It seemed hard that a creature like this should have her youth burdened with any secret; it was scarcely wonderful that she grew impatient and spoke harshly to Elizabeth when she insisted upon forcing trouble on her mind, which left to itself she was able, out of the very shallowness of her nature, to throw aside so completely.

Wrong and cruel it seemed in Elizabeth to burden her thus—she should have kept Elsie aloof from all domestic mysteries, whatever they might be, and have borne her sorrow, her fears, perhaps her remorse, alone. It was not easy to tell from her face or her words all that lay back of her half-uttered despair. But she should have endured in silence things to be held as far away from Elsie's joyousness and Elsie's youth as the deep undercurrent of her character was apart from the bird-like blitheness which made the girl so pleasant. Thus the world would have judged had they seen these women standing there together.



CHAPTER XXVII.

COURTSHIP IN THE KITCHEN.

While they were still seated at the luncheon-table the door opened, and Dolf came in with a flourish of bows to report his return to the master.

"So, there you are, Dolf," said Mr. Mellen, carelessly. "Did you lose half the letters I gave you to deliver?"

Dolf drew himself up with a great deal of dignity.

"Master knows I'se trusty as Solomon's seal," he said. "De'pistles is safe in de honorable hands for which dey was originally intended."

"I'm glad they went off at the right moment," said Elsie, laughing.

Dolf rather missed her play upon his mispronunciation of the word, but he gave another magnificent flourish.

"Jes so, Miss Elsie; you've 'spressed it beautiful."

"How do you do, Dolf?" asked Mrs. Mellen, kindly, rousing herself from the abstraction into which she had fallen while Elsie and her brother had been chatting together. "Are you glad to get back?"

"I'se ebery reason to be satisfactory with my health, and am much 'bliged by de 'quiry," replied 'Dolf, with a bow so profound that it seemed by a miracle he recovered his balance, "I'se bery glad to see de ole place again, Miss Mellen, and de faces of yerself and young Miss Elsie is like de sunshine to me."

"Bless me, Dolf," cried Elsie, "that's poetry."

Dolf gave a deprecatory wave of the hand, as if the poetry had been unavoidable, and a smile which insinuated that he was capable of still higher flights of fancy, as he said:

"Mebbe, mebbe, Miss Elsie—I didn't reserve partic'lar—dese tings takes a pusson onawares mostly."

"Now, Dolf," said his master, "try and put my things in some sort of order before the day is over."

"Yes, marster; ebery ting dat's wanting shall be toppermost."

Elsie laughed unrestrainedly, but Dolf only took that as a compliment, and was immensely satisfied with the impression he had produced.

"Don't get up another flirtation with the cook," she said; "she is old enough to be your mother, so old that she's growing rich with hoarding, Dolf."

Dolf bowed himself out of the room with much ceremony, and took his way straight towards the lower regions. His brain had always formed numerous projects on the strength of Clorinda's wealth, and he felt it incumbent upon him to have an interview as soon as possible with this elderly heiress.

He came upon her in the kitchen hall; she was walking upright as a ramrod with a large tin dish-pan in her hands, and looking forbidding as if she had been the eldest daughter of Erebus.

"Dat's de time o' day," thought Dolf; "she is parsimmony just now and no mistake, but here goes for de power of 'suasion."

He made her a bow which flattered the sable spinster into a broad smile, and almost made her drop the dish-pan, in the flutter of her delight.

"Dolf, Dolf, am dat you?" she exclaimed, growing a shade darker.

"Permit me," said Dolf, gracefully, taking the pan from her hand; "it's my expressive delight to serve de fair, and I'se most happy, through dis instrumentation, to renew your honorable acquaintance."

He followed this up with another tremendous bow; Clorinda thought it quite time that she should make a show of high breeding likewise. She gave her body a bend and a duck, but unfortunately, Dolf was bowing at the same moment, and their heads met with a loud concussion.

A wild giggle from the kitchen door completed Dolf's confusion. He looked that way, and there stood Victoria, the chambermaid, now a spruce mulatto of eighteen, enjoying Clorinda's discomfiture.

"De fault was mine," cried Dolf, in his gallantry; "all mine, so dat imperent yaller gal need'n larf herself quite to death."

"Imperent yaller gal? am no more yaller den yer is," answered Vic.

"Any how yer needn't stand dar a grinning like a monkey, Vic," exclaimed Clorinda, in wrath.

"Accidents will recur," said Dolf. "But, laws, Miss Victory, is dat you? I had de pleasure of yer 'quaintance afore me and marster started on our trabels."

"I've been alone here eber since," explained Victoria, not proof against his fascinations. "I'm sure yer haint altered a bit, Mr. Dolf."

"I guess if yer don't go upstairs miss'll know why," cried Clorinda, sharply. "Jes give me dat pan, Mr. Dolf; I kint wait all day for you to empty it."

Dolf was recalled to wisdom at once—he could not afford to make a misstep on the very day of his return. He emptied the pan, followed Clorinda into the kitchen, making a sign of farewell to Vic which the old maid did not observe. Once in Clorinda's own dominion, the darkey so improved the impression already produced that he was soon discussing a delicate luncheon with great relish, and so disturbing Clorinda's equanimity by his compliments, that she greatly endangered the pie-crust she was industriously rolling out on one end of the table where he sat.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE DEAD SECRET.

The morning after Elsie's return Grantley Mellen mounted his horse, and rode off towards the shore tavern, a sad and heavy-hearted man. The woman whom he had loved so devotedly with the first passion of his youth, lay in that little chamber waiting for burial. Where destined when she met her fate, or how much she suffered, he could only guess. But there she was, after years of separation, thrown upon his charity even for a grave, with no one to mourn her death, no one to care how or where she was buried. He had not mentioned her to his wife or sister, an aching memory at heart forbade that, but underneath the joy of his return home lay this dead secret, haunting him with funereal shadows.

The woman was in her coffin when he entered the little chamber, which was now so desolately clean; for he had given orders regarding her interment before leaving the house that stormy night, and they had been well obeyed. A veil of delicate gauze covered the face, softening it into singular loveliness. Mellen did not lift this veil, which neutralised the coldness of death so beautifully, but his breast heaved with a farewell sigh, while tears blinded his last look, which carried deep and eternal forgiveness with it.

A noise in the next room disturbed him. He turned hastily, and went down stairs, shrinking from observation.

Scarcely had Mellen disappeared when the door which connected the death chamber with a small inner room was pushed open, and a pale, wild face looked in. It was that of North; after a quick survey of the room, he darted towards the door leading to the stairs and shot the bolt. Then he went up to the coffin, flung back the gauze from that marble face, and looked down upon it. Those black eyes burned too hotly for tears, but the raven beard trembled about his mouth, his hand was clenched, the burning consciousness of a great crime was upon him, and he felt it in every nerve and pulse of his system. If North had ever loved this woman, all the force of that passion came back upon his soul now in an agony of remorse. As he gazed, his hand released its iron grip, his strong limbs shook like reeds, and flinging himself down by the coffin he cursed himself, his crime, and that living woman for whose sake it had been committed.

They were coming upstairs. He heard the heavy blundering footsteps of two men, and knew what they were after. Creeping softly to the door he drew the bolt back with intense caution, and stealing into the little chamber, fell upon the floor and held his breath, listening.

He heard the coffin-lid closed; the slow turning of the screws; a sudden jar, and then the footsteps again, broken and disturbed by the mournful burden those two men carried. Then all was still for a moment, and up through the passage, vibrating like electricity through that evil soul, came the sound of a clear, solemn voice, reading the burial service.

Still he listened, with his head lifted from the floor, and supporting himself by one arm like a worn-out gladiator. A sort of terror had seized upon him with the sweet low sound of that voice. Great drops gathered upon his forehead and grew cold there. He was like an evil spirit looking through the gates of Paradise. Then came another pause, followed by the slow roll of wheels and the tramp of horses. North leaped to his feet, and threw up the window. A hearse was moving heavily down the street, and close behind it rode Grantley Mellen, alone.

Near the Piney Cove mansion was an ancient burying-ground, with the graves of many generations crowded around a little stone church, which rose up in solemn stillness among a grove of cypress trees and wild cedars. In one of the sunniest corners of the ground a grave was dug, and a pile of blossoming turf was laid ready to cover that hapless woman in her place of rest. While the men performed their sad work, Mellen stood by, with his head bared reverentially, and the heart in his bosom standing still. When he turned away it was with a deep, solemn sigh of relief. The bitterness and the pain of his first love was buried forever. Henceforth Elizabeth would have no rival, even in his memory.

Mellen went home a calmer and a better man, after laying his lost one down in her grave. Hitherto her memory had been an aching bitterness, but with death came forgiveness, and out of that his spirit arose chastened, gentle and tending towards a healthy cheerfulness.

Elizabeth was too deeply observant not to remark the softened seriousness of her husband's manner when he came home that day, but every look of tenderness that he gave her was a pang, and smote her worse than reproaches. Could the wife who deceived her husband find joy in the confidence which was but a mockery of her deceit. Many times during those few days Elizabeth wished that her husband would be harsh and cruel again.



CHAPTER XXIX.

TOM FULLER'S LETTER.

As they were sitting at dinner the next day, Mellen inquired about Fuller.

"I have quite forgotten to ask you about Tom," he said; "he was in France when you last wrote to me."

"He has not come yet," Elizabeth replied; "the house in which he was employed, concluded to keep him at Bordeaux for a time; in his last letter he wrote that he might be gone another year."

"Poor old Tom," Elsie said, laughingly.

