CHAPTER XIV.

"EMMIE'S LETTER."

"I cannot take that anguish'd look to wear
On my calm heart in heaven, as my last,
Last memory of thee until we meet.
Nay, thou must smile on me; one little smile
Cast like a wild-flower on my misty way
Will make it brighter, and I cannot go
In peace until thou bless me."
                                                        'Ezekiel and other Poems.'

Emmie's closing remarks that night had left no distinct impression on her sister's mind; but Queenie had little idea of the tenacity with which the child brooded over the matter, or how the weary young brain confused itself with endless plans and plotting. That some one must take care of Queenie, that was her one thought.

And so one morning, when Queenie had softly crept out of her room, thinking Emmie's closed eyelids betokened sleep, and had started for her fresh morning walk, the child painfully and slowly dragged herself from her bed, and with failing breath, and hands that trembled over their task, penned the pitiful little letter that wrung Garth's heart as he read it.

Queenie found her on her return lying wan and exhausted on her pillow, and bent over her with undisguised anxiety.

"Where is Harriet, darling? She ought not to have neglected you in this way," she exclaimed in distress, putting back the curls from the child's damp forehead.

Emmie only closed her eyes in answer, but an odd little smile hovered round her lips. She knew that Harriet was that moment walking down the Esplanade, towards the red pillar-box on the green.

And this was the letter that Garth read and handed to Langley with undisguised emotion, and over which Langley cried until her feeble strength was nearly exhausted.

"Dear Mr. Garth," it began, "you are such a long way off—you and Langley and Cathy, and we never hear from you now; and Queenie has left off talking about you, and has taken to sighing instead; and I want so badly to see you, and have a long, long talk. If you knew how badly, I am sure you would come.

"I don't think people ever die without saying good-bye to their friends, and I want to bid you good-bye, and ask you to take care of Queenie. Some one must take care of her, you know; and I like you so much, dear Mr. Garth; and I think no one will be so good and kind to her as you would be.

"Queenie does not know that I am writing this; she has gone out to buy me some roses. She is doing something for me from morning to night, but I am sure it would make you sad to see her. She never smiles now, and her eyes are always full of tears. She is thinking of the time when she will be missing me. It will be soon now, for I get more tired every day.

"Do come, my dear, dear Mr. Garth. I think I like you next best to any one in the world but Queenie, except perhaps Langley and Cathy. Do come, please, to

"Your loving and tired little Emmie."

Queenie was sadly disturbed by the child's restlessness during that day and the next; all her sweet placidity seemed gone. She was feverish and eager; it was difficult to soothe her. She started at every sound; an opening door, even the stoppage of vehicles in the street, would bring the flush to her white face, and she would sit up among her pillows, palpitating and expectant.

"What is it, Emmie darling? What is the matter?" Queenie would say to her over and over again.

"Oh, it is nothing; I am only very silly," the child would answer, sinking back with a disappointed face. Of course her letter had not reached him, it was such a long, long way off. How was it possible for him to come yet? And then a new fear tormented her. If he delayed at all, if he took a long time to think about it, would he be in time?

It was on the evening of the second day when this fresh thought began to harass her. The day had been hot and thundery, and she had suffered much from the oppression of the atmosphere.

When Dr. Bennet saw her that night he let fall a word or two that stirred Queenie's numb pain to sharp, positive agony.

"You think she is worse, Dr. Bennet? I can read it in your face," she asked, her poor hands working with the effort to keep calm.

"I think there is a change of some sort; you must be prepared for anything now, my dear Miss Marriott. Poor little soul, one cannot wish her to suffer," continued the warm-hearted doctor, who had daughters of his own.

"No; I do not wish her to suffer, God forbid that I should be so selfish; but oh, Emmie!" and then she turned away, lest the bitter flood of her sorrow should overwhelm her. There would be time enough to weep when her work was finished, she needed all her strength for Emmie now.

But that night there was no sleep for her eyes. Hour after hour she sat beside the failing child; fanning her softly, watching her through her short intervals of sleep, and listening to the dull lapping of the waves on the sand.

Once she dozed off and lost herself. The shaded sick-room had disappeared, the monotonous wash of the surge had lulled to sleep her drowsy ear. She was at Church-Stile House again. There was the plane-tree walk, and the church. The little gate swung lightly on its hinges; a dark, handsome face looked in at the window and smiled at her; and she woke with a start to find raindrops pattering against the window, and the night-lamp paling beside the grey dawn.

"I don't think that I shall get up to-day, so I shall not tire your poor arms," was Emmie's plaintive remark that morning.

"Do you feel weaker, my darling? would you rather be spared the trouble of dressing?"

"Yes; I would rather lie still and be quiet. If you open the folding doors I can see a little bit of the sea, and it does not sound so loud here. I think it is coming, Queen; and oh, I did want to be a little longer with you!"

