"Why, who can it be?" in a tone of surprised inquiry.

Daisy Jasper studied a moment. "Why, it looks like—no, it cannot be—yes, it is Mr. Andersen."

"I thought he was in Germany."

Daisy looked puzzled. Then she sprang up with a quick colour and a smile of pleasure, stretching out both hands.

"Oh, Miss Jasper!" and Mr. Andersen took her hands in a fervent clasp. "Do you know this is going to be a red-letter day in my life,—one of the happiest of days? Your mother sent me up here on a venture. First, I found Miss Underhill, and now you. And one might go all over the world and miss one's best friends. Ah, Dr. Underhill!"

A curious shock went over Dr. Underhill. He had to compel himself to take the outstretched hand. For what had this young man "crossed the seas?" He was not going to marry the cousin.

"But when did you come?" inquired Daisy. It was odd, but he took the seat the other side of her, and Hanny was by Joe.

Then Mr. Andersen told his voyage all over again, and that he had come for good. He was to take his father's money share in the house here, and his father's was to be transferred to Paris, where one of the elderly partners was in failing health and wished to retire.

"I am just delighted," exclaimed Daisy, enthusiastically. "If you would only come and board at our house! There are some people going away. Wouldn't it be splendid, Hanny?"

Hanny assented with a smile.

"I will see if I can find the others," said the doctor, rising and looking at his watch. "Father was to drive up with the Surrey at half-past five. Don't go away from here."

He walked slowly, looking a few moments in every room. Yes—there was Charles. He caught his eye and beckoned.

The estrays soon rejoined the others. Then they went out to the southern entrance, and so along to the gateway.

Yes, there was Mr. Underhill. He would take the four girls, and one more, as he had a team. This was decided to be Mr. Andersen, as he was to go to the Jaspers' to tea. The others would ride down in the stage. The doctor said he must make a few calls. Mr. Beekman expressed his intention of coming up in the evening, as Miss Odell was going to stay; and Miss Odell's eyes shone with delight.

Daisy having a lover! Dr. Underhill had not felt alarmed about Jim's attentions, he had so many fancies. But this young man—

Would it be best or wise for Daisy to marry? She appeared quite well, but she was not strong, and there was a remnant of the old spinal trouble that came out now and then in excruciating nervous headaches. Somehow she had seemed his especial property since she had cried in his arms with all the pain and suffering, and he had encouraged her to bear the little more. He had meant always to stand her friend. It wasn't likely he would marry, for he had seen no one yet that he wanted. But if this child went out of his life! For, alas! the child had grown to womanhood.



CHAPTER XXI

THE OLD, OLD STORY, EVER NEW

When Mr. Underhill took Polly home the next day, it was with the stipulation that she should come back and spend a week. Polly was wild with delight, and packed up her best things. There were some other visitors,—cousins of the elderly sort,—so the young people had their own good times. Daisy and Mr. Andersen were in, and Charlie and they had the happy enjoyment of youth.

Peter Beekman seemed devoted to them. Jim wouldn't be crowded out where Daisy was concerned, but he wanted to be first with her. Mr. Andersen gave way generously, and went over to Hanny, who somehow clung to Polly.

There was a good deal of business to be done for Mr. Herman Andersen. His father's share in the New York firm was to be transferred to him, as at the age of twenty-five he had come into possession of his mother's fortune, that had been accumulating. His father was to take charge of the Paris house. He spent some hours every morning with Mr. Jasper, acquiring a knowledge of his new duties; but the afternoons were for pleasure, until the autumnal business stirred up.

"I do wish young Beekman wouldn't come over here so much," Mrs. Underhill said in a fretted tone, "or that he would take a real fancy to Polly."

"They are just having a young people's good time," returned Joe. "Polly's a nice girl. He might do worse."

"But I am afraid it is not Polly. He watches Hanny like a cat watching a mouse."

"Nonsense!" declared Joe.

"But he does. And I don't like it."

"Oh, mother dear, you're a hen with one chick. If there is a rustle in the leaves you think a hawk is going to pounce down."

"Hanny's too young to have lovers." She tried to keep her face in severe lines.

"Hanny isn't thinking about lovers. And Peter is a fine, solid fellow, who is going to make his mark, and who may be a sort of ballast to Jim. I like him."

"Oh, he is well enough. But if there was any fuss it might annoy Dolly. And we have always been so cordial; Margaret was married too young."

"And you were married too young. Now, if you had waited and done without Steve and me, and begun with John—"

There was a twinkle in Doctor Joe's eye.

"I should have begun with the most sensible son," returned his mother; but she could not keep her voice sharp.

"Well, I will look after Hanny and the young man. I think myself that we don't need any more lovers right away."

She knew she could depend on him.

Then they had some anxiety at Ben's, and Delia's mother was away. Aunt Boudinot had her third stroke, and lay insensible for several days, then slipped out of life. Mrs. Underhill was quite surprised with Delia's good sense, as she called it, and really she wasn't such a bad housekeeper for a girl with no training.

There was the funeral, with some of New York's oldest families. Afterward the will was read. Aunt Patty had made a new one on the death of her sister.

There was a small legacy to the niece who had married; a remembrance to several relatives and friends. The use of the house was to be Mrs. Whitney's while she lived; at her death to be sold and divided between her niece, Delia Whitney, and her grand-niece, Eleanora Whitney. And to Delia Whitney, if she took faithful care of her until her death, the sum of five thousand dollars in bank-stock.

She had taken faithful care of her, and would have done it out of the kindness of her heart without any reward.

"I thought it might be a thousand dollars," she said to Ben, "and I made up my mind if it should be that, we would take it and go abroad. I had some savings beside. When Bayard Taylor told us about his tour I felt sure we could do something like it. We would keep out of the expensive tourists' ways, and live cheaply, keeping house when we could. Oh, Ben, won't it be splendid!"

He thought it splendid to have her so generous, but he had some savings as well.

Five thousand dollars was considered quite a legacy in those days; and the bank-stock was worth a good deal more than its face.

Every one said they would be crazy to waste their money in such a frivolous manner.

"I don't mind if I shouldn't ever be rich," declared Ben. "I want a piece of the big world, with its knowledges and wonders. I shouldn't care to live there always, but it broadens one to see what other nations have done; what has made their greatness and what has contributed to their downfall. And the arts and sciences, the mysteries of the East and of Egypt. We are young yet as a country, and we have a right to gather up the riches of experience. I only hope we shall profit by it."