Elizabeth's brows contracted a little; she had never been able entirely to forget the suffering this girl had caused the young man. Whenever she heard her mention his name in that trifling way, it jarred upon her feelings and irritated her greatly.

"Bessie doesn't like any one to laugh at Tom," said Mellen, noticing the expression of her face.

"I confess I do not," she replied; "he is such a noble fellow at the bottom, with an honest, kindly heart, and it seems to me that no one really acquainted with Tom can help respecting him, in spite of his eccentricities."

"But you need not be so heroic, Bessie," returned Elsie; "Tom always allowed me to laugh at him as much as I pleased; you know I don't mean to be ill-natured."

"No one would ever suspect you of that, Birdie," added Mellen, with a fond glance.

Elizabeth said nothing more, and the conversation "We shall have the house crowded with visitors, I suppose," Elsie said; "Mary Harrington told me she should only give us one day for family affection—"

"I hope she won't come to stay any time just yet," said Elizabeth.

"I hope so, too," added Mellen; "I should like a little enjoyment of my home, if possible, for a week or two at least."

"But people will come," said Elsie; "you must expect it. They look for all sorts of invitations, and you must give them or mortally offend everybody."

Perhaps the idea of the gayety that would ensue was not unpleasant to Elsie, in spite of her joy at Mellen's return; it was quite natural at her age, and to her character, which drooped in solitude like a flower deprived of the sun.

"Oh," said Mellen, "we will give them as many dinners and parties as they like, provided they won't domicile themselves with us, Elizabeth."

"Yes; I don't mind that so much."

"Shall you take a house in town, Grant?" asked Elsie.

"Do you particularly wish it?"

"Oh, it would be pleasant, of course."

"Just as you and Elizabeth choose," he said.

"For my part I would rather stay here," exclaimed Elizabeth.

"And so would I," said Mellen.

Elsie looked a little disappointed, but she concealed the feeling with her usual quickness.

"I have not told you what Doctor Peters said," she continued.

"What?" her brother asked, anxious at once.

"He thinks the sea air too strong for me in the winter; but, I dare say, it is only his fancy; I would not have either you or Elizabeth disturbed on my account."

"My dear child," cried Mellen, "that settles the matter at once; we will certainly go away from here before the cold weather comes; any where you like; Bessie will gladly give up Piney Cove, I'm sure."

"Certainly," answered the wife, quietly.

Elsie looked triumphant; she was always elated at having her own way, whether the thing was of importance or not.

"We need not think about it now," she said, demurely; "it will be warm and pleasant for several weeks yet."

"But you must be careful," returned Mellen, "dear child; I cannot reach home safely only to see your health give way."

"Oh, nonsense, Grant, don't begin to fidget! I am ever so well; make him believe it, Bessie."

"I think so," Bessie replied; "you are stronger than you look."

"Elsie requires great care," said Mellen, decidedly.

Elsie did not look displeased; she liked being considered weak and delicate; it made her more petted and at liberty to indulge her numberless caprices in the most interesting manner.

The family had that evening entirely to themselves, and it passed off very pleasantly. Elizabeth and Elsie joined in the old songs Mellen loved, and they all talked and laughed gaily, forgetful of the clouds that lowered above that house.

The next morning when the family met in the breakfast-room the post had arrived, and Dolf presented Elsie and Elizabeth with several letters; only the journals were left for Mellen, and he said, laughingly:

"The division is not just—Bessie having two letters; you might give me one."

"I'm too selfish," she answered.

"Mine is from Mary Harrington," observed Elsie. "Bess, you shall not read yours till you have given us our coffee. I'll just see what the widow says."

Elizabeth poured out the coffee while Elsie opened her note.

"She is coming to-day," she exclaimed; "I told you so. She sends all sorts of messages to you, Grant; calls you a god-like, wonderful creature, and is dying to see you."

"Oh, of course," said Mellen.

"She asks after Mr. Rhodes, Bessie—poor old fellow—she has quite turned his head."

"What is that?" asked Mellen.

So Elsie explained how the widow delighted in worrying Miss Jemima, had made desperate love to the stout man on every occasion; and in laughing at her quaint speeches Elizabeth quite forgot her own epistles.

"Why, where are your letters?" asked Elsie.

"I forgot them," returned Elizabeth, drawing them from under her plate, and adding as she glanced at the superscription of the upper one, "it is only from the dressmaker."

Elsie snatched the other, and cried out:

"Why, this is from Tom Fuller; oh, see what it says."

"From Tom? oh, I am so glad; I have been expecting a letter for a week past."

Elizabeth took the letter, and her face lighted up joyously as she broke the seal and began to read.

"Well," said Elsie, impatiently, "what does he say? read it out."

Elizabeth uttered an exclamation of delight.

"Oh, you provoking creature," cried Elsie, "do tell us what it is?"

"Tom must have found a diamond mine," said Mellen.

"He has," returned Elizabeth.

"Bless me," said Elsie, "will he go about covered with diamonds?"

"His old uncle has left him a fortune," explained Elizabeth.

Elsie fairly screamed, and clapped her little hands with graceful fury.

"Who would have thought it! Only fancy Tom Fuller rich! Why he'll be robbed every day of his life."

"How much is it?" asked Mellen. "I am very glad. Tom is a good fellow and deserves it."

He had entirely got over any suspicion that Elizabeth might ever have cared for her cousin, and was prepared to rejoice in Tom's good fortune.

"How much—how much?" broke in Elsie.

"Thirty thousand a year," replied Elizabeth; "Tom is in a state of bewilderment that makes his letter sadly incoherent; he never expected a penny; his uncle changed his will at the last moment."

"But wasn't he your uncle, too?" asked Elsie.

"No; he was aunt Fuller's brother."

"Oh, do let me see the letter," said Elsie.

Elizabeth gave it to her, but between excitement and his usual odd penmanship Tom's epistle was quite a puzzle to unpractised eyes, and Elsie went into shrieks over it.

"He promised to bring me a bracelet," said she, "diamonds it shall be now. If he brings anything less I'll send him straight back."

"But when is he coming?" Mellen asked.

"I can't make out," said Elsie; "here is something at the end about I shall burn—no return—at the—the—can that be Millennium?"

"Scarcely, I should think," said Mellen, laughingly.

"Try and make it out, Bess," said Elsie, giving her the letter.

Elizabeth took it, examined the lines to which she pointed, and after a moment's study read it correctly.

"I shall return by the Hammonia."

"Why that's due now," said Elsie.

Elizabeth glanced at the date.

"The letter has been delayed," she said; "he may be here already."

"Oh, it will be beautiful to see him," said Elsie; "why, he will give all he is worth to the person that asks first. Won't it be fun!"

"You shall not tease him, Elsie, as you formerly did," said Elizabeth; "I will not have it."

"But I will," said Elsie. "Thirty thousand a year! Good gracious, it will seem as if he had fallen from the moon. Of course I'll tease him half to death."



CHAPTER XXX.

THE WIDOW'S FASCINATIONS.

About midday Mrs. Harrington arrived with a little party of friends; she would not allow Mellen to escape her till she had overwhelmed him with compliments and congratulations, all of which he received with becoming resignation. When they went upstairs she said to Elsie:

"I haven't seen anything of that mysterious creature, North, in an age; what can have become of him?"

"Horrid creature," cried Elsie, "don't mention his name! Now, Mary Harrington, don't forget for once in your life! If Grant knew that we had even one visit from a stranger he would be furious; if you let it out neither Elizabeth or I will ever speak to you again."

"My dear, I won't open my lips."

"Mind you don't, that's all; if you do, I'll be even with you, as sure as my name is Elsie."

"You need not be so ferocious."

"Oh, I hate to be scolded, and Grant would be dreadfully angry! I promised Bessie I would warn you, so be sure and remember."

"I'll swear it if you like."

"Bless me, don't be tragic! The matter is of no consequence to me, only Bess makes such a point of it; besides that, I dread to see Grant angry."

"He never could be angry with you," said Mrs. Harrington.

"Well, it would be just as bad if he scolded her."

"How good you are!" cried the widow. "You are just the dearest thing in the world."

"Of course I am; but there's no use in standing here to say pretty things to each other, for there is no one to hear."

"Oh, you odd creature!" laughed Mrs. Harrington. "But, really, that man was the strangest, fascinating person—"

"There you go!" interrupted Elsie angrily.

"My dear, there is no one in the room but ourselves."

"I don't care if there is not; I don't want to hear that man's name."

"I can't see why you dislike him so," pursued the widow. "It always seemed to me that he and Elizabeth treated each other oddly—"

Elsie interrupted her, quite pale with anger.

"Mary Harrington," said she, "if you and I are to remain friends, stop this instant. I won't hear another word, nor must the subject come up again."

Mrs. Harrington was quite subdued by her friend's vehemence, and dropped the matter without another allusion to the forbidden subject.

When they went downstairs after the rest of the party were assembled, Mellen began laughing at the widow about the conquest she had made of Mr. Rhodes.

"Isn't it delicious?" she cried. "I just want you to see us together—it is better than a play."

"And Jemima's spite is something to witness," added Elsie. "I know she will poison you yet, Mary Harrington."

"I am on the watch constantly," replied the widow. "I don't even engage a strange servant now for fear it should be one of the old maid's secret emissaries."

"You are as badly off as the Duke of Buckingham," said Mellen, laughing at Mrs. Harrington's pretended distress.

"It is dreadful, I assure you," she said, shaking her plumage of lace and gauze; "but it is very amusing, nevertheless."