"What is coming, my pet?" for the child's voice was very sad, and the tears were rolling down her cheeks. "Oh, don't cry, Emmie! I would rather endure a lifetime of sorrow than see you shed a single tear," and Queenie trembled all over.

"But it is so hard," sobbed the child. "I only wanted this, and then I could have gone so happily; just to say good-bye, and to know that he was taking care of you. I have so prayed for it; and now he will come too late. Hush! what is that, Queen? There are footsteps in the next room, did you hear them?"

"It is only Dr. Bennet, my darling," returned her sister, marvelling at her exceeding agitation. Whom did she expect? What impossible arrival was she conjuring up in her sick brain? "Hush! it is only Dr. Bennet, he promised to come early, and we have no other visitor, you know. Lie down again, Emmie, and I will bring him to you."

The sunshine streamed through the bay window as she closed the folding doors behind her softly.

"I am so thankful you have come, Dr. Bennet," she began breathlessly, and then she stopped, and her heart seemed to cease beating for a moment.

"I am not Dr. Bennet, but I trust you are not sorry to see me," said a familiar voice in her ear, the voice that had vibrated through her waking and sleeping dreams; and there was Garth looking at her, and holding out his hand, with his old kind smile.

"You here? you, of all people in the world!" she gasped, for she was dazed with want of sleep, and the sudden appearance of this dearest friend seemed to her more dream-like than real; even the pressure of his hand scarcely reassured her. "I am so stupid, I don't seem to believe it somehow," she said, wrinkling her brows, and looking at him with such grave, unsmiling eyes that Garth grew almost as grave as she.

"Emmie sent for me; she wrote such a sweet little childish letter that I could not keep away. Why did you not send for me if things were as bad as this?" looking down at her pale face with mingled feelings of pity and love. Worn and jaded and weary as she looked, with all her brightness quenched, he felt it was the dearest face in the world to him.

"Emmie sent for you, and I never knew it! then it is you she has been expecting these two days. Oh, Mr. Clayton, do you know that she is dying; that I shall soon be without her, the only thing that belongs to me in the whole world?" and moved by the sympathy of his face, Queenie sank down on the couch, and covered her face with her hands.

"Yes, I know all about it, and Langley and I are more sorry for you than I can say. Cathy wanted to come with me, but she could not leave Langley."

"But you came. Oh, it is so good of you; and this is such a poor welcome," trying to smile at him through her tears.

"I could not expect otherwise," he returned, in an odd, constrained voice, for he was just then restraining with difficulty the longing to take her in his arms and comfort her like a child. Did she understand his feelings? he wondered, for there was a little flush in her face as she moved away, saying that she would tell Emmie.

"May I come with you?" he asked; but he followed her without permission, and so caught the child's first look of ecstasy.

"Oh, Mr. Garth, Mr. Garth!" was all she said, and then she nestled down contentedly in his strong arms, and laid her head on his shoulder, and the weak hands went up and stroked his face.

"You see I have come, dear Emmie," he said at last, very gently. "I have answered your letter in person. You were sure of me, were you not?"

"Yes, I was sure," she answered, doubtfully. "But last night I got unhappy, for I feared it would be too late. And now you are going to promise me to take care of Queenie?"

"Emmie, my dear one, hush!" exclaimed poor Queenie, for her cheeks were flaming at this.

"Let the child speak," he returned very quietly, but firmly; "we must not let her have anything on her mind. And she wrote to me, you know. Emmie has always had faith in me," with an intonation that made Queenie droop her head and be ashamed of her doubts.

"Yes; do let me speak, Queen; I have been so dreadfully unhappy, and I have not much breath for this odd catching in my throat. Mr. Garth, I am not wrong; you do love Queenie, do you not?"

"Yes, dearly," was the unexpected response, very gravely made.

"Oh, I am so glad!" trying to clap her hands in her old way; but they dropped heavily, and he caught them. "And you will promise me to take care of her, and try and make her happy all her life?"

"Yes, by God's help, and if she will have it so," in a low but very distinct tone. And now his hand sought hers, and kept it.

"Let him go now, my darling," exclaimed Queenie, wildly, and hardly knowing what she would say, and only conscious of the strong pressure of the hand that held hers. "All this is making you worse." And oh, what would he think of them both?

"No; it makes me happy," returned the child, faintly. "Now I am quite ready to go to sleep as Nan did. You have not kissed her, Mr. Garth. And is there not something else that people always do?" a little restlessly. "I thought they wore a ring, or something?"

He half smiled at that, and drew off the heavy seal ring from his little finger. "Let us humor her," his eyes seemed to say to Queenie; and weak and confused, she hardly knew how to resist. The ring was on her finger before she knew it, and he had lightly touched her cheek with his lips. "What does it matter, dear? we understood each other before this," she heard him say; "at least you must have understood me." And then he rose from his seat and placed the child in her arms.