So they planned and planned. Delia looked over the old things, and sent Dolly and Hanny some antiquities of a century or more. Then she packed and boxed hers, for she knew her mother might deal them out to indifferent people. She thought it would be a good plan to hire out the house to some one who would board her mother and Theodore; and presently one of the married sisters, Mrs. Ferris, decided she would come. So then they could plan to go away; and Delia might write her novel while she was abroad.

Meanwhile the summer was slipping away like a dream. The great fair still attracted a large concourse. But September came in, and schools opened. Jim went back to regular study; Charles to the seminary. Hanny had some more schoolmates married. There was another baby at Margaret's; and it was so delightful to go down to Delia's and hear all the plans! Now that Hanny had learned so much at the Crystal Palace, she had quite a longing for churches and museums and art galleries. Herman Andersen had visited so many of them!

Sometimes Daisy Jasper went down with her. Mr. Andersen came for them in the evening. Delia he thought wonderfully bright and entertaining. Ben liked him amazingly.

"But if I had all that money," said Ben, "I wouldn't confine myself to such puttering stuff as silks and laces and India shawls; I should want to do something high up and fine, like a magazine or a paper, that had influence and scope. Some day I mean to own a share in a paper, where you have a chance to touch up public opinion."

Herman Andersen seemed very happy and content. Mr. Jasper said he was going to make a fine, reliable business man. He really felt he wouldn't object to him for a son.

Grandmother Van Kortlandt was growing more feeble, and now and then had a bad spell. Doctor Joe made light of it, and told her red lavender and aromatic hartshorn were good for old ladies. She seemed to want her daughter near her. The young man who had alarmed Mrs. Underhill did not come so frequently, so she began to feel quite safe.

Oh, what a happy, happy summer it had been! The little girl was used to her long frocks, and studied ways of doing her hair, and practised Mendelssohn's "Songs without Words" because some one had said they were the most beautiful things he had ever heard. She and Daisy and Mr. Andersen talked German, and had no end of fun.

One afternoon Mr. Andersen came in.

"Let us go up to the Crystal Palace," he said. "It is the most glorious afternoon imaginable. There is a sort of hazy red gold in the air, that exhilarates one. You feel as if you could soar to heaven's gate."

"We haven't been up in almost a fortnight," said Hanny, laughing.

"The more need of our going now. I enjoy these superb days to the full."

Hanny went to get her hat. Grandmother generally took her nap early in the afternoon. Mother was not in her own room, she saw, as she looked in, so she ran on down. She was not in the kitchen either.

"Joe," she cried—there was no one in the office, and he sat with his legs stretched out, and a book on the table beside him, looking very comfortable,—"Joe, where is mother?"

"Up with grandmother, dear. Don't disturb her. What did you want?"

"Oh, nothing—only to say—we are going up to the fair."

"Very well; run along. You look as sweet as a pink."

A bright color flashed over her face, and settled in her dimple, making it look like a rose as she smiled.

She was putting on her blossom-coloured lace mitts as she entered the room. Some one else thought she looked as sweet as a pink when he rose, and led the way.

She turned down the street.

"Oh, Daisy is not going," he said. "She had a headache all the morning. You don't mind?"

"Oh, no. Poor dear Daisy! And I didn't go in!" Her voice was touched with the sweetest regret and compassion.

Doctor Joe went upstairs presently, to grandmother.

"Her breathing is better," he said. "I have tried a new remedy. When she has had some sleep she will be all right. This isn't quite a normal state yet. Call me if there is any special change."

Then he went down to the office again. People came more in the morning or the evening, and he had attended to his urgent calls. He was glad not to go out just then. But he thought of the young people on their way to the palace of delight. Had he ever been young and joyous, as the youth of to-day? He had studied and worked, taught some, used up all his time, and had none for the passing vagaries. What made him feel old, and as if some of the rarest delights would pass him by?

There was a light tap at the office-door, though it stood ajar. He rose and opened it wider.

"Why, Daisy Jasper!" he cried in amazement. "Or is it your wraith? I thought you had gone to the fair with Hanny."

She had been very pale; now she flushed a little. There was a tremulousness about her, and shadows under her eyes.

"I had a headache all the morning; most of the night as well. It has gone off somewhat, but I didn't feel well enough for that."

"No, of course not." He led her to the pretty library, that was always having a picture or a set of books added. You couldn't put in any more easy-chairs. He placed her in one. As he touched her hand, he felt the feverish tremble.

"My dear child, what is it?"

Her eyes drooped, and tears beaded the lashes.

"You shouldn't have come out. Why did you not send for me?"

"I—I wanted to come. I knew Hanny would be gone. I wanted to see you." She was strangely embarrassed.

He was standing by the side of the chair and took her hand again. How limp and lifeless it seemed!

"I wanted to see you—to ask you, to tell you—oh, how shall I say it!—if you could help me a little. You are so wise, and can think of so many ways—and I am so afraid he loves me—it would not be right—"

Yes, that was it. This bright, charming, well-bred, fortunate young fellow loved her. He could keep her like a little queen. And she had some conscientious scruple about her health, and her trifling lameness, and all. A word from him would keep her where she was. He had carried her in his arms, his little ewe lamb. No man could ever give her the exquisite care that he would be able to bestow. Oh, could he let any one take her out of his life!

Yet some one younger and richer loved her. Yes, he must stand aside.

"My child,"—he would be grave and fatherly,—"I think you are making yourself needless trouble. Why should you refuse a good man's love? You have your beauty, and a gift that is really a genius, and though you may not be as strong as some women, that is no reason why you should deny yourself the choicest blessing of a woman's life."

"But"—she gave a little sob—"I thought you might blame me for being heedless. We have all been such friends. And I don't want anything to mar the perfect pleasantness. I know it is not right because—how can I make you understand! It might wound you if I said it—I think it can never be that kind of love—"

Did he hear aright, or was it some subtle temptation?

"You, of all other women, should be careful not to make a mistake. It would mean more to you afterward—if matters went a little wrong."

"And he is so gay, so full of life and fun, and always wanting one to keep up to the highest pitch. It would not be the right thing for him."

"But he is very gentle as well."