"Of course, if you can annoy somebody," answered Mellen; "that is the very acme of female happiness."

"Oh, you barbarous creature!" cried the widow. "Ain't you ashamed to utter such atrocious sentiments! Mrs. Mellen, your husband has come back a perfect savage."

Everybody laughed—it never occurred to the widow it could be at her own airs and affectations, which were a very clumsy imitation of Elsie's childish grace; she was too thoroughly satisfied with her own powers of fascination to suppose it possible, even for an instant, that she could become a subject of amusement.

"After all, it is tiresome to inspire a grande passion," said she, with a theatrical drawl.

"No woman ought to be better able to decide," cried Elsie; "you have made enough in all conscience."

"Oh, dear, no!" said the widow.

"Don't deny it," said Elsie, who never scrupled to make sport of her most intimate friends, and with all her fondness for Mrs. Harrington was always leading her on to do and say the most absurd things.

Elsie was in the most extravagant spirits, and had been ever since her brother's return. She flitted about the house like a beautiful elf, and Elizabeth could see that Mellen watched her every movement, his face kindling with affection and each look a caress.

"He has not changed," she thought, sadly; "all his tender words to me came only from the first pleasure of finding himself at home."

Then she began to shudder, as she often did now when the icy chill of some stern thought crept over her.

"Better so," she muttered; "what should I do with love and affection—what right have I to expect them from him or any one on earth. Is not my whole life a lie."

But she banished these reflections quickly, determined to have at least a few days of perfect freedom from anxieties, a little season of peace and rest, in which her tired soul might restore its strength, like a seabird reposing on the sunlit bosom of some inland lake after the exhaustion of a long and perilous flight amid storms and tempests.

Mellen, too, had laid by the suspicions which the strange circumstances connected with his return had caused, and appeared, as he could always, when so disposed, the most charming host possible.

Elizabeth sunned her heart in the smile which lighted up his face whenever their eyes met, and kept the dark shadows resolutely aloof from her mind. She was determined to be happy in spite of fate.

"Peace and rest!" she murmured. "I need them so much. I will have them at any cost."

The day passed as such days usually do, when all parties are amused; and though the conversation might not have been such as altogether suited the intellectual tastes of Mellen and his wife, they were too well-bred for any expression of distaste, and Elsie made even nonsense charming by her brilliant sallies and buoyant spirits.

The widow had not forgotten her old ambition to fascinate Mellen, and her efforts were highly amusing to the lookers-on. She was in doubt whether he preferred the queenly manner and repose of Elizabeth or the arch grace and exuberant gayety of his sister, and attempted airs which she considered a happy medium between the two, and a most fortunate result followed. Her efforts to support the double character delighted Elsie immensely, who, with the usual good-nature of intimate friends, made as much sport of her before her very face as she dared to venture on in Mellen's presence.



CHAPTER XXXI.

THE HEIR COMES HOME.

They were all assembled in the library before dinner, tired with laughing and roaming about, tired of rowing over the sunny waters, and glad to rest a little before the important business of dining should commence.

Suddenly there was a bustle in the hall, followed by a loud good-natured voice that made Elizabeth start to her feet.

"It's my cousin Tom," she cried. "Grantley, Tom Fuller has come."

She rushed into the hall, and sure enough, there stood her cousin; sunburned, a little thin from sea-sickness, but the same droll old Tom as ever.

He caught Elizabeth in his arms and uttered his first incoherent expressions of delight when Mellen came up, and Tom commenced shaking his two hands with immense energy, as if they had been pump handles, and nothing but the greatest exertion on his part could save the ship.

"I'm so glad to see you!" he cried. "I'm so glad to get back. I declare I can't say a word."

"And I'm glad; very, very glad," replied Elizabeth.

"And we congratulate you heartily on your new fortune," said the widow, joining in and extending both hands.

"Oh, don't speak of it," cried Tom; "it's no end of a bother to me already. God bless you, I don't know what to do with it! How—how is your sister?" he stammered, addressing Mellen with desperate energy; for Elsie's name came up from his heart with a jerk.

"She is quite well," Mellen answered, "and will be charmed to see you; we were expecting you."

"That's nice of you. So you've only just got back! Well, it's good to get home, isn't it? that is, if I had any home—but it's dreary for a solitary chap like me, now isn't it?"

"This house will always seem like home to you, I hope," said Mellen, kindly.

"Always," added Elizabeth; "don't forget that, Tom."

"You're too good to me," cried the soft-hearted fellow; "you always were!"

"Of course they were," said a laughing voice, that made Tom start, and appeared to take every particle of strength out of his limbs.

Elsie suddenly appeared before Tom in her brilliant evening dress and cloud-like loveliness, reducing him to a pitiable state at once.

"Don't you intend to speak to me?" pursued Elsie.

"Of—of course!" said Tom. "I'm so glad to see you—will you shake hands—will you—be—be glad to see me?"

"There is my hand," replied Elsie; "the pleasure depends on how agreeable you make yourself. I suppose you have come back with such fine foreign manners that you will hardly deign to notice us poor plain untravelled people."

"Oh, you don't think that!" said Tom. "You are laughing at me just as usual."

"Did you bring me my bracelet?" demanded Elsie.

"Indeed I did; I'd have brought all Paris if I had thought it would please you."

Elizabeth now plainly thought poor Tom had returned no wiser than when he went away; but Mellen, man-like, never perceived the state in which Elsie's fascinations had thrown the honest fellow, and would not have thought seriously of the matter if he had.

"Of course you speak French like a native—Iroquois, I mean," pursued the pitiless Elsie.

"Just about," replied Tom, as ready as ever to laugh at his own blunders.

"So you did not forget the bracelet?" urged Elsie.

"Indeed I did not; it's in my carpet-bag."

"Then I will be good natured to you all the evening," said she, "and won't tease you the least mite."

Tom was quite in ecstasies at the prospect; but Mellen said:

"She can't keep her promise, no matter how hard she tries—don't trust her, Fuller."

Elsie made a gesture of playful menace and carried Tom off into the drawing-room, quite regardless of the fact that Elizabeth had, as yet, found hardly an opportunity of speaking to him.

Mrs. Harrington was excessively cordial to the new comer; as a poor man she had always liked Tom for his extreme good-nature and willingness to wait on her caprices to any extent; but now that he made his appearance in the character of a semi-millionaire, it was perfectly natural that she should look upon him in a totally different light, being of the world, worldly.

Tom's awkwardness would only be a pleasant eccentricity now; his unfortunate taste in dress must pass readily as the carelessness of wealth, and all his good qualities, which had been quite overshadowed during his days of poverty, would now be brought to the foreground with glowing tints.

Not that Tom ever thought of this result to his heirship, he was too unsuspicious even for a thought of the kind. When people bestowed more interest on him than before, he would only wonder at their kindness and think what a pleasant world this was after all, and what scores of good-natured people there were in it, despite of the grumblers and misanthropes.

Elsie kept her word; she did not tease Tom in the least, but deliberately bewildered him with her arts and coquetry—which set Elizabeth to wondering what her motive could be—but perhaps she had none at all, and was only obeying the whim of the moment.

Tom produced the gold humming-bird for Elsie's hair, and a lovely little ornament it was, with the gorget in its throat composed of emeralds and rubies, and the long, slender bill and delicate wings formed of the most beautiful enamel.

Elsie perched it among her curls and was happy as a child with her new toy. Nobody in the world was ever so much delighted with novel ornaments, and few persons ever allowed the gloss to wear off them so quickly. In all probability she would rave over Tom's gift for a week, and by that time, if she did not lose it, would break the wings, by way of amusement, or tear the bill off to make the point of a stiletto, or ruin it in some other way, just to gratify her caprice, and an odd love of destruction which was in her very nature.

Tom Fuller spent the first happy evening he had known for months at Piney Cove, and he was so deliciously good-natured and noisy in his pleasure, that he could have supplied any lack of merriment on the part of the other guests if it had been necessary. But it was not.



CHAPTER XXXII.

THE GAUNTLET BRACELETS.

No man with any wisdom whatever thinks of returning from a journey without gladdening all the feminine hearts in his sphere with goodly presents. Mellen had by no means forgotten his duty in this respect. He had brought all sorts of curious Chinese ornaments, wonderful pagodas for glove boxes, scented sandal wood repositories for laces, exquisitely carved ivory boxes, and such costly trifles, which kept Elsie in perfect shrieks of delight during the first glow of possession. He had also brought stores of valuable ornaments which had once belonged to wealthy Mexican families, their value increased by the quaint, old time setting, and the romance connected with them; and Elsie consumed hours in adorning herself with them, laughing at her own fantastic appearance, and dancing about like a regular Queen Mab.

Among these presents were a pair of very valuable bracelets, made after a fashion prevalent in Spain two hundred years ago—you may see such things even now preserved among the old Castilian grandees, to be kept through all changes of time and fortune, aired on festive occasions only, and at last, if parted with at all, left in a fit of devotion before some Catholic shrine, as a bribe for some Heavenly privilege.

When Louis XIV. was a youth and in love with Marie Mencini, he once offended her mortally by bestowing a similar bracelet upon a young stranger at the court. I dare wager it required a whole set of jewels to put the haughty Marie in good humor and satisfy her Italian cupidity.

These bracelets Mellen brought with him, and gave one to his wife, the other to Elsie. They were made of a gauntlet-shaped piece of gold, widening at the back of the wrist, and covered with delicate chasing; the gold was so fine and pure that they were supple as a bit of kid. A double row of pearls and emeralds ran about the edge, and the clasps were of large diamonds, arranged in the shape of a shield.

