Eunice obeyed this impulse, and took the letter up to Virginia, who was practising her noble voice in the remote room assigned to her.

“Here, take this and just tuck it in your bosom if you want to keep it,” she said, flinging the letter down upon the piano. “It may be a comfort to you, and it mayn’t—I don’t know, but if anybody in this house has a right to read it, you have.”

Virginia took the letter and read it through. Eunice stood by and watched her with interest. She saw the color retreat from that beautiful face as the poor girl recognized the handwriting; then it came back, swelling the delicate blue veins and flushing the whole face with a pressure of tender weeping.

“Oh! how he loved me—how he did love me!” she cried pressing the paper to her lips with mournful rapture.

“Eunice, had you given me back every dollar my father was worth, I should not have been more thankful. Who was the letter written to? How came it in your hands? Be kind, dear Eunice, and tell me all about it.”

“Now don’t be making an old fool of me—don’t now, I can’t stand it. The letter was sent to a man that is in the house this minute—a first-rate looking chap, with an air as if he was President of the United States and King of the Sandwich Islands thrown in. He was an old friend of your—of Amos Lander—and I like his looks, what I saw of ’em through the door.”

Virginia was reading her father’s letter a second time.

“What does he mean? Is it something that relates to me, I wonder?” she thought. “But all the letter is about me. How the gentleman will be disappointed. Who ever will regard me with my father’s eyes? Alas! alas! and he is dead! God help me! if I could have gone down in his arms, what a mercy it would have been! This great crime would have been spared to Cora, and I should have been so much happier.”

“Hope the gentleman won’t be disappointed in Mr. Lander’s daughter,” broke in Eunice. “She’s making herself agreeable now, I tell you.”

Virginia looked up wonderingly. For the moment she had forgotten that Cora was in the house.

“And will she take my father’s friend from me? The man he seems to have loved so dearly?”

“I don’t see how you are to help it.”

“I will go down and speak with him.”

“And what will you tell him? That letter musn’t kick up no row. It isn’t the time, and I won’t have Eliza Lander thrown into hysterics, if I can help it.”

“I will tell him that I am Miss Lander.”

“But you won’t be particular about the which Miss Lander, will you now, that’s a good girl?”

“Have no fear about that—I shall provoke no dispute. But the man who was my father’s friend I must and will welcome under my father’s roof. It matters very little whether he thinks me the mistress or a guest here. My father wished me to know him, and I will.”

“Well, I reckon I’d do purty much the same thing; your—that is, Amos Lander did intend you to know one another, I’m sure of that from the letter—that is, supposing you are—mercy on me! one does get tangled up so, it’s dreadful talking at all!”

Ellen Nolan was sitting in another part of the room, writing with such earnestness that she did not heed what was passing near the piano; but she heard Eunice now, and looked up.

“Come here,” said Eunice; “tell her not to go down and raise a muss. That’s a York word I despise, but it will get into one’s mouth unawares. But don’t let her raise a muss with a stranger in the house. It’s none of his business which is which.”

“But I don’t intend to make a disturbance, Eunice.”

“Well, then don’t go down. It’ll make me sick as rank pison to see her a introducing you.”

“You are right, Eunice; I will not take any part in the imposition which places me in a false light before this man or any other person. At first I was excited and rash. To present myself in any other character than my own would be to sanction a fraud.”

“If the gentleman is worth knowing, he will not like you the less because you can not present yourself as an heiress,” said Ellen, in a low voice.

“True, Ellen. I will take no part in his reception.”

“That’s a good girl. Give out rope—give out rope—if she’s wrong. I don’t say she is, though; but supposing she’s wrong, she’ll hang herself at last. Be sartain of that.”

Eunice went out with these words on her lips, leaving Virginia and her companion together. Virginia gave her father’s letter to Ellen.

“He so wanted me to know this gentleman,” she said, regretfully. “I have heard him speak of Mr. Brooks a hundred times on the passage, and before that.”

“Who is Mr. Brooks, lady?”

“He is an American by birth, the son of a banker who spent his life in London, having moved there when this young gentleman was a lad. My father knew his father before he left this country, and has always considered the younger Brooks almost as a son. I think there was some unusual friendship between the families while our parents were young men together. At any rate they were fast friends for life.”

“Have you ever seen this Mr. Brooks?”

“No; my father said that he had written to invite him here, and seemed to think much of it. He described him to me as good and noble—a man among men. He appeared to wish that I should consider him as a brother.”