"Dr. Underhill, tell me that it isn't the right step for me to take, ever," Daisy said decisively.

"I cannot tell you any such thing. I will not bar you out of any happiness."

Perhaps he really approved of it. They were all in a way proud of the younger brother. And Jim thought there was no such splendid man in the world as the doctor. Oh, if she only knew! She was heroic enough to please them all for the sake of the past and present friendship. But she had a doubt of Mrs. Underhill's approval. She might give in as she had to Delia; and now she had really begun to find virtues in Ben's wife. But with Jim's brilliant nature always on the alert for amusement, she, Daisy, would be worn out trying to keep up to his standard.

She rose slowly. "I ought not have come," she began in a despondent tone. "I thought I could talk it all over with you; but I must decide, and bear the pain. You may all feel hurt, even if you acknowledge the wisdom of my decision. It would be a delight to come and live with you all; I who have had no brothers or sisters. But I think Jim will soon get over it, especially if you point out the unwisdom of it all. Maybe you will take me back into favour then, when the soreness is spent."

"Jim," he repeated, in a vague, absent sort of way. "Jim! Who are you talking about, Daisy?"

Her face was scarlet, and her eyes full of tears.

"Your brother James. It is a shame, I know, to betray one man's inmost secrets to another. But I am quite sure that I ought not, that I cannot, marry him. Oh, will you all forgive me, and help him to forget all but the friendship?"

She took a step toward the door. The scarlet went out of her face, and she swayed as if her strength was all gone. He caught her, and put her back in the chair.

"Jim!" now in a tone of great surprise, and giving a little incredulous laugh. "Why, I thought it was Herman Andersen."

Joe's heart seemed suddenly to enlarge and fill his whole body. There was a ringing in his ears, as of joy-bells.

"Herman Andersen!" she said composedly. "Oh, have you all been blind? Why, he is in love with Hanny! He came back to America to win her, and he will if he serves seven years."

Doctor Joe looked at her in amaze. Ah, yes, they had been blind. They had fenced out young Peter Beckman, and opened the door wide to this unsuspected lover. And he knew as well as it Hanny had confessed it, that her heart had gone to meet his on the magic sea of love, and they would come into port no longer twain, but one.

He sat down on the broad arm of the chair. He could see Daisy's long agitated breaths quiver through her body; and she looked tired and spent. Poor little girl!

"No, I had never thought of Jim," he began gravely, "because he is so fond of girls; a general worshipper. Not but what he might be very true and devoted to one. He seems so young yet. Daisy,"—his voice fell,—"did he ask you—"

Her head drooped a little, and her shining curls hid her face.

"Oh, do believe that when I thought of it first I did try to evade, to—to laugh him out of it. That was a month ago. He kept saying little things I would not heed or seem to understand. It has been such a gay, happy summer for us all! And there was Charlie's engagement. Last evening mamma and papa had gone out to call on a friend, and we were quite alone—"

How much was volatile temperament and the love of pursuit, and how much the deeper regard? Let him do his young brother justice.

"Charlie is young, to be sure, but he is a very steady-minded fellow, and his mother's and Tudie's death brought them together in a very sympathetic manner. Then Charles is about certain of a good position. Jim has his fortune all to make. And you are right about some other qualities. Herman Andersen would be a much better companion for you. Jim is strong and energetic, full of life, and will always be among the busy bustling things, and deep in excitements. He would wear you out."

"And don't you see that when he is five or six and twenty he will need something better than an invalid wife, who might have to go to bed with a headache when he was giving an important dinner, or having a brilliant sort of evening with some stylish guests? He ought to have a wife something like Mrs. Hoffman, who would help him to the finest things of life. And though I seem well, I shall never be real strong; and I do not care for grand society. I like a good deal of quiet and ease, and just everyday living, a little painting when I feel inspired, a little reading and talks with friends, and old-fashioned music. I sometimes feel as if I was an old girl, and ought to have lived a century ago. Perhaps I shall make a queer, stuffy old woman. And—I ought not to marry."

"You shall not give up the divine right," he made answer, earnestly.

"Oh, I have a pretty face just now, and people, I find, do admire beauty. But that will fade." Then she sprang up suddenly, parted her long ringlets, and stood with her back to him. "See," and her voice trembled, he knew there were tears in her eyes, "I have a little crook in my back, and one high shoulder. There has to be half an inch of cork in one boot-sole to keep me straight and from limping. No, I shouldn't do for a handsome young man like Jim, for I may grow lamer and crookeder as I grow older; nor for any man, although you try to comfort me with an almost divine compassion."

She was sobbing in his arms then. It was not the first time she had wept out her sorrow there.

He raised the golden head a little, and kissed down amid the passionate tears that were sweeping away a kind of regret that sometimes haunted her. He had kissed her often as a little child, but rarely since her return from abroad. Her girlhood had been a quality fine and rare and sacred to him.

"Except the one man who has always loved you from the poor little child in her pitiful pain and anguish, and the little girl who began to take courage and face the world, the larger girl who was brave and sunny-hearted, and looked out with hopeful eyes on the world that had so many blessings. And he knows now that no skill can ever shut out all suffering; but his sympathy and tender affection will help her through years that may be weary and sorrowful, and endure with her whatever burden comes, make her pathway easy and pleasant and restful."

"Oh, you must not," she cried, with a pang of renunciation. "Whatever applies to another man applies with double force to you. You are so noble, so tender; so worthy of what is best in life! And you have to carry so many burdens for other people that you must have some one brave and strong and full of energy and in perfect health—"

"The woman I love will be better than all this to me," he returned, with a sweetness in his voice that went to her very heart, and brought the tears to her eyes again. Then he dropped down in the great chair and took her gently in his arms, and he knew his case was as good as won.

"When you were a little girl you once said to Hanny if you could have a brother out of the clan you would like it to be me. And for days the quaint, generous little soul could hardly resolve whether it was not her duty to give me away. Then don't you remember you both planned to come and keep my bachelor-home? Some one else will take her. And we will wait, dear. We will go on in the same friendly, kindly fashion. You must run in and out and come to me with your headaches and perplexities, and I shall scold you a little and give you a bitter tonic; and when everything is just right I shall ask you to marry me; but all the time I shall be loving you so much that it will be impossible for you to refuse me. So you know what is in store, and no one need trouble about the future. You are not engaged, you are quite free; and, like Ben, I will wait seven years or twenty years for you. But I think you never can belong to any one else."