The jewels were exceeding valuable, though to anybody possessing the least fancy, that made their least charm; they were ornaments that had undoubtedly owned a history, and one might have woven a thousand romances concerning the lives of those who had once worn them—that is, one who is not ashamed of being a dreamer in this rushing, practical age.

These were the last gifts Mellen displayed, and they certainly made a very splendid climax to the costly exhibition.

As I said, the first fortnight passed off delightfully, then the visitors departed, and there were a few days of quiet. The Mellens renewed the gayeties then by giving a dinner-party to several families in the neighborhood to whom they owed civility.

"They are stupid people to be sure," Elsie observed, "but then it's a little change from our own special dullness, and we have been alone for three days."

"You are such a foolish child!" returned Mellen.

"Oh, that's all very well," laughed Elsie; "but I don't wish to make a female Robinson Crusoe of myself, I do assure you. Bessie, old Mrs. Thompson will wear that wonderful new head-dress, and her son will ask me to sing and be so scarlet and fluttered when I look at him. Yes, yes, there is some fun to be got out of a dinner-party."

She mimicked the expected guests in turn, and did it so cleverly that her companions were both obliged to laugh, so everybody prepared for the infliction of a country dinner in the best possible spirits. It was rather stupid to be sure, but Elsie so lighted up the room with her radiance, and Elizabeth was so pleasant a hostess in her stately beauty, that everything passed off tolerably, and even the most common-place of the party brightened up a little under the influence of their hosts.

The ladies had risen from the table, giving the gentlemen an opportunity to enjoy their cigars in comfort, and were passing through the hall towards the drawing-room.

The moon shone broad and full through the windows of the hall, and somebody remarked on the beauty of the night. Elsie darted away and flung open the hall door.

"You will get cold; don't stand there," said Elizabeth.

Elsie danced out upon the portico in playful defiance of her sister, and the other ladies went after her, expostulating with true feminine eagerness.

As Elsie ran away to the other end of the veranda something fell upon the stones with a ringing noise, followed by a little shriek which she uttered in starting back.

"What is the matter?" called out several voices, but before they reached her Elsie stooped, picked something up and ran towards them.

"I dropped my brooch," she said; "come in. Elizabeth was right. I am chilled through and through."

She drove them playfully before her, and they all entered the parlors laughing gayly—all but Elizabeth. It was a trifling thing to disturb any one, and her nerves must have been in a strange state from constant watchfulness when this little event could move her so greatly. She leaned against the door-frame quite cold and chill. As Elsie passed her the girl slipped something in her hand, unperceived by the others.

Elizabeth stood motionless until they had all gone, then she started forward with something like desperation, and moved towards the hanging lamp. She opened her hand and looked down at a slip of paper carefully folded about a broken bit of iron, as if to give it weight enough to be thrown with sure aim. She shut her hand quickly as if the sight of the harmless paper filled her with loathing, conquered the convulsion which shook her from head to foot, unfolded the note and read the brief lines it contained.

Then she tore the paper into fragments and thrust them down into the hall fire, watching till even the ashes were gone, fearful that a trace should be left.

"I must!" she muttered, "I must go—I must not wait!" She looked eagerly about; the gay laughter of the men rang up from the dining-room; she could distinguish her husband's voice; through the closed doors of the parlors came the sound of the piano and a bird-like song, gleeful and joyous, with which Elsie was amusing the ladies.

Elizabeth flung her arms aloft with sudden passion.

"Laughing, singing, all enjoying themselves!" she moaned, "and I here with this horrible suffering! I must go—I must go!"

Elizabeth took up a shawl which lay on a chair, opened the outer door softly, hurried down the steps and disappeared among the trees.

Mr. Mellen did not give his male guests a very lengthy opportunity to enjoy their claret and cigars; he had no interest in their talk about the political affairs of the country, a recent bankruptcy, the price of corn, or any of the topics which came up, and some time before it might have been expected, he rose, anxious to counteract the dullness by the presence of his wife and sister, both of whom he had regarded all the evening with new tenderness and admiration, as they sat like a couple of rare birds among all those fussy, ill-dressed women. Elsie was still at the piano when the gentlemen entered. Mr. Mellen looked about for Elizabeth, but she was not there.

"She has not come in yet," said old Mrs. Thompson, in answer to his inquiry.

Elsie heard the words—she had ears keen as a little beast of prey.

"One of the servants stopped her," she called out; "servants always are stopping her—mine will be better regulated. Come here, Grantley, and help me in this old song you like so much."

"In a moment, dear," he replied.

Mellen left the room, fearing that Elizabeth might be drawn away by a headache. He had never felt so tenderly solicitous about her. These last weeks of sunshine had made his proud nature kindly genial. He was anxious to atone for all his old suspicions and little neglects of her comfort.

He was crossing the hall, when the outer door opened, and Elizabeth entered. She did not observe him, and he saw her in all her unrestrained emotion. She was deadly white, and rushed in as if seeking escape from some danger.

"Elizabeth!" he called out.

She started as if he had struck her, but she was accustomed now to controlling herself, and after that first trembling fit, threw off her shawl and forced her face into composure.

"Where have you been?" he inquired.

"Only on the veranda," she said, a little too hurriedly; "I was so tired and my head ached—I wanted air."

He looked at her, dissatisfied and suspicious.

"You might have caught your death," he said; "I wonder at you."

"It was foolish," she returned, trying to laugh, "but the dinner was so tedious. Come into the drawing-room."

She made an effort to speak playfully, as Elsie might have done, but it was a failure.

"Your shoes are damp," he exclaimed suddenly; "you have been on the grass—pray what could take you there?"

"I—I just ran down the steps—I won't do so again."

Elsie heard their voices—she always heard everything—and opened the door.

"Come in here, you naughty people," she cried, laughing and speaking lightly, though there was a gleam in her eyes. "Oh! Mrs. Thompson, husbands and wives who have been separated are worse than lovers."

She forced them to enter, talking in her excited way, and making everybody laugh so much that neither the frown on Mellen's brow nor his wife's paleness were observed.

"You have been out," she found an opportunity to whisper to Elizabeth; "you must be mad!"

"I shall be!" groaned the woman; "I shall be!"



CHAPTER XXXIII.

SEARCHING FOR THE BRACELET.

The very sight of her sister's carelessness and gayety, made Elizabeth feel how necessary it was to be composed; her husband was watching her still. Some one asked her to play; she took her seat at the piano and played one of her most brilliant pieces—to sing, and her rich contralto voice rang out with new passion and power. I tell you even women can only marvel at the power many of the sex preserve over themselves when playing for a great stake, and the least betrayal of look or movement might be full of danger.

The evening passed off without further incident, and the guests went away delighted with their reception, thinking what agreeable people the Mellens were, and how happy they must be in their beautiful home.

"Oh—oh—oh!" cried Elsie, flinging up her arms with a yawn that distorted her pretty mouth out of all proportion. "Thank heaven, they are gone! I am sure another half hour would have killed me."

"You deceitful little thing!" said her brother, who had nearly recovered his cheerfulness. "I heard you tell poor young Thompson that you had never enjoyed yourself so thoroughly."

"Of course I did; what else could I say."

Mr. Mellen laughed and went out of the room.

Elsie was standing by the fire, she was always complaining of cold, and Elizabeth walked towards her as the door closed.

"Don't!" whispered Elsie, "you are going to talk—don't!"

Elizabeth dropped into a seat with a wearied look, such as a person wears after hours of self-restraint.

"It's of no use to talk," said Elsie, with an impatient gesture. "You ought not to have gone out——"

"I know; but I dared not wait. Oh, Elsie! such a scene——"

"Be still!" exclaimed Elsie, with the old passion which seemed so foreign to her nature. "I can't hear—I won't! Grantley saw you!"

"Yes; he was in the hall when I entered," she replied, with the same dreary despair in her voice. "I know, I feel that something will happen at last."

"There must not—there shall not!" broke in Elsie.

"Such madness—such greedy selfishness——"

"Don't tell me," shivered Elsie; "please don't!"

Elizabeth dropped her hands into her lap with a gesture full of weariness and desolation; as they fell apart she lifted them up to Elsie, with a look of helpless distress.

"What is it?" cried Elsie. "Don't frighten me!"

"My bracelet!" moaned Elizabeth. "My bracelet!"

"You have lost it?"

"Gone, I tell you! He would have money—I was nearly mad—I pulled it off to pacify him."

"Which bracelet—not the new one?"

"Yes; the one Grantley brought me. Oh, what shall I do?"

"He won't notice it," said Elsie; "you can wear mine."

"He will notice it," returned Elizabeth. "It may be sold—he may find it."

"You can say that you lost it."

"But your brother is so suspicious."

"You ought to have had your wits about you," said Elsie, fretfully.

"It is easy for you to talk!" exclaimed Elizabeth. "If you had been in my place, listening to those threats——"

"Stop, stop!" Elsie almost shrieked, hiding her face in her hands. "I am going into spasms—I shall choke!"

"But a crisis is near!" exclaimed Elizabeth. "You don't know all that a bad, desperate creature is capable of, to accomplish his ends."

"I can't do anything," moaned Elsie. "What am I in all this? You promised to leave me in peace."

"So I will, Elsie—I will. God knows I am ready to bear my burthen alone; but sometimes I must speak."

"It does no good," said Elsie, beginning to cry. "I'd rather be dead than live in this way!"

"Be a woman, with some feeling for a sister woman!" cried Elizabeth, aroused into severity.