The rest of the day was a dream to Queenie; she never stirred from Emmie's side. Garth came in and out in a quiet, business-like way, but he never stayed long. Once or twice he brought some refreshment to her, and remained beside her until she had taken it. "You must eat it, or you will be ill," he said, very gravely, when she would have refused it. After the first, Emmie seemed hardly conscious of his presence; a fainting fit had followed the excitement of the morning, and there had been only a partial rally. She lay through the remainder of the day motionless and speechless, with her hand in her sister's, and a faint flicker of her old innocent smile round her lips. Once only she brightened visibly when Garth stooped and kissed her. "Now I am happy," Queenie heard her say. "Dear Mr. Garth, I know he will take care of her!"

It was late in the evening when she roused to full consciousness. The day had been sultry, and the folding doors had been flung open, and now a pleasant breeze swept from the sea and blew refreshingly through the room. Garth was pacing up and down on the balcony. The moon had already risen, and a broken pathway of light seemed to stretch over the dark water. By-and-bye a star trembled on the edge of a long fleecy cloud. Through the open window he could catch a glimpse of the little fair form propped up with pillows, with the patient figure beside it; now and then a low tone reached his ears.

"Are we alone, Queen? Where is Mr. Garth?"

"He is out there, looking at the sea; it is so beautiful to-night. Shall I call him, dear?"

"No; I like to feel that we are alone together once more, just you and I. We have always been so happy together, have we not, Queen?"

"Yes, yes, my darling."

"There will be so many waiting for me there—mamma and papa, and Uncle Andrew, and Nan, and Captain Fawcett's little girl; but sometimes I am afraid that I shall miss you very badly, dear. I hope it is not wicked to feel that."

"No, of course not, my pet; but God will take care of that; He will not let you miss me too much."

"Never to be tired again, how strange that will be!" continued the dying child.

Queenie softly repeated the words, "Come unto Me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest."

"Ah, that sounds nice. You always say such comforting things. I know I have tired you dreadfully, Queen, and made you very unhappy, but you will soon be better, will you not?"

"I will try," in a faint voice, striving to repress her agitation, for a strange, indefinable expression seemed stealing over the child's face.

"When you are sad you must say to yourself, 'Emmie likes me to be happy,' and then you will feel better, you know; but I can't talk any more, the sea sounds so close. Kiss me and say good night, Queen."

A little while afterwards, when Garth stole softly to the door of the sick room, the sisters were still clinging together; but going still closer, he saw that Queenie was unconsciously rocking a dead face upon her bosom.

He had taken the child from her arms, and then led her gently from the room, and she had not resisted him; she only laid her face down on the arm of the chair where he had placed her, and wept as though the very flood-gates of her being were unloosed.

"Yes, cry, dear, it will do you good," was all he said to her, but for a long time he stood beside her; just smoothing her soft hair with his hand, but tenderly, as though she were a child, until the first bitterness of her anguish was past, and then she said quietly that she must go back to Emmie.

"But not to-night, dear, surely not to-night!" looking down with infinite pity at her poor drowned face and half-extinguished eyes.

"Yes; to-night. No one must do anything for her but me; it is only putting her to bed for the last time, you know," in so pitiful a voice that it broke his resolution.

"Ah, well, I must not hinder you, I suppose, but I only wish I knew what was right in such a case. If only Langley or Cathy were here!"

"I will not stay long, I will promise you that."

"Then I will trust you. Remember you belong to me now, Emmie gave you to me," and then he took her in his arms and kissed her forehead, and let her go.

But he did not see her again for three whole days. Her work was finished, and the brave, bright spirit had given way at last. The next day she was too ill to rise, and lay looking at the flowers he sent her, and some locks of fair hair that she had cut from Emmie's head. It was not until the evening of the second day that she crept for an hour to Emmie's room. Garth was out, but on his return they showed him the results of her handiwork.

The child looked fair as a sculptured angel, laid under a perfect quilt of flowers—roses white and creamy, and delicate cape-jessamine. A cross of frail white blossoms lay on her breast; some half-opened rose-buds had been pushed into her dead hand, but on the sweet lips lay Emmie's own smile.

"Never to be tired more!" could one look at that perfect rest, that marble calm, and wish the worn-out child back to suffer again? Queenie could not, though she wept, and wept as though her heart were broken, though at night she stretched out her empty arms in the darkness, and no light form nestled into them. "It is well with my darling now," she would sob.

It was in the evening of the third day when Garth saw her again; he had sent her a little note, telling her of some necessary arrangements that he had made, and she had come down to him in her black dress, and with the palest face he had ever seen.

"How ill—how dreadfully ill you look," he said in a shocked voice, as he sprang to meet her. "My dear Queenie, this is not right; they ought not to have permitted you to rise."