Ah, what delightful security!

"Dear, dear Doctor Joe. Oh, it would be too much happiness! No, I ought not; mamma thinks I ought not to marry. And," raising her head and showing a face full of scarlet flushes and tears, and eyes shining with love's own light, "it looks just as if I had come in here and really asked you to marry me. We have forgotten all about poor Jim. You will think me a coquette, and you ought to despise me."

His clasp tightened a little.

"I am sorry that Jim should have been so heedless. Perhaps it will be better to let him learn how much in earnest you are with your refusal. It may not be flattering to a young girl to think a man will forget her."

"But I want him to forget that part," she interrupted eagerly.

"I think he will. And if he comes to me for comfort, I will try to be a wise father-confessor. And yet I can't help pitying the man a little who will lose you. Only in this case it would be like having an exotic without a conservatory, and not quite knowing how to build one."

"Joseph!" his mother called from upstairs.

Daisy sprang up and smoothed her ruffled plumes, Joe gave her one long, dear kiss, and she flashed out of the little room.

She held her head very high. It was the most splendid thing that could happen to a girl; but she was not going to spoil her dear Doctor Joe's life.

Are there days that the Lord of all the earth has created for love? Some days seem made especially for sorrow. But this had such an exquisite serenity brooding in the air. It was not late enough to have any regrets for the passing of summer, and oh, what a summer it had been!

"Do you really want to go up to the fair?" Herman Andersen had asked, when they reached the corner.

"Why,—" Hanny hesitated,—"we have seen it a good many times," and she gave her soft, rippling laugh.

"Let us go over to Tompkin's Square." He had something to say to her that would be easier said in those deserted walks. You could always find them except on Saturday or Sunday.

"Very well," with her graceful assent.

The birds, done with their summer housekeeping and child-rearing, had time to sing again. But it was all low, plaintive songs, as if they said: "We must go away from the place in which we have been so happy. Will we be sure to come another spring?" Now and then a branch stirred. The grass had been cut for the last time, and there were sweet little winrows that filled the air with fragrance. He was quiet, for he liked to hear her enchanting talk. It had turned upon when she was a little girl, and how queer things were! It didn't seem as if everything could change so. And what a great gay time they had at the Beekmans' when Stephen was married! So they walked around, and were at an entrance. A cabman put down a woman and some children just as Mr. Andersen had said, "We were going up there some day, you know; we ought to go before everything has faded."

"Yes," she made answer.

"See here, we might get this cab and go up now"—looking up with eager inquiry.

Dickens had not created Mr. Wemmick with his delightful off-hand premeditated happenings; but other people had them even then.

She made no demur, but assented with her innocent eyes full of exquisite sweetness.

He helped her in and sat along side of her. He had all kinds of young lover-like thoughts, and really he so seldom had her alone. He wanted to snatch up the hand and kiss it. It made such a tempting background for the lace mitt. No one but old ladies wore gloves, except on very fine occasions. And her slim little fingers, with their pink nails, were so pretty! If he could even hold her hand!

But they jolted over rough streets, through little clumps of Irish villages, and laughed over the pigs, and geese, and children. Then wastes again, with long, straight lines where streets were to be.

"That is the house over there," she said.

"I wonder if you could walk back? Or shall I keep the cab?"

"Oh, no. It is so delightful to walk!"

Ah, how the hand of improvement had disfigured everything! leaving ugly, square, naked blocks, with here and there a house, then a space where the trees were still standing; but the children despoiled the lilacs and dogwood in the spring, and thrashed the lindens and black walnuts all the later summer, until the poor things had a weary, drooping aspect. Over here was the great garden, and a street ran through it. The old house was shabby, and needed painting; and most of the vines had been cut away. The steps were broken. Several families inhabited it now. The cousin had thrown it up in disgust.

But the young man saw it through her eyes, glorified with the glamour of childhood. Slim young Dolly, Aunt Gitty netting, the ladies in rocking-chairs with their sewing under the trees, Mr. Beckman and Katschina, and the tea on little tables; and the boys she was afraid of.

"They were such pudgy little boys," she says, with a laugh in which there is only a remembered mirth. "They were like some of Irving's descriptions. You wouldn't expect them to grow up into such fine-looking men, now, would you? I think Peter is almost handsome."

It gives him a little twinge. He was jealous of Peter awhile ago; but he admits bravely that Peter is very good-looking.

And here are some poor willows. Oh, the lovely shrubbery that is neglected and dying!

"After all, it is the people who give the charm to places,—the loving care, the home delight. But no one could keep it up. Property gets too valuable, and taxation is too high; and there are so many poorer people who must have homes."

These sententious bits of wisdom he considers utterly charming. She has caught them from John.

Then they sit down on a great stone and rest, though she protests she is not tired. She can walk for hours.

Now he ought to tell her all that is in his heart. If the world stands thousands of years there will never be such a golden opportunity again. She breaks off a bit of yarrow and sticks it in her belt. How beautifully the lashes droop over her eyes, deepening and softening the tint, until it looks like a glint of heaven!

"Oh, we ought to go on," she says presently; and with a dainty smile and motion, she rises. Ah, if she knew what he is wild to utter!

They turn their steps homeward. A wood-robin in a thicket sings, "Sweet, sweet, I love you, I l-o-v-e you," with a maddening, lingering cadence.

Why is he not as brave as the bird? Are there any choicer, more exquisite words in which to say it?

They come to a little stream. "Oh, just down here is Kissing Bridge," she says, with a kind of girlish gleefulness.

She had made her father tell the old Dutch story one evening, when they were all sitting on the stoop. And as they go on, she, with a sort of eager, heedless step, as if she was not walking on his heart, tells about Stephen, and how he jumped out of the carriage and gathered a great bunch of roses for her. They have reached the spot. The stream has shrunken. You could step over it.

"They were just there." She indicates the spot with a pretty gesture of her head. "But there are no wild-roses now;" and a soft sigh escapes her, as she turns to him, and their eyes meet.

"Are there none?" he asks, his eyes drinking in the sudden radiance. For if ever dainty, delicate, ethereal wild-roses bloomed, they are in her cheeks; and oh, what are her scarlet lips that have meant to answer, and are mysteriously tranfixed with the rarest sweetness!