"It's all very well for you to talk, you are a great strong thing; I don't mean that you are big, but your nerves are like iron and I am so weak. Grantley says he believes the least thing would kill me; he knows how frail my health is."

Passionate indignation lighted up Elizabeth's face for an instant, but it softened into pity, like that with which she might have regarded a pet animal whimpering under a hurt.

"Be good to me," said Elsie. "I can't help you. I don't mean to be selfish, but I must have my sunshine. I don't dare even to talk about it at all. If Grant ever should find out anything, even my talking to you about it would enrage him so!"

"And what would become of me?" demanded Elizabeth. "Do you never think of what would happen to me?"

"Oh, but he won't find out anything," urged Elsie, changing her tone at once. "Just let things rest. The wretch will be quiet for a time."

"No, no; I tell you money must be raised."

"More money?"

"I promised it; there was no other way. But heaven knows where I shall get it."

"Well, tell Grant about some family or hospital——"

"Lies!" interrupted Elizabeth; "always lies! Sinking deeper into the pit every day. I tell you this constant deceit makes me hate myself!"

"Now you are going off again! Oh, my head!"

"Hush, I say! You are safe, at any rate!"

"Whatever comes, I shall not be dragged into it?" pleaded Elsie.

"No, no; have I not promised?" returned Elizabeth, in her anguish and her bitterness, hardly noticing the girl's selfish fears.

Elsie threw both arms about her neck and kissed her.

"You are so good!" she said. "Oh, I wish I wasn't such a weak little thing! Don't despise me, Bessie, because I can't do anything to help you."

"I don't—I don't. Your arm hurts me!" Elizabeth pushed the girl's caressing arm away, struggling hard to be calm.

"If I had never known——"

But Elizabeth checked the selfish wail.

"It is too late now to think of that. I tell you I shall not trouble you any more."

"When the paper fell on the stones," said Elsie, "I was so frightened."

Elizabeth gasped for breath at the very thought.

"But I managed cleverly. I am very weak and nervous, but I have my wits about me sometimes."

Elizabeth was shivering from head to foot, whether with remorse at the knowledge of evil which this young girl had gained through her, or some hidden fear, no one could tell.

"I must go to town," she said; "but what excuse can I make?"

"Oh, anything! Tell Grant we want to make purchases. I'll do it. But why must you go?"

"The money, I tell you the money! I have those stocks; if I could sell them. I might tell Mr. Hinchley I was in debt and feared to have my husband know it. Another lie—another lie!"

"Oh," groaned Elsie, "the lying is the least part of it! if that could do you any good!"

"You don't know the worst. If you had to face him! Oh, Elsie, the shame, the remorse!"

Elizabeth wrung her hands again with the same passionate fury she had displayed after reading the note. Then Elsie began to grow hysterical and cry out:

"You must stop! you must stop!"

Elizabeth made an effort to control her own suffering and soothe the girl's nervous paroxysm, to which Elsie gave way with wilful abandonment, half because she felt it, and half to escape a scene.

By the time they were both quieted Mr. Mellen returned to the room, and by one of those evil chances that often happen he began speaking of the very subject that had aroused their fears.

"Those bracelets are the admiration of everybody," he said.

Elizabeth glanced at Elsie. Her first impulse was to hide her hands, but she checked that and forced herself to utter some sort of answer to his remark.

Elsie gave another long yawn.

"I am going to bed," she exclaimed; "I advise you both to do the same."

"I wish I understood the meaning of the device. Let me see your bracelet, Bessie," he continued, without heeding his sister and bent on his own train of thought. "Just let me look——"

Elsie thrust out her arm.

"Look at mine," she said.

"No, no; Bessie's has a different design. I want to see that. Show me yours, Elizabeth."

Elizabeth did not stir. Whiter she could not grow, but a hopeless despair settled over her face, pitiful to witness.

"Can't you show me your bracelet?" demanded her husband, with natural impatience.

"I haven't it," she faltered.

"Why, I saw it on your arm at dinner!"

"Oh, don't bother, Grant," interposed Elsie; "talking about devices, when one is half asleep."

"Elizabeth, where is your bracelet?" demanded her husband, imperiously.

The exigency of the case gave her courage.

"I have lost it," she said, her voice sounding fairly indifferent from the effort she made at composure.

"Lost it!" he repeated. "How? Where?"

"While I was out——"

"She was just beginning to tell me when you came in," interrupted Elsie. "We are both frightened to death, so don't scold."

"Such unpardonable carelessness," continued Mr. Mellen. "At least, Elizabeth, you need not appear so indifferent."

"I am sorry, very sorry," she answered coldly.

"Oh, if I had lost mine, I should be wretched," cried Elsie, kissing hers. "You dear old bracelet!"

Elizabeth shot one terrible look at her, but was silent.

"I am glad that you at least prize my gift," said Mr. Mellen. "I suppose you have not taken the trouble to search, Elizabeth?"

"I have had no time——"

"The moon is down," said Elsie.

"There are lanterns, I suppose."

He rang and ordered a servant to bring a lantern, went out and searched for the missing ornament, while Elsie cowered over the hall fire and Elizabeth stood, cold and white, in the way.

Clorinda came out of her domain while Mr. Mellen and Dolf were searching the hall.

"Lost something marster?" she demanded, with the coolness peculiar to her race.

"Missis has lost her bracelet," interposed Dolf.

"Laws!" cried Clorinda, not perceiving her mistress on the veranda. "I neber seed nobody lose tings so; 'taint a month since she lost a di'mond ring, and all she said, when her maid missed it, was, 'It can't be helped.'"

This was an aside to Dolf, but Mr. Mellen heard the words plainly, so did Elizabeth.

"I'll bet yer don't find it," pursued Clorinda. "I heerd steps early in de evenin'; I knows I did, though missis called me a foolish cullud pusson once when I told her of hearing 'em. Dar's thieves about, now; member I tells yer!"

"Clorinda," called Elizabeth, "go into the house. The next time you venture any remark on me you will leave my service."

Clorinda sallied back as if she had been shot, and darted into her own dominions, less favorably disposed than ever towards the mistress for reproving her before Dolf.

Mr. Mellen dismissed the man, walked into the veranda and confronted his wife. He was pale as death, in the moonlight. His agitation made Elizabeth more sternly cold; she knew that look, she had borne it in his suspicious, jealous moments in the old time.

"Did you lose that bracelet, Elizabeth?" he asked.

"Did I not say so?" she retorted.

"I can't understand it," he went on; "these sudden frights and tremors, these mysterious losses——"

"The old suspicions," she broke in, goaded into defiance by the actual danger. "You promised me to have done with all those things, Grantley."

"Admit at least——"

"I will admit nothing. I will not talk to you when you speak in that tone. I am sorry the bracelet is gone, but I am not a child to be threatened."

Elsie heard it all, and when the dialogue reached that point she crept quietly upstairs, determined that at least she would be beyond even the sound of their difficulty.

For a few moments they retorted bitterly upon each other. Formerly it had been Elizabeth's resolution to bear in silence, but it is hard to be patient when one has a fatal wrong to conceal.

It was very unsatisfactory, but there the matter ended.

The next morning Mr. Mellen made another thorough search for the bracelet. Still no signs of it was discovered, but he did find traces of footsteps in the grass, which proved the truth of Clorinda's suspicions.

"It's over, at all events," said Elsie, as she met Elizabeth on the stairs.

"Over!" repeated the half-distracted woman, desperately; "who can tell how or when it may come up again?"

Elsie kissed her and flew away, leaving Elizabeth to seek safety in the solitude of her chamber, while she went in search of her brother, not with the object of benefiting Elizabeth, but anxious to impress upon his mind that she at least did nothing to distress or vex him.



CHAPTER XXXIV.

BELOW STAIRS.

While matters were moving on thus excitedly above stairs there was an unusual commotion in the lower regions, effected by the machinations and deceptions of that arch-flirt, Dolf. He had succeeded in accomplishing what no sable gallant had ever done before; he had softened Clorinda's obdurate heart, and made her think it possible that at some future time she might be persuaded to place her fair self, and what she prized more, her money, in Dolf's keeping.

But the worst of it was, Dolf's susceptible fancy led him strongly in another direction, even while his discretion warned him to follow up the success he had achieved with the culinary nymph. Victoria was a stylish, handsome young mulatto, and Clorinda was, undoubtedly, pure African to the very root of her genealogical tree. African from the soul of her broad foot to the end, I cannot say point, of her flat nose. Indeed, it is quite possible that Dolf's yellow skin went for something in her admiration; but unfortunately Dolf preferred the cafe-au-lait complexion also, and had a masculine weakness in favor of youth and good looks.

Poor Clorinda certainly did present a rather dry and withered aspect; her hands bore rough evidence of the toil with which she had earned the money her sable lover coveted, and their clasp was very unsatisfactory to a man whose flirtations had hitherto been with ladies' maids. She was sadly destitute of the airs and graces with which Victoria fascinated the grand sex so freely upon all occasions; Clo's curly tresses held quantities of whiteness, and she could only hide it under gorgeous bandannas, which were now wofully out of fashion among the colored aristocrats, and gaze enviously at Victoria's long curls, feeling her fingers quiver to give them a pull when that damsel fluttered them too jauntily in her eyes.

There had always been trouble enough between the two, but after Dolf's arrival the kitchen department grew very hot and uncomfortable, and even the wary Dolf himself, skilled as he was in Lotharian practices, frequently had great difficulty in steering clear of both Scylla and Charybdis.