Ellen read the letter seriously.

“He seems to have some unexplained idea here—some hope only hinted at.”

“Oh, they had business together; I think there was some talk about establishing a banking house in New York to co-operate with that in London.”

Ellen smiled faintly, but kept her eyes on the letter.

“I think Eunice was right,” she said at last. “Yes, she is right.”

Virginia sighed heavily, the oppressive weariness of that most wretched life was beginning to tell upon her. It was hard to turn aside from the closest friend her father had. But that, like the rest, she must give up or enter upon a contest from which humiliation or sure defeat might follow. For half an hour she walked up and down her room feverish with anxiety. No poor fly in the net of a spider ever felt the thrall of its imprisonment more keenly than she did. She could have given up the property with but little regret. Never having learned the power or value of money, it was of minor importance to her. But to remain under that roof, to live with the woman who had so wronged her, and not exhibit the slow indignation that crept upon her stronger and stronger every day, was fast growing into a torture.

“What have I done—how have I deserved this treatment?” she cried out at last. “Am I or am I not Amos Lander’s child? How can a wise and just being look on and see such terrible iniquity prosper?”

“Hush, lady! this does not seem like yourself. The Being you speak of bides his own time. Wait patiently.”

“And see my patrimony taken from me—know that my father’s dearest friend is to be swept from the lowly path she has doomed me to tread—alone. Oh! it is beyond belief—beyond bearing! I must do something, or go mad!”

“No, dear lady, you will not go mad; that is exactly what they want.”

Virginia listened angrily. She was indeed out of all patience. The life that lawyer Stone recommended had become unendurable. Must she wait forever in that dull agony of living? Shut out from friends—forbidden to make acquaintances by her false position—a prisoner, chained down by circumstances more potent than iron shackles? Better break through it all—give up everything and strike out boldly for a new life.

Ellen looked up as her mistress paced the room to and fro with fire in her eyes and defiance on her lips. “Now,” she thought, “Not even I could tell her from her cousin. That very tread is alike; with what imperious pride she walks. How the color wakes and trembles in her face. Thank Heaven, it cannot last.”

That moment Virginia sunk to the music stool, dropped her folded arms on the instrument, and her face fell upon them, half smothering the burst of tears that shook her from head to foot.

“Oh, it is cruel! it is cruel!” she moaned. “If I only knew how to act!”

Ellen’s arms were around her in an instant, gentle kisses stirred her hair and fell upon her neck.

“Be patient—oh! be patient,” whispered that sweet voice. “God is just. Wait and see.”

Virginia lifted her head and swept the hot tears from her eyes.

“Ellen, I—I—really think this is jealousy. How foolish! I never saw this gentleman in my life; but the thought that she assumes my place with him hurts me worse than the loss of all this property. There, you see how weak I am!”

Ellen answered with a kiss so fervent that it was far more eloquent than words.

A servant knocked at the door. Miss Lander’s compliments—there was a gentleman below who had known Mr. Lander, and would like to see Miss Virginia.

“Say that Miss Lander is not well, and desires to be excused,” answered Virginia. “Heaven knows it is the truth,” she said as the man closed the door after him. “I have worried myself into a headache, Ellen.”

The poor girl laid herself on a couch and quietly wept herself to sleep. Never since her father’s death had she been so disturbed.

Ellen went on with her writing, and in a few moments was so lost in her subject that she did not hear the long-drawn sighs that came now and then from that dear slumberer on the couch. This power of concentration it was which constituted the force of Ellen’s genius. She literally lived and breathed in the ideal life her mind created. This it was which gave the girl that untiring industry without which the brightest genius in life must die out in flashes of poetry and broken efforts at prose. Those who reach the temple of fame, in these latter days, must work their way to its very portals, and toil harder and harder after they are reached, for that which is won by toil must be by toil maintained.

Clarence Brooks excused himself from accepting the invitation that Mrs. Lander pressed upon him, to take up his quarters at the house. He had left his portmanteau at the little hotel just beyond the station, he said, and would remain there for the present. He should even then claim hospitality of Mrs. Lander to an unreasonable extent. If he did not really sleep in the house, they might expect him there half the time, as he was sure to get terribly weary of his own society. There seemed to be pleasant drives in the neighborhood; and shooting—he should think there must be shooting in the back country. Did Miss Lander ride?