He kisses her—once, a dozen times. There is no one near. They own the city,—the whole world, for love is Lord of all.

He slips her hand in his arm. Its tremble thrills every nerve in his body. He experiences the overwhelming joy of possessorship, for she is his.

"My darling little Nan;" and his voice is unsteady with emotion.

He has rechristened Baby Stevie's pet name; but it has never sounded so enchanting before.

Then they walk on in delicious silence. Another bird sings in a drowsy afternoon tone,—

"Sweet, sweet, I love you, I l-o-v-e you."

They glance at each other, and both translate it. Her cheeks are redder than wild-roses now; and her dimple holds the sweetness of a great mystery. They both smile, and he kisses her again. Why not? There is no one about.

"My darling, can you guess when I first began to love you?" He wants her to know all the story. It seems as if his whole life will not be long enough to get it told and he must begin at once.

"When?" There is a startled sound in her voice, as if she was amazed that love had a beginning.

"That night in the dance,—the Spanish dance. We will go somewhere this winter and dance it over again; and the music beats will say—'I love you.'"

"Oh, so long ago?" she exclaims.

"Yes; and I have a visiting-card of yours." He hunts in his card-case. "Here it is—'Miss Nan Underhill.' I've kissed it thousands of times. I have almost worn it out. And when I went home I told my father about the little girl in New York that I must come back and win."

"Oh, did you!" She is touched by the revelation.

"He is a delightful father. Some time I must take you over to see him, or he may come here. But he had promised that I should go to Ebberfeld; and so I did. The aunt had proposed the match."

"And your poor cousin!" Her voice is full of such infinite pity that he gives the little hand a tender pressure for thanks.

"I couldn't have loved her anyhow. She seems older than I; and I am a very boy in heart. Then she was too large. I like little women."

"I am so glad," she cries, with unaffected joy, "for I am small; and I never can grow any larger. But I don't mind now."

"So when my father found how much in earnest I was, he planned the business change. It was my own mother's money, you know. But he has been a good father to me, and I am glad he has some other children. I was to go to Paris."

That seems so magnificent she is almost conscience smitten.

Ah, how much there is to say!

"But you will get tired with all this long walk," he exclaims anxiously. Oh, blessed thought! he will have the right to keep her rested and happy, and in a realm of joy.

"Oh, no," she returns. "Why, the walk has not seemed long." The surprise in her voice is enchanting.

Is any walk ever too long for love? Is any day too long,—even all of life?

The crickets and peeps come out; a locust drones his slow tune. The sun has dropped down. Well, they are in an enchanted country that needs no sun but that of love. And if they walked all night they could not say all that has been brought to light by the mighty touch that wakes human souls.

At home grandmother's difficult breathing has returned, and they have had a troubled hour. But now she is all right, except that she will be weaker to-morrow. Mrs. Underhill goes downstairs and bustles about the supper as a relief from the strain. She makes a slice of delicately-browned toast. Joe comes rushing in.

"I'm sorry, but the servant at the Dentons has cut her hand badly. Don't wait supper for me," he exclaims.

"Jim has not come in, and no one can tell when those children will be back. If the fair should keep open three months longer every one will be dead with fatigue. Yes, we'll wait. I am going to take some toast up to mother."

"The children!" Doctor Joe has a strange, guilty sort of feeling. What if to-night should bring her a new son, as some future night will bring her a new daughter?

Father Underhill sits on the front stoop reading his paper. He glances up now and then. When he espies a small figure in soft gray with a wide-brimmed leghorn hat, and a young man, he studies them more attentively. What is this? She has the young man's arm,—that has gone out of date for engaged people,—and her head inclines toward him. She glances up and smiles.

And then a great pang rends the father's soul. They come nearer, and she smiles to him; but, oh! there is a light in her face, a gladness shining in her eyes, a tremulous sweetness about the mouth. Did he read all this in her mother's face years and years ago? Did her mother have this awful pang that seems to wrench body and soul asunder?

They say good-evening and that it has been a glorious afternoon. The young man will lose no time,—hasn't he been dangling three months already?

"Mr. Underhill, may I see you a moment?"

How brave and sweet and assured the voice is! And he helps the little girl up the steps, through the hall space, and the three stand in the parlour, where the young man prefers his request with such a daring that the elder man is almost dazed. Then the father holds out his arms as if he was grasping for something lost. She comes to them, and her head is on his breast, her hands reaching up to clasp him about the neck.

"And this little girl, too!"

His voice is broken, his face goes down to hers. The sweetest thing of his life,—how can he give her up?

"Oh, father, father!" The cry is so entreating, so piteous, and he feels the tears on her sweet face. "Oh, father, can I not love you both?"

She loosens one hand and holds it out to the young man. He feels the motion, and accepts the fact that her heart is divided. She draws her lover in the circle. "You will love him for my sake."

Alas! alas! she is his little girl no longer. She is another man's sweetheart, and will one day be his wife. It is the fashion in this world; it has God's favor and sanction.



CHAPTER XXII

1897

All that was long ago. It is nearing the end of the century, and the little girl who thought it a great thing to see the half-century mark, bids fair to shake hands with the new one. There have been many changes, there have been sorrows and deaths, and such exquisite satisfying happiness that she could say with the poet,—

"Let come what come may I shall have had my day."

She is in the older generation now, and a grandmother. You may see her in Central Park, or some of the surburban places, a fair, sweet small personage, with a face more nearly beautiful than in her girlhood. Her hair has that shining silvery tint, her complexion is clear and fine, and her eyes, though they have wept bitter tears, still look out gladly, serenely, on life.

In the carriage will be her twin granddaughters, and sometimes a young man, her son. They are pretty children, and will be "summer girls" when their time comes, and "winter girls" as well, clad in cloth and velvet and furs. They will dance Germans instead of the bewildering Spanish dance she had that first night with her lover. Even children have changed in half a century. Beauty is no longer considered a delusion and a snare. Physical culture gives strength and grace and growth.

The lover of her youth and the husband of her love, and her first-born daughter, who was wedded, and who with her husband faced a railroad tragedy and were its victims, have gone into that "goodly land and large." It seems to many of us as we grow older that there is only a thin wall between this and the other country where we shall see them again. Sometimes she can almost fancy them leaning over the jasper walls, like the Blessed Damosel, and smiling down on her. There are so many of them now! And the children were given to her. They are spoiled, all the aunts and cousins declare. But grandmamma lives another youth over in them,—a delightful life, rich in love and interest.