Clorinda was much given to devotional exercises, and went to meeting on every possible occasion; while Victoria, with the flightiness of her years, laughed at Clo's psalm-singing, and interrupted her prayers in the most fervid part by polka steps and profane redowas. In order to propitiate Clorinda, Dolf had accompanied her to meeting much oftener than his inclinations prompted, expressing the utmost desire to be remembered in her prayers, all the while denouncing himself as a miserable sinner not worth saving.

But good women with a weakness for helping masculine sinners are alike in one thing, no matter what their color may be—wickedness has a strange attraction for them. It was the peril in which she considered Dolf, that made Clo so lenient towards him; it would be such a triumph to win him from his wicked ways, and lead him up to a height where he would be secure from the craft of the evil one, and what was more important, beyond the wiles of that yellow girl Victoria, who was regarded by her fellow-servants as a direct emissary of the prince of darkness.

Clo labored faithfully with 'Dolf, though it must be confessed she allowed her religious instructions to be diversified with a little more love-making than would have been quite sanctioned by her class leader, and for the first time in her life became extravagant in the matter of dress, wearing the most gorgeous bandannas every day, and even adopting an immense crinoline, which she managed so badly that it was constantly bringing her into grotesque difficulties, to Victoria's intense delight.

Of course these females, like their betters, never quarreled openly about Dolf, but they found endless subjects of dispute to improve upon, and sometimes that adroit fellow got into serious difficulty with both by attempting to mediate between them.

On occasions the sable rivals would hide their bitterness under smiles and good nature, and appear almost affectionate after the influence of a sudden truce; but Dolf learned to dread those seasons of deceitful calm, for they were the sure precursors of an unusually fierce tempest, which, blowing in opposite directions, it was impossible for him to escape.

These three restless persons went out one evening to pay a visit to some sable friends in the neighborhood, where the colored gentry often met and had choice little entertainments; where the eatables came from perhaps it would not have been wise for their employers to inquire.

Old Mrs. Hopkins and her fascinating daughter, Miss Dinah, were the possessors of this abode, and Clo and Victoria had for some time been promising Dolf a visit there. That night seemed a favorable occasion for the expedition, as a store of fruit pies, blanc mange and chicken salad, had that day been moulded by Clo's own expert hands, and half a jelly cake set aside in the closet ready for the basket which took so many mysterious journeys in Mrs. Hopkins' direction.

"I nebber sends back pieces to de table," said Clo; "it's wulgar."

"In course it is," returned Dolf; "I'se sure nothing would orritate master more."

Vic attempted no deceptions on her conscience; she liked jelly cake, and did not trouble herself about the manner in which it was obtained; since her earliest remembrance stolen delicacies had never given her a moment's indigestion, or the least approach to moral nightmare.

They went over to visit Mrs. Hopkins and Miss Dinah, and the evening was made a festive one, with Clo's pies, the hard cider which Mrs. Hopkins provided, and other delicacies which composed a sumptuous entertainment.

But as ill-luck would have it, two or three other friends strayed in, and among them was a young woman as much given to coquetry as Dolf himself; and before a great while Dolf's love of flirtation got the better of his prudence, and plentiful doses of the hard cider rendered him reckless. In spite of the indignation which both Clo and Victoria displayed, he was exerting all his fascinations on the newcomer, while her neglected beau sat looking like a modern Othello, with every glance expressive of bowie-knives at least.

When the damsel went out with Miss Dinah, for an extra bench from the wash-house, Dolf accompanied them, and directly the company were startled by a direful commingling of laughter and doleful shrieks.

Clo flew to the door and opened it; Victoria peeped over her shoulder; there was that perfidious Dolf encircling the stranger damsel with his right arm, and making bold efforts to lay hold of the wash-bench with his left.

Dolf looked up and saw Clo; he was not so much under the excitement of the cider that he could not understand the risk he ran.

"Dare is pretty conducts!" exclaimed Clo.

"I shud tink so," chimed in Victoria. "If you please, Miss Clorinda, I tink I will locomote home; I ain't accustomed to sich goings on myself; dey isn't de fashion in de Piney Cove basement."

Clorinda got her bonnet and tied it on her head with an indignant jerk.

The outraged damsels would hear no persuasions, and Dolf was forced to accompany them back, and a very uncomfortable time he had of it.

First they abused the impudent young pusson they had left behind, and nearly annihilated Dolf when he attempted a word in the young woman's favor.

"I 'clar," cried Clo at last; "Mr. Dolf, yer go 'long as crooked as a rail fence; what am de matter, are yer jest done gone and no 'count nigger any how?"

Dolf only gave a racy chuckle.

"I guess goin' into the wash-room turned his head," said Vic.

"De siety I'se enjoyin' at dis minit," said deceitful Dolf, "is enough to turn de head of any gemman."

"Oh, we know all 'bout dat," said Vic.

"In course you does," returned Dolf, forgetting Clorinda, and trying to seize Vic's hand, but so uncertain were his movements that she readily escaped him.

Clorinda saw it all; it was fuel to the flame which consumed her.

"Miss Victory," said she, "yer needn't push me into de brook."

"Who's a pushin' of yer?" retorted Victoria, with equal acidity.

"Yer was, yer own self."

"I didn't—so dar! Guess somethin' ails yer head too, de way yer go on—pushin' indeed."

"I scorns yer insinivations," said Clorinda, "and despises yer actuations!"

"Jis' don't go pitchin' into me and callin' me names," retorted Vic; "'cause I won't stand it."

"Ladies, ladies!" interposed Dolf. "Don't resturb de harmonium of our walk by any onpleasant words."

"I ain't a sayin' nothin'," said Vic.

"Yer've said more'n I," returned Clo, "and I ain't gwine to be pushed inter de ditch by nobody—thar!"

Clorinda was naturally more irritated than Vic, because Dolf had made no effort to seize upon her hand, which trembled to give him a pardoning clasp.

"Nobody wants ter push yer," said Vic.

"I don' know 'bout dat," said Clo, solemnly; "I b'lieve if I was murdered in my bed I shud know whar ter look for de murderer."

"Sich subjects, Miss Clorinda, is not fit for yer lubly lips," said Dolf; "don' gib dem houseroom, I begs."

"Mr. Dolf," returned Clorinda, with a severity that pierced like a warning through the elation of Lothario's brain; "don' try none ob dem flightinesses wid me; I ain't one ob dat sort."

"What sort?" asked Victoria.

"Neber yer mind," said Clo, with majesty; "neber yer mind, miss; children don' comprehensianise sich like."

"I onderstands Miss Clorinda, and I venerates her sentimens," observed Dolf; "but when a gemman finds hisself in sich siety as dis, de language of compliments flows as naturally ter his lips as—as—cider from a junk bottle."

This well-rounded period softened both the damsels a little; Dolf got Clo on his right arm and Vic on his left; the support was not unwelcome to himself just then; and he managed to keep them both in tolerable humor until they nearly reached the house.

Whether Dolf stumbled, or Victoria gave a sly, vicious push, it was difficult to tell in the darkness, but Clorinda went suddenly down full length in the path.

Victoria gave a laugh of derision, and this gratification of her malicious feelings in the misfortune of her rival, put her in high good-humor.

Dolf hastened to help Clorinda up, but his movements were a little uncertain, and the first thing he did was to set his foot through the crown of her bonnet, which had fallen back from her head.

"I'se killed," shrieked Clo.

"Do scream low, like a 'spectable ole woman!" cried the unsympathising Vic; "yer'll hab de whole house out."

"I don't keer," moaned Clorinda: "I don't keer."

"Why don' yer get up?" demanded Victoria.

"I'll 'sist yer, I'll 'sist yer," said Dolf, making another sidelong movement.

Clorinda endeavored to help herself, but the effort was a failure, and there she lay covered with confusion, for she could not think of giving the real cause of her continued prostration. The truth was she had knocked one high heel from a pair of Mrs. Harrington's French boots, which that lady was not likely to miss before morning; and had sprained her ankle in the process, a very unpleasant situation for a modest and churchgoing darkey to find herself in, late at night, and her lover looking on.

"Be yer gwine to lay dar all night!" asked Vic.

"I kin't get up, I tell yer," said Clo.

"Is yer bones broke?"

"Smashed. One of 'em am smashed," answered Clo, ruefully.

"No, no; Miss Clory, not as bad as dat," said Dolf; "don't petrificate us wid sich a idee. Jis let me sist yer now."

"No, no," cried Clorinda; "wait a minit—my foot—my foot!"

"Hev yer hurt it?" demanded Vic; "let me zamine."

"It's my ankle; can't yer understand?"

"No, I kin't onderstand nothin' 'bout it, only yer makin' a outrageous ole fool o' yerself, and freezin' us to death. Mr. Dolf, 'spozen we go in."

"Yer wouldn't desart a sister in distress," said Dolf, dancing about the prostrate form, unable to comprehend why Clo would not permit him to assist her; while she huddled herself in a heap, in true spinster fear of showing her ankles or exposing the borrowed boot.

"Now, Clo," cried Victoria, "jis git up; I won't stand dis fooling no longer."

"Help me," said Clo; "do help me."

"Hain't Mr. Dolf ben a tryin' dese ten minits!"

"No, no! Bend down here, Vic. Mr. Dolf, if yer's a gemman I ax yer to shut yer eyes."

"My duty is to sarve de fair," said Dolf, turning his back and peeping over his shoulder, very curious to know what could be the difficulty.

Clo whispered in Victoria's ear with agonised sharpness,

"Dem boots am so high, an' my ankle is guv out, jes ondo de buttons!"