"Mrs. Bennet thought the change down-stairs might do me good," she returned, in a weak, hollow voice that scarcely seemed to belong to her; "and I—I wanted to see you, and thank you for what you have done."

"And my arrangements have satisfied you?"

"Perfectly and entirely."

"That is well," smiling at her; "then I have not worked in vain. And you"—hesitating a little, "you will be guided by my advice about the day after to-morrow."

"Oh no, I cannot," clasping her hands with a little sob. "Dr. Bennet says it will not really hurt me, if I have set my heart on going, and I am stronger—much stronger now."

"But you will faint—something will surely happen to you; you are unfit to move," he remonstrated.

"No, I will be very good, if you will only take me," she implored. "If you refuse, I shall lose heart altogether, and then indeed I shall be worse; please give way to me in this;" and he reluctantly consented.

But he need not have feared for her. Queenie went through the painful ordeal with a calmness that surprised him. True she trembled a good deal, and the brown eyes looked cloudy with unshed tears, and once she quitted his arm, and knelt down and kissed the sods that covered her darling; but there was no undue manifestation of grief, and he left her quiet and outwardly calm when he walked back to his hotel.

But the next evening he found her looking worn and ill; she was sitting by the window with a little old Bible of Emmie's in her lap. She laid it aside as she greeted him.

"Do you know that I must be going back to Hepshaw, and that you and I must have some conversation together?" he said in a meaning voice, as he took the chair beside her. She changed color at that, and then he saw her nervously pulling off the seal ring from her finger.

"I must not forget that this is your property," she said, not looking at him, but straight out of the window; and he saw that her face and even her throat were suffused with crimson. "I know how kindly you meant it, and I ought to have given it back before."

"It is certainly a shabby old ring, but you might have kept it until I had replaced it by another," taking possession of the hand and the ring too.

"But—but it all meant nothing," she stammered. "It was good of you to quiet my darling, and give in to her fancy, but of course I understood that it all meant nothing."

"Did it mean nothing when I took you in my arms and kissed you the other night?"

"Oh, Mr. Clayton, how can you?" turning away and covering her face with her hand; he had still possession of the other.

"Did it mean nothing that I told Emmie that I loved you dearly, and would care for you, God helping me, all my life? did you say a dissenting word then?"

"No; I was too stunned, too overwhelmed. I could say or do nothing at all."

"Do you mean to tell me now that you will have nothing to do with my love? that it is valueless to you, Queenie? Surely you can care for me a little!" with such a loving glance that she could not meet it.

"It is not that—that I cannot care, I mean; you know that there are other things in the way."

"Do you mean your money? I have been thinking over that all these months, and I have come to the conclusion that I have been a sorry coward in the matter. Things somehow look to me quite different. If we love each other—if you can care for me as your words seem to imply—why should this trumpery money part us? I would rather have you without it," after a pause, during which she had not spoken. "I would prefer your being our schoolmistress still; but it can't be helped. Besides, I am in a better position myself, and business is flourishing; and, whatever people say, I shall never need to live on my wife's money. You see I am speaking openly to you, dear, and as though things were already settled between us."

"Yes; but Dora! how about Dora?" and now he felt the trembling of the hand he held.

He became grave at that, all the more that he read the unspoken anxiety in her eyes.

"I will tell you all about that if you are sure you can listen." And as she signified her assent, he told her briefly of his old connection with Dora, and his intentions concerning her; and how she had repulsed him and kept him at bay until he had risen against her tyranny, and had at last freed himself. "It was not love that I felt for her at all; I found that out in time to save us from a life-time of misery. I never knew what love was till I came that night in the gloaming and saw you kneeling on the hearth, my darling, with the plate of cakes in your hand."

"Did you love me then?" very shyly.

"Then and ever afterwards. Do not let Dora be mentioned again between us, she is only my old playmate and friend. She never has been, she never can be, the one woman in the world to me; you only can be that."

And Queenie believed him. And so Garth replaced the old seal ring on her finger. "Only until I can find one more worthy of your acceptance," as he said to her.

"But I never mean to part with this," she returned tearfully. "You put it on to please dear Emmie, and it made her happy to see it. Oh, Garth, was it not good of my darling to bring us together?" And Queenie hid her face on his arm and wept with mingled sorrow and joy.

CHAPTER XV.

GARTH'S WIFE.

"Sole partner, and sole part of all these joys,
Dearer thyself than all."—Milton.

It cost Garth a severe struggle to leave his betrothed and go back to his business at Hepshaw; but his presence was imperatively needed at the quarry, and Queenie, with her usual unselfishness and good sense, was the first to perceive the necessity.

"How can I find it in my heart to leave you just now?" he said the next morning, when he had walked up from his hotel to spend an hour or two with her. Perhaps her deep mourning made her seem so thin and pale; but there was certainly a wasted look about her, as though she had passed through a long illness.