Yes, Cora admitted that she had a tolerable seat on horseback, but since they had been in mourning she had scarcely cared even to take the air.

“Oh, that must be remedied,” the gentleman said. “He must run down to the city and look up a good saddle horse. Was the lady provided with one?”

“Oh yes; two ladies’ horses were in the stable—one black as jet, the other white as snow, which Mr. Lander had himself selected for herself and his niece before he went abroad.”

By the way, Mr. Brooks wanted to know if he was not to have the pleasure of seeing this niece who was in her person so complete a counterpart of the lady before him. He had heard of such resemblances; but really, in this case, could hardly think it possible that two persons so entirely beautiful could exist.

Here it was that Virginia was sent for. There was no possibility of keeping her in the background after this, and Cora submitted with charming grace. Her cousin was just a little peculiar sometimes; but, for all that, one of the most interesting characters in the world. Mr. Brooks would be charmed with her—everybody was.

Here the servant came in and received his orders. Mrs. Lander swept after him into the hall.

“Tell her she must come, I insist upon it,” she whispered. “This gentleman must see our family circle complete.”

It was some time since any of the servants had cared much about Mrs. Lander’s wishes. They were the first to ascertain who was in fact mistress of the house, and veered round accordingly. Before he had taken three steps this eagerly-given message was forgotten.

Meantime Clarence Brooks and Cora were talking by the window; for the gentleman never seemed to weary of looking out upon the soft, smoky air, and rich coloring of the trees.

“Black or white—which should it be? His saddle horse must match one of the young ladies’ ponies. Might he choose at a venture with fair hopes of adopting her color? Then it should be black.”

Cora’s eyes sparkled as she lifted them to his face.

Ah! he had won. Black was her color. Well, his steed should be coal black and not too large. He did not wish to be overpowering. A ride under those superb trees would be delightful; he was almost tempted to run down to the city at once. A day lost that fine weather would be a misfortune.

Here the servant came in and delivered Virginia’s message. Cora shook her head, cast a deprecating glance at her guest, and allowed a gentle sigh to escape her lips.

“It is one of her nervous days,” she said, “I am so sorry.”

“Is your cousin apt to be nervous?” the gentleman inquired.

“She is a little—just a little excitable, as you may guess from my father’s letter, but a dear, sweet creature. I am so sorry she is ill!”

“Yes, I have great compassion for illness of all kinds. My own experience in that line has been terrible.”

“Indeed! and you look so thoroughly well!”

“Yes, you will hardly believe it, but not a year ago the best physicians of the East gave me up for dead. It was when I lay ill of the Syrian fever, in Damascus. I must have been in some sort of a fit, for the natives were urgent to have me buried, and even the physicians were about to give way, when I came to life again. It was the crisis of my disorder, and I ran a narrow chance of being buried alive. It isn’t a pleasant thing to remember even now, I assure you.”

“It must have been terrible! I have heard of such things, but always accepted them with some unbelief,” said Mrs. Lander, joining in the conversation. “Were you conscious?”

“Yes; that was the most awful part of it. With every nerve stiffened to iron, and all my senses acutely awake, it was the most exquisite torture to hear those about my bed discussing my funeral. With closed eyes and everything but the brain spell-bound, my hearing became unusually keen. I even heard the rustle of paper two rooms off, when a person I thought true as steel was searching for the letters of credit I had taken out for America and carried with me. The sound, to me, was like the shiver of leaves on a breezy day, yet it must have been faint enough, fer the man had a light touch.”

“Did he leave you?” asked Cora, suddenly interested.

“Yes; but I do not wish to think of that. There might have been extenuating circumstances, and I loved the fellow so thoroughly that even now it is a pain to think ill of him.”

Cora could not press the subject beyond this point; but she was seized with an eager desire to learn more, and resolved to question her guest some other time and learn all that there was to know of this singular event.

Two days from this, Virginia and Ellen went down to the grove. It was a lovely afternoon, made brighter and more exhilarating by a sharp frost that had brought whole rainbows of color in the woods the night before. The roses were all gone now, but many of the bushes were flushed with berries red as coral, and a rich variety of chrysanthemums still brightened the lawn and garden.

“After all it is a beautiful world,” said Virginia, pausing in her walk. “One looks at this scene in amazement after being abroad so long. I wonder how an American can ever content himself in any other land when this is his home. Look at the hills, Ellen—have you genius enough to describe what you see there?”