For conditions have changed. The world, and all that therein is, has changed. It is Greater New York now, and it stretches out everywhere. What was Brooklyn, and Williamsburg, and many a pretty town up above the city, have all been merged into one grand metropolis. What it will do in the next fifty years passes conjecture.

As they drive around nothing interests them more than to have grandmamma talk of what it was like when she was a little girl. They find the places, and look at them through her eyes. There is no longer any Bowling-Green, only in name, and though part of the Battery is left, the elevated roads go winding about among the tree-tops; Castle Garden, after many vicissitudes and debasements, is again a place of interest and entertainment. Here was where she heard that sweet and wonderful Jenny Lind, who, with Parepa Rosa, and many another divine voice, is singing up in the New Jerusalem. And though hundreds in the glare of light and blaze of diamonds listen to Patti, she wonders if the enthusiasm is as deep and sincere.

Over opposite where modest Brooklyn lived its simple, friendly life fifty years ago, stretching out into country ways and green fields, there are miles of houses, and the great bridge is such an everyday affair one hardly gives it a second thought. And all is business now, with tall buildings that the glance can hardly reach. There is no City Hall Park, but a great space of flagging, though the fountain remains. Business crowds hurry to and fro where ladies used to sit and chat while the young people strolled about.

Stewart's old marble building is common-place and dingy. Delmonico has gone on up-town stride by stride, and people have forgotten the old balcony where Jenny Lind sang, and Koenig played to a street packed with people. And the Prince de Joinville was here; also Louis Napoleon, the nephew of his uncle, who followed his steps as Emperor and loser of crown and all, and exile. And the young Prince Imperial, whose birth, so long desired and celebrated with state as was that of the young King of Rome, met with as melancholy a fate and early death as the Duc de Reichstadt. And here the young Prince of Wales dined. He came down Broadway with his suite and procession, and the little wife thought it a fine sight as she stood there to see.

Broadway stretches on and on. Union Square is really a thoroughfare; but she came up here with father and the boys when it was a grand new thing.

Did she really live in First Street with Aunt Daisy for a playmate, and Auntie Reed, and Nora, who was a much admired singer in her day, and who married a Roman Count; and the little Tudie who died? Did she have that splendid Christmas and the beautiful wax doll, that seems sacredly alive to them both; only under some spell of enchantment laid upon her by Merlin's clan?

Oh, how full the streets are now with their great high tenement-houses, pouring out their myriads of children all day long, of every nationality! But you still hear the old plays, "Open the Gates," and "Scotland's Burning," and "Uncle John is very Sick," and "Ring around a Rosy." Little Sally Waters still sits in the sun,—

"Crying and sighing for a young man,"

though modern poesy advises her to—

"Rise, Sally, rise, Wipe your eyes out with your frock."

And the strange Chinatown, with its cabalistic signs, its men in blue shirts and pigtails, and often snowy white stockings and queer pointed slippers!

They wind slowly about Central Park. Was the Crystal Palace here? And no park? To them it seems as if New York must have been born this way, with electric lights, and push-buttons, and telephones, and cars, and telegraphs, and everything. And did grandmamma come up here to the Fair; and was it anything like the Museum of Art? And wasn't there any menagerie, or playground, or donkey-riding or bicyclers?

Here is Washington Arch, with its memory of a great anniversary. Over on the west side there is a curious spot fenced in with wooden palings, where Alexander Hamilton planted thirteen trees for the Union, when there were only thirteen States, and named them all. Even before his sad death, South Carolina was braced to keep her from growing crooked; but she went awry in spite of it all. They have moved the house in which he lived, across the street, to save it from destruction; and it is in the shadow of a church. And here is the old mansion where Aaron Burr lived a brief while with Madame Jumel for his wedded wife,—a beautiful old place on a hill.

They go on up to the grand Washington Bridge. They are very fond of the story of Anthony Woolf swimming across the Harlem that dark night to get away from the Hessian regiment, and begging shelter of kindly hearts. They turn into a shaded road, and pass by lovely grounds, where wealth has made gardens and terraces akin to those of Paradise. And winding down the old road leading to the vale, they find a little dark-eyed girl whose great-great-grandfather was this same Anthony Woolf. And the Revolutionary War was a century and a quarter ago! Here they have lived for generations. The Cousin Jennie has gone, but the tall bright-eyed man who married her is still hale and hearty, with snowy hair and beard.

Yes, it is all New York up to Kingsbridge. There are many historic spots, and several old manor houses still standing. But it has a city aspect in spite of some wildness. They go around to Fordham; the old house perched on the hill is there, though it has been enlarged, and the street widened and straightened. Up on the old porch grandmamma sat and read; and it still hangs out with a tempting aspect, just as when she watched the pedestrians and the reverend fathers, who yet go up and down. And here is the little old Poe Cottage, about which such a flavor of romance lingers, though the place has been modernised into a "Terrace," and built about with city pretentiousness. It is still the same little low place, not a bit changed since she sat there on the door-sill and talked over her heroes with the poet. She can still see the tall spare figure of Mrs. Clemm in her rocking-chair doing her bit of mending and casting anxious glances at the son of her love, about whom so much has been written in later days. People still quote the "Raven" and "Ullalume," but all she cares to remember is "Annabel Lee," and the weird stories are not to her taste.

The old Odell house at West Farms was swept away long ago; Janey is a grandmother on a big farm that is crowded with summer boarders. Polly is in Oregon, her sons coming up with the country. And up a short distance, Jerome Park used to be thronged by the beauty and fashion of the city on racing days. And that has gone, too.

A little to the eastward is the beautiful Bronx Park, that is going to tread closely on its down-town rival. Oh, is Central Park really down-town? There are woods and wilds, ravines and the leisurely stream, trees that have been brought from everywhere, walks and drives, hills clothed with verdure, and the old Lorillard mansion still grand, with its legend of love and tragedy. Its gardens have changed indeed. Grandmamma remembers the small old man, who used to gather his rose leaves day by day from the fragrant beds,—Lorillard's rose-snuff was a great thing two generations ago.

"Did they really take snuff?" asks Ethel, in disgust. "How queer!"