"But you must leave me," she replied gently. "You are wanted at Warstdale; and then Langley needs you. I will not have you neglect your duties for me; you have been here already ten days, have you not?"

"Yes; but Langley has Cathy, and you are all alone," he remonstrated. "Dear Queenie, could you not rouse yourself and come back with me? and we would all nurse you well again."

She shook her head sadly.

"No, no; Cathy has enough on her hands, you do not want another invalid at Church-Stile House; besides, I am not fit to travel just now, Dr. Bennet said so only yesterday. He told me I must have quiet and rest."

"You know he and his wife have offered to take care of you. What good Samaritans they are!"

"Yes, indeed, they are everything that is kind; but, Garth," hesitating shyly over his name, "you will not ask me to do that. They are very good, dear people, but they are comparative strangers. I could not bear to leave this place; I am only just fit to lie and look at the sea all day, and think of you and Emmie."

"I know it will be bad for you; but I don't see what else is to be done," he returned despondingly. "Warstdale won't do without me; but I shall not have a moment's peace until I have you safely in my own keeping. Will you promise to be well in a fortnight, if I come back and fetch you?"

"A fortnight is too short a time, I shall hardly be strong then," with a sigh of mental and bodily weakness that was sad to hear.

Dear as his presence was to her, and sweet the knowledge of their mutual love, it taxed her over-wrought strength sorely to sit and talk to him.

"Three weeks, then? I cannot be longer without seeing you."

"I will try to be ready for you then," she answered, with one of her rare, sweet smiles. Then, as she read the unspoken anxiety in his eyes, "Indeed, you must not be troubled about me; I will not fret more than I can help, and I have such sweet, happy thoughts about my darling; and then I cannot feel really lonely when I have you. Oh, Garth, if you only knew how different life looks to me now!" and for a little while she clung to him.

But though she sent him away half comforted she knew that she never needed him so sorely as during the miserable days of prostration and nervous depression that followed his departure; and but for very shame she would have recalled him.

For a little time she was utterly broken, and could only lie and weep, and pray that strength might be given her to bear her trouble. For ever through the lonely days and in the darkness of her sleepless nights Emmie's plaintive voice seemed sounding in her ears—"We have been so happy together, have we not, Queen?" The last clasp of the weak arms round her—she could feel their touch still; and the heavy drop of the head that Garth had lifted so tenderly from her bosom. Was she dead? She had not known it; even now she never thought of her as dead. During the brief snatches of slumber that came to her she was for ever carrying the light figure to and fro; there were the fair curls, the great, solemn blue eyes, the innocent smile playing round her mouth. "Am I very heavy? do I tire your arms, Queen? Oh, it is so nice to be together, just you and I!"

But Queenie bravely battled with her sorrow; and she was not without her consolation. Letters came to her from Church-Stile House—sweet, loving ones from Langley and Cathy, and others that she read with a happy smile, and hid under her pillow.

Garth's letters were very short and kind. They were not specially lover-like, there was no protestation of affection in them; but the whole breathed a spirit of quiet, watchful tenderness—the tenderness that a good man gives to the woman who has entrusted her future to him.

How Queenie loved these letters; they seemed to give fresh life to her.

"You have had good news, I can see," Dr. Bennet would say to her when he came in, and found her a little less languid, and with a faint color in her cheeks.

He was very watchful over the girl, and almost fatherly in his manner to her; he drove her himself to the cemetery when she craved for another sight of the little green mound. There was to be a marble cross at the head, and the little garden ground was to be planted with all the flowers that Emmie loved—her favorite roses, and in the spring time snowdrops and violets and lilies of the valley. Kind-hearted Mrs. Bennet promised to look after it when Queenie should be away in her northern home.

Garth's secret source of uneasiness when he had reached Hepshaw, and had received his sisters' delighted congratulations, was how he should break the news to Dora, and how she would receive it? He had made a clean breast of the whole thing to Queenie, as in duty bound, and then had bade her dismiss the matter from her mind. Dora and he were unsuited for each other; they were just old playmates and friends, that was all. He had no idea that Dora in her jealous desperation had appealed to Queenie, nor was Queenie ever likely to inform him.

Should he send Cathy over to Crossgill Vicarage to break the news, or should he write a little note to the Vicar? Somehow he shrank from writing to the girl herself, but before he could make up his mind the difficulty was solved for him.

One of those endless little notes, inviting him to a business consultation with Mr. Cunningham, reached him about three days after his arrival, but this time Flo had written it. Dora had hurt her hand, but she sent her kind regards to Mr. Clayton, and would he do them the pleasure, as papa wanted him so badly, and so on? Of course Dora had dictated the clever little letter.

