty of watching a loved life drift peacefully out, and trying to say, as the end drew near: "Thy will be done."

The big rocking-chair, the pretty wrappers, and gayly colored sacques were all laid aside now. The feeblest strength could no longer lift the frail form, and all the patient sufferer said when lifted or moved was, "I'm so tired; that will do; it is quite easy." Then the short breath would give out, and she could only thank them with her eyes, that daily grew more eloquently beautiful, as though the spirit, refined through suffering, were taking its last, long farewell look at mother and sisters, and uttering wordless thanks, which the heart loving then framed, but the lips weakly refused to utter.

"The end is not far off," Dr. Barnett said, one sultry August night, after he had left the sick-room. "I shall go down and telegraph for Olive to come on the first train."

Mrs. Dering laid her clasped hands on his arms with a little gasp, as of one long expecting a bitter draught, and finding the cup held to her lips at last. But she was very quiet.

"You think it will come to-night?"

"Hardly. She may live through to-morrow, but no longer, mother."

There was something so helpful in his presence, the warm, loving utterance of that dear name, and the strong, tender clasp of his hands, and she clung to him for a moment, as in recognition of the comfort and help he was, and had been in these sad days.

"They have telegraphed for Olive," Kittie whispered to Kat and Jean, as they three sat sleeplessly on the bedside, with their arms about each other, and a pale, hushed awe in their faces.

"That means that she is going to die," cried Kat, trembling. "Oh, how dreadful it is! I don't think it's right, no I don't."

"Hush," said Kittie, solemnly; but she couldn't say any more. Her own heart was sadly rebellious, and could not think it was right.

"It must be," said Jean slowly, in her sweet, quiet way. "God never does what isn't right; He can't, girls, though we can't always understand why some things are."

No one was disposed to speak further on the subject, the like of which has vexed many great minds, the world over, but they sat there hushed and quiet, and with awe-stricken hearts, as though they heard or felt the noiseless approach of the coming king, who passed them by, and went into the room where the pale mother watched and prayed beside the quiet sleeper.

Dr. Barnett came back soon, and brought Bea with him; but after looking in to speak a few hurried words that tried to be of comfort, she went into the other room, to take her place by the bedside, while the worn mother snatched a little rest, if not sleep, on the lounge near by. So the night crept slowly by, while anxious hearts and sleepless eyes kept sad vigil. In the first grey dawn of morning, Olive came; but when daylight fairly blushed into rosy sunshine, Ernestine awoke from a long sleep, clear-eyed, feverless, and rational, and recognized them all with a quiet, peaceful smile.

"You home in the middle of the week?" she said to Olive, with a little wondering surprise.

Dr. Barnett sent one swift, wordless glance of warning, and Olive caught it.

"Yes, I was not very busy this week and thought I would come home last night," she said, warmly pressing the almost transparent fingers lying on the coverlid, adding brightly: "How well you look this morning!"

"I feel better," answered Ernestine, slowly. "So strangely better; all rested and in no pain. Where is mama?"

"Here, darling."

"I—I feel so much better, mama," lifting the feeble hand, with a look of pleasure in her wan face. "It seems as if I was lying on the softest feathers, and all well again. Everything is so very easy, and I haven't any pain."

"You are much better, dear, and we are very glad;" but Mrs. Dering bent her head as she spoke, that no one might see the tremble of her lips, for well she knew, without any word or glance at her son-in-law's face, that the sufferer was passing into the sunlight of God's rest and love, and that the passing away of pain was because His hand had already touched her.

But to the girls it seemed different. To them, the clear, bright eyes, the quiet, easy breathing, and restful feeling, meant better for life, and they had a joyful jubilant time over it down stairs. They gathered the loveliest flowers in bloom, and took them up stairs, and Ernestine smiled brightly and even held them for a few moments in her weak hands, keeping a pure, pale, creamy bud, when they put the rest in water.

During the day Dr. Barnett brought some mail from the office, among which was a letter from Ralph for Kat, and a strange one from New York for Kittie, which proved to be from Mr. Murray.

"How funny!" she said, with a pleased smile.

"What is he writing to you for?" inquired Kat, sharing the general interest and curiosity to such an extent that she forgot her own letter. "Is Pansy sick?"

"No; he only says how she is, and how she wishes for me every day, and wants me to write a letter, all to herself," answered Kittie, too busy running her eyes over the few lines, with the signature