"And you know," says Rose, "that Uncle Herman told us of a man who declined to take snuff, because if nature had intended his nose for a dust-pan, she would have put it the other side up."

How they both laugh at that!

They have a governess friend at home, but they are continually picking up knowledge in their rides and rambles about. They know the old city that was afraid to stray above Union Square, they know the modern city with its fifty years of improvements, and they will grow up to womanhood in Greater New York, the Star City of the Continent.

Here in one of the pleasant streets overlooking the park, they live. They are not rich; no one is now who doesn't go up in the millions. There is a pretty house looking like a hotel, an apartment house,—very moderate since it only accommodates three families. Joseph, the eldest son, who should have been a doctor, but is a fine architect, is married, and with his wife and two babies, and a dear friend who is an artist, has one side, and the other is grandmamma's. It is quite like a house by themselves, only there is a beautiful square hall, and a handsome stairway one could hardly have space for in a small house. Herman, the second son, lives with them, and is a scientist, and wields the pen of a ready writer. He has no taste for the toil and moil of money-getting,—a refined, studious, thoughtful young man.

They have all had their share of happiness. Dolly and Stephen are really old people, and have a flock of grandchildren. Hanny can see her own father again in Stephen, and Dolly, since she has grown stout and white-haired, suggests her mother. Stephen's sons are promising young business-men. There is only one little grave marking their prosperous pathway,—a baby girl, who went so soon they have hardly missed her.

Margaret is still handsome and aristocratic. Dr. Hoffman long ago gave up practice, his property interests increased so rapidly. Their sons and daughters are of the higher society order, intellectual, fine and noble, and a power in the land. One daughter has married an Englishman of rank, the other is the wife of a Bishop. Margaret is serene and satisfied, and still very fond of her little sister.

Dear Doctor Joe lectures mostly, and attends to hospital surgery, still keeping his tender sympathy for suffering humanity. After Grandmother Van Kortlandt went away, he brought Daisy Jasper home, to help fill the vacant spaces. And presently, when Mrs. Jasper was left alone, she came, too, the house being so large. Two mothers-in-law, according to the rules of family lore, ought to have quarrelled and sulked, but they didn't. And the babies that came were a source of delight. Though there was suffering in Daisy's life, there was so much joy that, to her, it was the unalloyed delight of living.

And Jim outgrew his fancy, and had many another one that did not strike deep enough in the soil to lead him to ask a woman to marry him. But he and Daisy were fast friends, and he saw that no one could ever have cared for her as well and wisely as dear Doctor Joe, with his wonderful tenderness.

Jim, brilliant and gay and witty, was a fine, fluent speaker, studying such eloquent models as Webster and Choate, and the vanished Clay. Did Hanny remember, when they had lost his election, and he, Jim, had turned out with the Democratic boys? There are grave questions now, on wider than party lines, and sometimes the hearts of thoughtful statesmen beat with an undefined fear.

The fun-loving, dancing side of his nature often asserts itself. Women adore him. Though he is not rich, the mothers smile on him for the "promise yet to be." Even Lily Williamson tries her arts; admiration is what she lives for now. She is one of the handsome, fascinating society vampires, who make great capital out of matrimonial infelicities, to appeal to the sympathies of really good and generous men, who are the more easily caught in the silken nets. One day she leaves her worthless drunken husband, when his money is all spent, and elopes with a young fellow of excellent family who has just come into a fortune, and later becomes one of the adventuresses that disgrace Americans in the eyes of European propriety.

Ben and Delia go abroad,—Ben in the interest of his paper, which is next to his wife; Delia to write travel letters for a weekly, and find material for her novel. It is quite a picnic, and they enjoy the economies.

Then the clouds that have been gathering a long, long while, break over the country, and all is tumult from end to end. The Seventh Regiment "boys" go down to Washington, with brave, laughing, high-hearted Jim, who understands that it is no child's play, but a bitter struggle that will call forth the best energies of the country, and who enlists for "three years or the whole war." Ben hurries home, and takes his place in the ranks. When things are at their lowest ebb, and men's hearts are sinking with fear, quiet, grave John buckles on a soldier's haversack and marches away. The others have substitutes.

Ah, what times they were! It is well that flowers can spring up on a battlefield. The little girl keeps track of her heroes. Kearny, who has seen Magenta and Solferino, meets his fate at Chantilly. Many another one who has come up to fame, many new ones, who are on the march to win or die.

John is wounded, patched up in a hospital, and honorably discharged, lamed for life. But he has done good work. Ben has a slight mishap, and Delia sends her two babies and their nurse to her sister's, and goes to the hospital, and remains. Women of brains and kindly impulses are much needed.

And one night some wounded are brought in. There has been a fateful reconnoisance, but it has saved the regiment from destruction on the next day. This limp figure in a captain's uniform is laid tenderly on a cot; but the surgeon, after a brief examination, shakes his head. Oh, surely, she knows that handsome face with the clustering dark curls!

He opens his eyes, and after an instant says in a faint voice, "Oh, Dele, is that you?" then lapses into insensibility. There is nothing to be done; that is the cruelest of all. Once again, after a long while, he moves his head, and opens his eyes again, brave and clear even in death.

"Delia," in a strange, strong voice that surprises her, "kiss them all good-night for me;" and James Odell Underhill has gone to the land of everlasting morning.

The war ends; and Ben comes home none the worse. He has reached his ambition, and is a "newspaper man" in every sense of the word. Delia sets up housekeeping, takes home the babies, and in the course of time adds two more to them.

But there is another ferment, and women are coming to the fore. There are clubs and suffrage meetings, lectures; women have even invaded churches, and preach; and colleges for higher education are springing up everywhere. There are poets and philosophers, there are teachers and orators; some of them ill-judged, because they are fond of notoriety; but there are always some wry sheep in the best of flocks. Have men always been honest and wise and honourable and grand?

Delia lectures and writes, and is one of the able women of the day. Mrs. Hoffman on her serene heights is mortified. Mother Underhill is sure Ben has to go to a restaurant, that his stockings are never mended, his buttons always off. But patent buttons are invented, and collar-buttons that cannot be ironed off by the "washerwoman," supply a long-felt want. Ben is stout and comfortable-looking, and the same grave, affectionate fellow. The children seem to come up without much sickness or trouble. When Mother Underhill feels disposed to cavil and criticise, for she is shocked by the new woman's heresies, she recalls the "last good-night kiss," and is silent. What if there had been no one at hand to bring it home?