Garth winced and reddened over it, and something like "Confound these clever women" sounded through his moustache; but, all the same, he told himself that he must go. "I have been a fool for my pains, and I suppose I must pay the penalty for being a fool," he thought, with a shrug of his shoulders; but the idea of that drawing-room at Crossgill Vicarage was odious to him.

No one need have envied him when he got into his dog-cart and drove along the familiar road. He had resolved to brave it out, and had written a very friendly and facetious answer to Flo. Nevertheless, he was very nervous and confused when he followed old nurse across the little hall.

By some accident he was unusually late, and they were all in the drawing-room, even Mr. Cunningham, who gently scolded him for his want of punctuality.

"He is not so very late, papa; and cook can easily put back the dinner a quarter of an hour," observed Dora, placidly. She had met Garth in a perfectly friendly manner. "Mr. Clayton, will you go up-stairs at once, please, it does not matter in the least, only papa is so methodical in his ways. Our dinner hour ought to have been enrolled among the laws of the Medes and Persians."

"As I ought to have known by this time," returned Garth, with a nervous laugh, and then he took himself off, and found old nurse unpacking his portmanteau.

Dinner passed over pretty comfortably. He could talk with the girls, and, as he was a favorite with them, they found plenty to say to him. Dora was rather quiet, but she was perfectly good-humored, though perhaps a trifle dignified; but in her white dress she looked almost as young and girlish as her sisters.

Still it was a relief when he and Mr. Cunningham were left to their business tête-à-tête, and he could relax a little from his company manners. When they had disposed of their business the Vicar seemed inclined to settle himself to his usual nap, but Garth began to fidget.

"I won't keep you a moment, and I must go into the drawing-room. But you are such an old friend, Mr. Cunningham, that I thought—" and then he managed to blurt it out.

The Vicar was wide awake enough now.

"Dear, dear," he observed, in a perplexed and slightly annoyed voice, "who would have thought of this? Does Dora—do the girls know?"

"Not at present; but I am going in to tell them."

"Do so, do so by all means," with a glance towards the door. "They will be surprised, of course; I am. Who would have dreamed you were such a deep fellow, Garth, and taking us all in like this? And the young woman has money, eh?"

"I am sorry to say Miss Marriott has a large fortune," returned Garth, stiffly. "Neither of us wanted it."

"Of course not; but, all the same, you have managed to do a good thing for yourself. Young and rich and good-looking. Well, my dear fellow, I congratulate you, though I own I never was more surprised in my life." And Mr. Cunningham sighed as he stretched out his white hands to the fireless grate. Evidently the news had not pleased him.

"I am in for it now," thought Garth, as he opened the drawing-room door. Of course Dora was alone, he expected that; but he could see the slim figures of the girls passing to and fro between the flower-beds. To his surprise Dora bade him call them in.

"Unless you would like to go out and join them," she said, just lifting her eyes from her work, but not inviting him by word or gesture to sit down.

"I hope you don't mean to dismiss me like this," he returned lightly. "We will go out to the girls by-and-bye, but just now I have something I want to tell you."

"I thought you never wanted to tell me things now," she answered, plaintively, and her bosom heaved a little, and her blue eyes began to soften and gleam dangerously.

"Oh yes, I do; you must not say such unkind things to me, Dora. I hope I may tell my old playmate of a piece of good fortune that has befallen me. I wonder whether it will be news to you, or whether my visit south will have enlightened you. Do you know I am going to be married?"

"To whom?" she asked. But she did not flinch, neither did her voice change in the least.

"To Miss Marriott."

"Of course I knew it," she returned, taking up her work and sewing hurriedly. "You know you told me on your last visit that Miss Marriott had come into a large fortune. I congratulate you, Mr. Clayton, you have done exceedingly well for yourself."

If she had wished to mortify and exasperate him she had entirely succeeded.

"Why do you and your father speak as though Miss Marriott's fortune was any inducement?" he returned, hotly. "Surely you know me better than that! It is the money that has been the stumbling-block all these months. I would marry her gladly and proudly if she had not a penny, and were still the school-mistress of Hepshaw."

"Ah, you always were Quixotic," was the repressive answer.

Garth was silent. He was inwardly provoked that she chose to misunderstand him; and he had a sore feeling that, after all their friendship, she should not have a kind word for him. But, looking at her, he saw that she had grown strangely pale, and that her hand was trembling; and then his heart grew very soft.

"Don't let us quarrel," he implored. "We have always been such good friends, have we not, Dora? You know there is no one except Miss Marriott and my sisters whom I can compare with you, I have always so trusted and respected you. You will wish me God-speed in my new life, will you not?"

"Yes, Mr. Clayton, I will wish you that," she returned, very calmly, as she took up her work again. "Now you must go and call in the girls, as Flo is delicate and the dews are falling."