A stone might have sympathised with her maidenly distress, but that wicked Victoria burst into absolute shrieks of laughter.

"Oh, oh, oh! yer ole fool!" she cried, between her shouts of merriment. "Yer too ole for new fashions—telled yer so!"

Clorinda's outraged modesty was forgotten in the fury which Victoria's lack of sympathy caused.

"Jis let me git up!" cried she. "I'll fix yer; I'll frizzle dem long beaucatchers like a door mat, an' stamp on 'em."

"What am it?" demanded Dolf.

As well as she could speak for laughing, Victoria began "She's just choked up her foot in Miss Harrington's high pinercled boots!"

"Hush up!" interrupted Clo. "I'll pisen yer if yer don't shut yer impudent mouth."

"Ki! ki! ki! oh, laws, I shall die! Ole folks hadn't orter try to be young uns. I've telled yer so, Clo, fifty times," shrieked the yellow maiden; "'tain't no wonder yer snickered, Dolf; borrered feathers! he, he! Vic!"

Clorinda sprang to her feet with a yell of triumph and rage, and limping toward Victoria, caught that yellow maiden by her much-prized tresses, and for a few moments the battle between the rivals raged furiously.

Clo quite forgot her religion in the excitement, and her language might have shocked the elders had they heard it, while Victoria struggled bravely to save her tresses from extermination.

"De hall door's a openin'," cried Dolf, struck with a brilliant thought; "I believe it's marster comin' out."

The battle ceased. Dolf ran towards the house and the combatants after him; Clorinda limping like a returned soldier, but Dolf never stopped till he was safe in his own dormitory, not caring to trust himself in the presence of either of the infuriated damsels.

Indeed, the next morning it required the special interference of Mrs. Mellen herself to settle the matter, and several days passed before perfect harmony was restored in the lower regions at Piney Cove.



CHAPTER XXXV.

MRS. MELLEN AND HER COUSIN.

The next afternoon Tom Fuller came down to the island again.

Elizabeth and Elsie were quite alone, for Mellen had driven over to the village on some matter of business; but the sisters were not taking advantage of their solitude to indulge in one of those long, cozy, confidential chats which had been their habit in former years.

Elsie was in the upper part of the house amusing herself after her own fashion, and Elizabeth sat in the little morning-room which had become her favorite apartment of late.

It was a small room in the old part of the house, somewhat sombre in its character, but on a bright day relieved by a beautiful view of the sea which was afforded from the French windows, the only modern feature which Mellen had added to it.

On a dark morning the apartment was gloomy enough; the ceilings were low, crossed with heavy carved beams that made their want of height still more apparent; the upper portion of the walls were hung with dark crimson cloth, met half way down by a wainscoating of unpolished oak, dark and stained with age.

The furniture had been in the house since the Revolution; the massive chairs, each one of which was a weight to lift, had been covered with a fabric to match the hangings. The whole room had a quaint aspect, and was filled with a store of relics and curiosities which would have delighted a lover of the antique.

Elsie detested the apartment and never would occupy it, but when alone Elizabeth sought it from choice; the darker and drearier the day the more pertinaciously she clung to the old room, where the shadows lay heavy and grim, and every sound was echoed with preternatural sharpness.

But this day was bright and beautiful as summer itself. The apartment looked cheerful and picturesque, and Elizabeth made a pretty picture, seated by one of the open windows, with her light dress forming an agreeable contrast to the sombre draperies about her.

She had a work-basket on the little spider-legged table by her side and a mass of embroidery on her lap, but the needle had fallen from her hold, her hands lay idly upon her knee, and she was looking out over the bright waters with a dreamy, wistful gaze, which had become habitual with her whenever the necessity for self-restraint was removed and she was free to suffer, unobserved.

Tom entered the room in his usual haste, and found her sitting in this dreamy attitude; she started at the sound of his tread, and with the caution she was daily acquiring changed her listless position, and threw the mask of a smile over her face, which it was so dangerous to lift even for an instant.

"Here I am," cried Tom; "back again, like a bad penny. I hope you are not beginning to hate the sight of my ugly face."

He rushed towards her, upset the spider-legged table that was always ready to topple over on the least provocation, made a hopeless labyrinth of her embroidery silks, gave her a kiss of greeting, and hurried on with numberless questions, just as if he were in the greatest possible haste, and it was a necessity of life and death that he should throw off everything that happened to be on his mind before he dashed away.

"And you are not tired of seeing me, Bessie, you are sure of that?" he repeated.

"You are a silly fellow to ask such questions," she replied; "you know how glad I am to have you come."

"You're a darling old girl," cried Tom, "and there's no more to be said about it."

"Then, if you have finished, please pick up my unfortunate table. See what a state these poor silks are in."

"I'm always in mischief," said Tom, contritely, restoring the table to its equilibrium with great difficulty; "I'm more out of place in a lady's parlor than an owl in a canary bird's cage."

"Your mistakes are better than other men's elegancies," said Elizabeth, heartily.

It rested her to be in Tom's society; with him she was not forced constantly to play a part, and he had been a great resource to her ever since his return.

Many times she said to herself:

"He would love me, whatever came—I can always depend on him."

She was thinking something of the kind, just then, while she began assorting her silks; and Tom stood meekly by, longing to repair the mischief he had occasioned, but perfectly certain that he should only do a good deal more harm if he attempted it.

Besides that, something else was in his mind—there always was before he had been five minutes in the house if Elsie did not make her appearance.

He shuffled about, answered Elizabeth's questions haltingly, and at last burst out:

"Where is the little fairy—has she gone out, too?"

"Elsie, do you mean?"

"Who else, of course? Where is she?"

"Up in her room, I fancy," replied Elizabeth.

"I don't see how you can bear her out of your sight for an instant," cried Tom; "I'm sure I couldn't if I lived in the house with her."

"Nonsense, Tom!"

"There is no nonsense about it; it's just the truth."

Several times Elizabeth had attempted to point out to him the folly of going on in his old insane fashion, but either he would not listen or something interrupted their conversation. Now she determined to take advantage of the present opportunity and speak seriously with him.

"I have brought her a paper of Maillard's sweet things," said Tom; "might I call or send for her?"

He darted towards the door as he spoke, but Elizabeth stopped him.

"Wait a moment, Tom," she said; "come back here."

"Yes, of course; I'll be back in a flash—I'll just send her these traps," and he pulled a couple of tempting packages from his pocket, nattily tied with pink ribbons and got up generally in the exquisite taste which distinguishes everything from our Frenchman's establishment.

"No," urged Elizabeth, "come here first; I have something to say to you, Tom—Elsie can eat her bon-bons after."

Tom came back, rather unwillingly though, and stood leaning against the window like a criminal.

"Sit down," said Elizabeth.

"No, no! I like to stand! Well, what is it, Bessie?"

"Tom," she said, seriously, "I am afraid you have forgotten the experience which cost you so much pain and drove you off to Europe; I fear you are making other and deeper trouble for yourself."

"Oh, no, Bessie—it's of no consequence any way," returned Tom, turning fifty different shades of red at once, "What a pretty green that silk is."

"It is bright blue, but no matter! So you wont listen to me, Tom?" continued Elizabeth.

"My dear girl, did I ever refuse to listen in all my life!" cried Tom. "But you see, you're a little mistaken, Bessie; I'm not such a goney as I used to be."

"That has nothing to do with the matter."

"Oh, yes, it has; I mean, I don't allow myself to be such a dunce, even in my own thoughts. I never even think about—about—you know what I mean."

Tom broke down and made a somewhat lame conclusion.

"Oh, Tom, Tom!" Elizabeth said.

"Well, there!" cried he, with sudden energy; "there is no use in standing here and telling you fibs! I do love her—I must love her—I always shall love her—hang me if I shan't!"

He was in a state of great agitation now, and trembled all over as if he had been addressing Elsie herself.

Elizabeth sighed wearily.

"I thought so," she said; "I feared so."

"You mean the dear girl will never care for me. How could any one expect her to—I couldn't—'tisn't in reason."

"Then, Tom, she certainly ought not to treat you as she does and lead you on."

"She doesn't lead me on."

"But her manner does not forbid your attentions, and you are too worthy, dear cousin, for anything but honest dealing."

"It's my fault—all my fault."

Elizabeth shook her head.

"You have the best heart and the worst head in the world," said she.

"You musn't blame her," continued Tom; "I can't stand that! Pitch into me as often and as hard as you like, you never can say enough, but don't blame her."

"Let us leave her share in the matter, then, out of the question," continued Elizabeth. "If you believe what you say, is it wise to run into danger as you do?"

"There's no help for it, Bessie; I should die if I could not see her dear little face! Oh, you can't think what I suffered while I was gone—I didn't talk about it—I don't even want to think of it; but, Bessie, dear, sometimes I used to think I should go out of my senses."

He was speaking seriously now; his face was absolutely pale with emotion, and his eyes—the one fine feature of his face—were misty with a remembrance of old pain.

"Poor Tom," murmured Elizabeth, in her pitying way, always full of sympathy for the trouble of others, whatever her own might be; "poor, dear Tom, I know how hard it is."

"No; you can't know, Bessie; you can't have the least idea! You don't know what it is to have something to hide—to go about with a secret gnawing at your heart—never able to open your lips—suffering night and day—"

He stopped suddenly and looked at his cousin with wonder; she was leaning back in her chair, her face was pale as death, and her lips parted in a dreary sigh.

Tom drew close to her chair and bent over her, with a look of anxious surprise on his disturbed features.