Delia's girls grow up into "modern women." It is true they do not spend half a day a week darning stockings, neither have they learned to put the exquisite over and under darns in tablecloths that the little girl could do by the time she was ten. But they sing and play; they are ready speech-makers, and clubs are glad to get them. They know about Greek antiquities and Central American wonders; they can take up the questions of the day intelligently; one paints really very well, and has entered pictures at the Academy. One is interested in industrial schools for girls, and the doctor, who is "Daisy Jasper," a tall, bright, good-looking woman, has a big, tender heart for all babies who are suffering, and trains many a poor mother how to care judiciously for her offspring.

But all the nieces think Aunt Nan just the loveliest and sweetest body in the world. They send her flowers and bric-a-brac; they beg her to come here and there to receptions and charity bazaars, and reunions of all sorts. She is so small and dainty, and they are all growing up to the new stature.

George has come home at last, after varying fortunes. He has seen San Francisco built and destroyed by fire, and rebuilt, and at last planned into a handsome city. He has mined and been in the wild life known only to the few remaining "forty-niners." He has gained and lost, been burned out and robbed, been one of the heads of a Vigilance Committee, and mayor of a town; and at last, when all is serene and prosperous, a great wave of homesickness overtakes him.

It is twenty years since he went away, though he has been home once in the time. He is spare, and has a weather-beaten look, and is old for his years. Is the money worth all the sacrifice?

He will build a house on their part of the old farm at Yonkers, where his heart has turned in many a weary hour; but Uncle Faid and Aunt Crete are dead. Barton Finch and Retty are living in town, and Barton is a thriving manufacturer. Yonkers has stretched out; and the suburbs are in that ugly transition state of new unworked streets and dingy cottages, for property has been cut up and lots sold cheaply. Father Underhill is offered a great price for his, and sells it. It is no longer George's ideal home.

Mrs. Eustis begs him to come up to Tarrytown. All the other Morgans are gone, and she is left alone. The place shall belong to George if he will give her a home her few remaining years.

He will not listen to this, but buys it, and builds on a new part. Then he marries a nice girl whose youth is past, and who is delighted with her kindly, indulgent husband. They have no children; but the nieces and nephews flock hither for rest and recreation, and are always fascinated with Uncle George's adventures.

Delia is at middle life when she writes her book, but then it is no young girl's story with an imperious Rochester-like hero, that we used to shiver over and adore. It is a serious, inspiriting woman's book, and carries weight in spite of the flood of new literature.

Charles Reed has followed a manly, pure, and high-minded Christian course, and left an impress on the hurrying world. Josie has grown broader and more intelligent, and made a delightful household mother. There have been children enough to satisfy Grandmamma Reed.

These old friends meet now and then, and talk as people will when they begin to go down the decline on the other side of the hill that they climbed with such a light step and high heart. How simple life was then compared with the ramifications of to-day!

The old songs, the old poets, the old novelists are gone. "Jane Eyre" no longer holds us spell-bound, though the three sisters in the bleak old Haworth Rectory will never be forgotten; nor that strange "Rosemary," and Huntingdon's "Lady Alice," thought to be so unsettling to the faith. We read "Robert Elsmere," and "John Ward, Preacher," and go our way tranquilly. Education has become almost a synonym for genius.

The gold of the Pacific Coast, the oil wells, the rich spoils of the earth, have been touched with the wand of industry and science. Railroads run to and fro; vessels dot the ocean; we cross it now in less than a week. Cables bring us hour-old news from everywhere. We go abroad for seasons and touch elbows with royalty, and are not abashed. We gather the beauty and wisdom of the old world. We build palaces, and spend on an evening's entertainment what would have been a fortune fifty years ago. We have private palace-cars, and luxurious yachts for pleasure, and others for speed, so swift that the "America's Cup" has remained in our keeping all these years.

Will we presently utter the old cry of the wise man who "gat him everything," "that all is vanity"?

When the children are asleep the little grandmother goes down to her son's study. He is not ambitious for show or wealth, but he has a rather luxurious side. The rugs are soft; the chairs are easy, the library is filled with choice books. Sometimes she sits and reads, and brave old Thackeray is one of her favourites. It is as her lover said,—it takes years and experience to see all the tender, hidden mysteries of his best speech.

Then she puts aside her book, and he his work, and they talk. "What your father said" and "your father thought this way," always has a charm for him, and he misses his father more than any one can imagine. He knows about the trip to Germany, and the visit to grandfather, with Paris at its highest estate and the beautiful Empress Eugenie. And London with its Queen, who has reigned sixty years, and who, like his mother, has made part of the pilgrimage with a great sorrow buried in her heart. Some day he is going over it all; but he will not see the handsome, golden-haired empress, who is but a pale, sorrowful ghost, and perhaps not the Queen. He would go to-morrow, if he could take the little mother.

They talk, too, of the future. There have been fifty magical years when you look back,—years of discovery, of perfection in art and invention, of nations making rapid strides, of Africa illumined by explorers, of Japan coming to the front when hardly fifty years have elapsed since she first opened her gates to strangers.

And of the great City that has gathered the little towns of children who went out from her again in her arms,—will she be beautiful and grand and wise, and a power among men and cities? She has gathered heroes, living and dead, in her bosom, and for the greatest of all reared a marble temple. Oh, what will she be in fifty more years?

"You may live to see it," the little mother says, and smiles.

For herself there is the other country, and the loves she holds most dear. And because they go, when the worst sorrow is spent, one knows they will be found again, and that immortality is no myth, but the crown and seal of God's love to human love.

THE END

* * * * *

The "Little Girl" Series

By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS

In Handsome Cloth Binding

A Little Girl in Old New York

A Little Girl of Long Ago A sequel to "A Little Girl in Old New York"

A Little Girl in Old Boston

A Little Girl in Old Philadelphia

A Little Girl in Old Washington

A Little Girl in Old New Orleans

A Little Girl in Old Detroit

A Little Girl in Old St Louis

A little Girl in Old Chicago

A Little Girl in Old San Francisco

A Little Girl in Old Quebec

A Little Girl in Old Baltimore

A Little Girl in Old Salem

A Little Girl in Old Pittsburg

A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS 52, 58 Duane Street New York

THE END