But Garth did a strange thing before he went, for, as he stood looking at his old playmate a little sadly and tenderly, he suddenly stooped over her and touched the little hands with his lips. He had had a sort of tenderness for her, and now the tie was broken between them. But whatever she thought of the liberty Dora never spoke or raised her head, and for the rest of the evening she was very quiet.

Garth breathed more freely after this; but time hung heavily on his hands until the stipulated three weeks were over, and he could start for St. Leonards. He and his sisters held long consultations together about the future. Queenie was to pay them a long, long visit, and was to recover her strength; and early in the spring he would persuade her, in spite of her deep mourning, to marry him quietly.

"She is all alone, and there is plenty of room for us," as both he and Langley agreed.

But he grumbled sadly over her looks when he saw her again: the beautiful eyes had not regained their old brightness, though they looked so lovingly at him.

"I have wanted you! how I have wanted you!" she whispered, as she came, oh, so gladly, into his out-stretched arms.

"Not more than I have wanted you, my darling."

"Oh, yes; more, a great deal more; but now you are here all will be well with me. I am very weak still, but I know you will take care of me, and be patient until I get bright again."

"My dearest, can you doubt it?" he returned very gravely. And indeed he was good to her, too good she sometimes thought.

But it needed all his support and tenderness to make the long journey even bearable to her; and she was sadly exhausted when they drove over the little bridge and under the dark plane-trees, and he lifted her down and placed her in Langley's arms.

She and Cathy almost wept over the girl's altered looks.

"Oh, my dear, my dear, how shall we comfort you!" cried poor Cathy, kneeling down beside her, and trying not to burst into tears.

"We must leave that to time and Garth, and only be as good to her as we can," returned her sister gently, and then she took the tired face between her hands and kissed it tenderly and laid it on her breast.

But it was not in human nature to resist all the sweet, wholesome sympathy that surrounded her; and Queenie was young and beloved, besides loving with all her heart. As the days and weeks passed away courage and strength returned to her. It was not that Emmie was forgotten,—deep in her inmost soul lay the image of that dearly-loved sister,—but that her glorious young vitality asserted itself.

"How can I remain so dreadfully unhappy when I have you?" she would whisper to Garth when they paced up and down their favorite plane-tree walk in the sunset; and indeed any girl might have been proud of such a lover.

They had no reserves, these two. Queenie would tell him all her innocent thoughts—how lonely she had felt when she had seen him and Dora together, and how she had watched, night after night, for the red flicker of his cigar as he walked underneath the plane-trees; and Garth listened to her, and though he said very little in reply Queenie was perfectly content.

For day by day the sweet conviction came to her that she was growing deeper into her lover's heart, that the sympathy between them was ever greater; their delight in each other's presence was quiet but intense; speech seemed unnecessary to them, they understood each other without a word.

When two months had passed, and Queenie announced her intention of going to Carlisle and taking up her abode for the present with Caleb Runciman, he let her go almost without a word, though the sunshine seemed to die out of the old house with her presence; and when Langley would have remonstrated he silenced her at once.

"She thinks it will be best, and perhaps she is right. Of course we shall have a dull winter, but it will be worse for her, shut up with that old man; but in the spring she has promised things shall be as I wish." And a flush crossed Garth's handsome face as he spoke, for the thought of bringing home his wife was very sweet and sacred to the young man.

So Queenie spent the long winter months in the narrow little house in the High Street, with only Caleb and Molly. But it was not such a dull life after all. Friends came over from Hepshaw to see her—Faith Stewart, and Miss Cosie, and now and then Langley and Cathy, and every week brought Garth. Queenie and he would take long walks together. How she loved to show him her old haunts—Granite-Lodge, and the Close, and her favorite nook in the Cathedral! Now and then they would walk over to the castle where poor Mary Queen of Scots had been incarcerated, and gaze up at the little window out of which Fergus Vich Ian Vohr used to look. The sentries would look after them as they strolled across the place—the tall, good-looking fellow, with the slight girl wrapped in furs beside him.

"What a color you have, my Queen! and how bright your eyes are!" he would say, for, half in jest and half in loving reality, he often called her "my Queen," and she would look up and smile, well pleased that she had found favor in his eyes.

And so one day in the early spring, when the violets and crocuses were growing on Emmie's grave, there was a quiet wedding at Carlisle, and Queenie became Garth Clayton's wife.

It was a very quiet wedding, only Langley and Cathy and Ted were there, and Mr. Logan came over to marry them. She had worn bridal-white, but after the ceremony she had resumed her mourning.

"Garth did not mind," she said, "and she was unwilling to put it off unless he wished it."

Garth was too perfectly happy to find fault with anything. A holiday was a rare thing with him, and he and Queenie had planned it to the best advantage, in a tour through Normandy. Queenie had never been abroad, and Garth had only once left England. The change of scene would be good for both of them.

When May was over they came back to Hepshaw, and settled down quietly, "as sober married people," Garth would say, with a proud look at his young wife.