“Who has?” Ellen replied. “No pen can do it—no pencil can copy it. After all, God is the great artist.”

“I am glad the frosts have been so sudden and sharp; they have found enough sap in the leaves to make them vivid. Look here.”

Virginia sprang up, snatching at a twig of maple, broke it off with her hand and held it towards her companion.

“Here is the most perfect green, fringed so vividly with red that each leaf might have been traced with vermillion. No painting was ever half so beautiful. Ah! here comes one quivering down from some tree far off; deep red, veined all over with maroon color so dark that it looks black at first sight. Oh! Ellen, no pen of yours or pencil of mine will ever equal that. Come away, it makes me envious.”

“Thankful, rather, dear lady.”

“Well, thankful. So I am, Ellen. While God surrounds us with so much beauty, we ought to be full of gratitude, and so happy. Come, come, let us go down to the grove, the leaves are thick there.”

The girls walked on, chatting cheerfully together; both were young and full of healthy life. No crime or sense of evil-doing touched the conscience of either. The very day was enough to make them happy, spite of their present position—spite of the bereavement which usually overshadowed them.

“I know of a chestnut tree that must hang full of burs; the frost last night has let the nuts out—suppose we go look for them. It makes one feel like a child again to get into the woods. Oh! there is Joshua Hurd, coming up the carriage road with two splendid horses! The white one is a beauty! See how she shakes her mane, and dashes the gravel with that delicate hoof! Oh! Ellen, I should so like to have a gallop!”

“I would have one, if I were you, lady. Ask Joshua to saddle that white beauty. Why not?”

Virginia shook her head, but that moment Joshua came up, riding the black horse with a dash and leading the other, who curvetted and danced over the gravel like some beautiful child tossing her hair to the wind; the sweeping whiteness of its tail and the mane flowing free, like floss silk set in motion, gave an air of superb grace to all the creature’s movements.

Joshua drew up the black horse and challenged the girls’ admiration of the creature by his really fine horsemanship.

“Isn’t she purty as a blackbird, Miss Ellen; jest let me lay my hand on your head and she’ll whirl round you like a top; never saw the heat of these ’ere two animals for ladies’ hosses. Which on ’em do you like best, Miss?”

“The white one, I think, Joshua.”

Josh began to whistle.

“There’s gumption,” he said, patting the white horse with his great rough hand. “She would have the black one. Wanted to know which Mr. Lander bought for his own daughter. I told her black was his choice—no lie, neither, but then he chose it for t’other one—and black she would have. Why Snowball cost a hundred dollars the most! I sarched her out myself, and know all about it. She’s yourn anyway, for the other gal pounced on the black ’un like a hawk on a spring chicken. When do you want to ride her, Marm?”

“I’m afraid I shouldn’t he permitted,” said Virginia, speaking to Ellen in an undertone.

“I’d like to know who’s a going to stop you when Eunice Hurd says it’s got to be done, or while Josh Hurd takes care of the hosses? Jest give the order, and I’ll have her saddle on in no time. Now do, I want to see this animal on the road dreadfully!”

“I will think of it, Joshua; thank you very much—another day will do. Are you sure, old friend, that my—that Mr. Lander bought that horse for me?”

“I’m sure he bought it for his own child, and jest as sartin that the other one never will ride her. I’d drive a nail under her huff if she was to ask for her.”

“But why, Joshua, if you recognize her as the mistress of this place?” asked Ellen, very quietly.

“Because I aint a heathen, neither am I a justice of the peace. What belongs to hosses I know all about, and will stand up to like a sojer; but property belongs to the courts; I may feel bad to see things going on so, but it’s none of my business. Besides I couldn’t go agin my—my old mistress; what she says is right. I’m bound to say is right so long as Eunice don’t go agin it. But bosses is bosses, and no one touches this white beauty but you, Miss; you may depend on that as sure as your life.”

Joshua rode off after this speech, scattering the gravel right and left as he went.

“That looks well,” said Ellen, turning to her mistress.

“It proves that I have one humble friend that I did not count on,” answered Virginia. “Now for the woods—I long to be in action. Can you climb, Ellen?”

“Me!” said the hunchback, looking mournfully down on her person.

“Oh! forgive me, dear; I am in such spirits to-day, that I talk at random.”

“I can pick up chestnuts as fast as any one,” answered Ellen, laughing. “I can run too—come along.”