"Are you sick, Bessie?" he asked.

"No, no," she answered, controlling herself.

His words brought up her own secret burden so vividly before her that for an instant she had been dreadfully shaken.

"You look so pale; I'm afraid you are going to be ill."

"Indeed, I am not," she answered.

Tom knelt down by her on both knees, played with her embroidery silks, and finally said:

"Bessie, since we're talking plainly, may I say something?"

"Yes, Tom."

"Somehow, since I came back from Europe, you don't seem so happy as you used—maybe it's only one of my blunders—but I have thought you looked troubled—like a person that was always expecting something dreadful to happen."

She forced a smile upon her lips and then compelled them to answer him:

"Oh, you foolish Tom!"

"Then it is not so!" he urged. "You are not unhappy?"

"How could I be unhappy—is not my life pleasant, prosperous beyond anything I could ever have hoped for?"

"It seems so; that made me think it must be just one of my silly fancies."

"Nothing more, Tom."

"Mellen's the most splendid fellow in the world," pursued he; "and you couldn't well be sad with that little darling about you."

Elizabeth took up her silks again.

"Dismiss all such thoughts from your mind, Tom."

"I shall be only too glad. But tell me once more that I am an over-anxious busybody, minding everybody's concerns but my own. You see, Bessie, I love you like a sister, and will stand by you, by Jupiter, always. But these stupid ideas of mine, there's no foundation for them?"

"How could there be?"

"That's what I say to myself always," cried Tom. "Well, dear, I won't think such nonsense again."

"Do not, I beg; and never mention it to anybody."

"There's no danger of that," said Tom. "But you know, if you should get unhappy or in trouble, there is always one old chap you could lean on."

"I believe that, Tom; I do indeed."

"And you would come to me, Bessie?"

"If you could help me, yes. But trouble must come to all, Tom; and, generally, we must each bear our burdens alone."

"How sad your voice sounds, Bessie."

She made an effort to speak playfully:

"You are getting all sorts of ridiculous fancies in your head; don't be so foolish."

Tom was relieved by her manner, and began to laugh at his own ridiculous mistakes, rising from his knees and brushing the dust away with his handkerchief.

"My head is a poor old trap," he said. "Well, well, I am glad you are happy—very glad."

"And I want you to be happy, Tom."

"I am, upon my word, I am! I don't allow myself to think any more or to look forward, but just live on, glad to be in the sunshine. 'Tisn't a bad world, after all, Bess; things usually come right in the end."

If she could only believe it—if she could but accept his cheerful philosophy and his unwavering trust; but, alas! the sleepless dread at her heart prevented that.

"And about my stupid self, Bessie," added Tom.

"Yes, about your dear, good self," answered Elizabeth, glad to remove the subject from any connection with her secret dread.

"And my useless bits of affairs," pursued Tom; "just let things rest as they are, it's the best way."

"I don't wish to do anything to annoy you," she replied; "and you know very well I am the last person in the world to interfere——"

"Oh, don't talk like that, or I shall think you are offended."

"Not in the least, Tom; I only meant to say that it was my regard for your happiness that made me speak."

"I know—I feel that, Bessie; but just let things go on! Perhaps I am asleep and dreaming, but the slumber is pleasant, so don't wake me; it's cruel kindness, dear."

Elizabeth said nothing more; it was useless to pursue the subject; where Tom was concerned she saw plainly that it could do no good, his heart was fixed.



CHAPTER XXXVI.

LURED INTO DANGER.

Just as Elizabeth was thinking over this conversation, and giving another little sigh for Tom and what she feared for him, a blithe young voice rang in the hall, carolling like a bird.

"There she is!" exclaimed Tom.

His face lighted up, his whole frame seemed to expand with delight. Elizabeth watched him. She knew better than ever that his heartstrings were twined about that young creature, that his very soul had gone out in worship at her feet.

"And where are you hidden, Lady Bess?" sang Elsie, gayly.

Tom rushed to the door and flung it open, upsetting the table again, and this time leaving Elizabeth to pick it up herself.

"Here she is, my fairy princess!" he called, standing in the doorway and looking up at her as she paused on the stairs.

"In that dismal den and guarded by a dragon," cried Elsie, peeping at him through the banisters, mischievously. "Pray where did you come from, C[oe]ur de Lion?"

"If you knew what I had brought for my lady-bird, you would be on your prettiest behavior and give me your best welcome," said Tom.

"It's bon-bons!" cried Elsie with a shriek of delight. "The ogre means pralines and caramels and marons glaces!"

"Come down and see," said Tom, mysteriously.

Elsie danced downstairs and entered the room where her sister sat.

"Ugh, the ugly place!" said she. "It makes me shiver!"

"Better come into the den than lose the sweets," said Tom, opening the papers and pretending to eat greedily.

"He won't leave a drop!" cried Elsie, darting upon him.

Tom prolonged the playful struggle artfully enough; and when a truce was concluded it was only on condition that he should feed her with the sugarplums, and as he did not satisfy her greediness fast enough, there was a great deal of sport and laughter between the pair.

Elizabeth sat in the window and watched them, sighing sometimes and regarding Elsie with a strange pain in her eyes, as if annoyed and troubled that the happy creature could not leave her the full affection of this one heart.

"I want to go out on the water," said Elsie. "Will you take me, you ugly giant?"

"Won't I!" said Tom. "I'd take you to the moon if you liked."

"But I don't wish to try the moon, thank you; a nice long row will satisfy me. Come along, Bessie!"

"Not to-day," answered Elizabeth coldly.

"You're a hateful, poky thing!" cried Elsie. "Well, I shall go, the sun is lovely."

"I'll run down to the shore and get the boat ready," said Tom, ecstatically.

He darted away, and Elsie stood for a few moments crushing the candies between her white teeth and looking at Elizabeth, half frightened, half defiant.

"You are very busy," said she.

"One can't be idle," replied Elizabeth.

"Oh, can't one? It just suits me, thank you."

"Elsie," said her sister, suddenly, "I want to say something."

"If it is anything unpleasant, I won't hear. I won't hear. I want to be happy. Let me alone!"

"It is about yourself; don't be alarmed."

"Well, say it; but you are going to scold or something else dreadful, I know by your voice."

"Don't be such a baby," said Elizabeth, impatiently.

"There! I knew you were cross! How can I help being a baby? I like it, and I will be one."

"Do you think you are acting honestly with Tom?" said Elizabeth.

"I'm not acting at all," replied Elsie fretfully. "I can't help his coming here constantly. You wouldn't have me rude to your own cousin?"

"You know what I mean. He loves you, in spite of your conduct before he went abroad——"

"I can't help it," Elsie broke in again. "If people will fall in love with me it's their own fault; I don't ask them."

"But you can help encouraging him and leading him on to greater pain."

Elsie pouted.

"How do you know I shall?"

"You would not marry him," exclaimed Elizabeth, suddenly. "You—you—you——"

"You don't know anything about it. Let Tom and me alone. I think you are growing a cross old thing."

"Oh, Elsie, do be serious for one moment."

"Let me alone!" she repeated. "You are always spoiling my sunshine. I believe you hate me!"

"Don't talk so wildly, Elsie. But you cannot blame me for being anxious about Tom's happiness."

"And, pray, should I make him wretched if I married him?" she exclaimed defiantly.

"You won't do that. You——"

"I'll do what I please; and don't you meddle with me, just remember that!"

The voice was sharp and unlike Elsie's usual tone, but she quickly resumed her childish manner, and added:

"I'll be good—don't scold. There, I'm going now—good-bye!"

She danced out of the room and through the house, and Elizabeth heard her voice on the lawn, calling to Tom, to know if the boat was ready.

Elizabeth kept her seat, looking absently across the water. Presently she saw the little skiff shoot out from the shore, under the impetus of Tom's muscular arms, while Elsie leaned back in the stern, wrapped in a pale blue shawl, and reminding Elizabeth of the old German legend of the Lurlei.

She sat there a long time, with her former mournful thoughts all trooping back, like ravens to a desolated nest. The gloom upon her spirits waxed deeper, and the chill that had begun during the past days to creep about her heart tightened and grew cold, as if it were changing to an icy band, which would freeze her pulses in its tightening clasp. She looked out through the sunshine, watching the light boat till it became a mere speck in the distance, and finally disappeared among the windings of the long curve of land which stretched out into the ocean.

Thinking, thinking, always the same dreary round, till she grew so weary with the ceaseless anxiety, the constant necessity for plots and plans, the need of reflection, even, in slightest act, and, worse than all, the sleepless fear of discovery which hovered over her, asleep or awake, that it seemed sometimes that she could no longer uphold the burden, but must allow it to fall and crush her.

The afternoon was passing, but the little boat had not yet appeared in sight again. There was no danger that Tom would think of fatigue while he could sit looking in the face of his syren, listening to her low, sweet songs; nor was there the slightest possibility of her ever remembering that the strongest muscles must at last feel a little need of relaxation. Just as long as it pleased her to float over the sunlit waters, carolling her pretty melodies or talking gay nonsense to Tom, and blinding him utterly with the wicked lightning of her eyes, she would think of nothing else.

At last Mr. Mellen's step sounded in the hall. Elizabeth heard it, and immediately gathered up her embroidery silks, making a great pretence of being busy, lest he should enter suddenly, and pierce her with one of his dark, suspicious glances, which made her heart actually stand still with apprehension.

He came on towards the room, looked in at the door and saw his wife sitting there apparently quiet, comfortable, and wholly occupied with her pretty task.