It was a happy household at Church-Stile House. Queenie's good sense and sweetness of temper averted even the ordinary jars that are liable to occur in the most united family. In her husband's eyes she was simply faultless.

"Where is my wife?" was always his first question if she were not in the porch to meet him. "My wife"—he seemed never weary of saying it.

"How can you spoil any man so, Mrs. Clayton," Dora said to her once, on one of her rare visits to Church-Stile House.

Garth had taken his wife more than once to Crossgill Vicarage, but Dora's ponies seldom drove now through the Hepshaw lanes. "Beatrix was going to be married, and she was so busy." There was always some excuse; but she was quite pleasant and friendly to Queenie when they met, though there was no special sympathy between them. But Queenie could never rid herself of a secret feeling of embarrassment in Dora's presence. That conversation lay as a barrier between them; she even felt a little self-reproach when Garth once hinted that Dora looked older and more worn than she used to look. Was it possible that she had really cared for him so much after all?

If she had she kept her secret well and fulfilled all her duties admirably. She married both her sisters, becoming the most inveterate match-maker for their sakes; and she soothed her father's declining years with the utmost dutifulness.

When he was dead, and she was no longer young, she took a step that surprised her friends considerably, for she married a wealthy widower with three middle-aged daughters, who had come to live lately at a grand old place called Dingle Hall.

"They are only nouveaux richesses, my dear," as an ill-natured widow remarked, "and he has made all his money in trade; but Dora Cunningham cannot live without managing somebody."

If she managed him she did it admirably, for he and her step-daughters almost worshipped her. She was a young-looking woman still, and knew how to make the best of herself; and Dingle Hall was soon famed for its hospitality and the good taste of its mistress.

But long before that time there had been many and great changes at Church-Stile House. First the new house had been built on the little piece of sloping meadow-land looking over Hepshaw—Warstdale Manor, as it was called, and the master of Warstdale had taken up his abode there, but not until Langley had left them to become Harry Chester's wife.

And by-and-bye there was another wedding.

"What do you think Cathy has told me?" exclaimed Garth one day, when he found his wife sitting alone in their favorite room—a handsome library, with a side window commanding a view of Church-Stile House and the church. "I really think the girl must be clean daft to dream of such a thing, but she declares that with or without my consent she means to marry Logan."

"Well?" and Queenie laid down her work and smiled placidly in his face.

"Well, how can you sit there in that provokingly unconcerned way, you very tiresome woman, and looking exactly as though it were no news to you at all? our Cathy, too!"

"Because I have expected it all along," returned his wife calmly. "I knew, however much she might resist it, that in the end she would be true to herself and him."

"Why, if this is not enough to try a man's patience," exclaimed Garth, quite irritably for him. "You talk as though you approve of this monstrous match."

"So I do. Mr. Logan is a good man; and then he loves Cathy so dearly."

"But he is double her age; he is forty-five if he is a day, and Cathy not more than three-and-twenty. Why, they will look like a father and daughter! The very idea is absurd!"

"The discrepancy between their ages is a pity of course," returned Queenie, with an admiring look at her own "gude-man." Garth was handsomer than ever, every one said so. "But I know one thing, that Cathy will never fancy any one else." And, as usual, Garth soon discovered that his wife's surmises were correct.

"So you are going to stand on tiptoe all your life, trying to get a peep at your husband's excellences?" Queenie said to her, with a lively recollection of a conversation between them. "Oh, you foolish Cathy!"

"No; I am the wise Catherine now," returned her friend. "You see we poor women can't escape our fate after all. I am tired of running away from myself and him, and pretending not to care for his liking me; so I just told him that he must put up with me, faults and all, for I won't promise to mend; but if I am not the better for being with him—" and then she stopped suddenly, and her eyes were full of tears. "Oh, Queenie, don't laugh at me, and don't let Garth say a word against it; for, though he were as old as my father, I love and honor and venerate him, and I mean to take care of him, and make him happy all his life long."

And Cathy kept her word. Garth grumbled a good deal, and would not be reconciled, and turned sulky when he met them strolling up the lane together; but even he was driven at last to confess that it had made a woman of Cathy, and that it had not turned out amiss after all.

Mr. Logan was no longer poor when they married, and it was by her brother's advice that they left Miss Cosie to take care of the vicarage, and came to live at Church-Stile House, where Ted was holding solitary state.

But before that migration was accomplished, there was a new arrival at Warstdale Manor. Queenie's boy was now two years old, and this time it was a small, fair girl that they placed in Garth's arms.

"Our little daughter," he whispered tenderly. "What shall we call her, my wife?"

But though no word crossed Queenie's lip the look in the brown eyes were all-sufficient, and he hastened to answer—

"It shall be as you wish, Queenie dearest. Of course I knew what you would say; we will call our little darling Emmie."

FINIS.