"Do you begin to get over it, old fellow?" asked Ralph.

"No; I'm wretchedly sick," said Max. "I think I've had enough tobacco to last me all my days."

"O pshaw! it won't be half so bad next time, and pretty soon won't sicken you at all."

"But what should I gain to pay me for all the suffering?"

"Well, it seems sort o' babyish not to smoke."

"Does it? I've never seen Grandpa Dinsmore smoke, and I don't believe he ever does, nor Uncle Edward, nor Uncle Horace either."

"No, they don't, and Art doesn't, but they're all sort o' pious old fogies," Ralph said, with a coarse laugh.

"I wouldn't talk so about my own relations, if I were you," returned Max, in a tone of disgust.

"Of course I shouldn't let anybody else say a word against them," said Ralph.

Arthur's entrance put an end to the conversation. He inquired of Max if the sickness were abating; then sitting down beside him, "Boys," he said, "I want to talk to you a little about this silly business of smoking and chewing."

"I've never chewed," said Max.

"I'm glad to hear it, and I hope you never will, or smoke again either. How would you like, Max, to have a cancer on your lip?"

"Cancer, sir? I wouldn't choose to have one for anything in the world."

"Then don't smoke, especially a short pipe, for it often causes cancer of the lip. I cut one out of a man's lip the other day; and not long ago saw a man die from one after months of agonizing pain. Tobacco contains a great deal of virulent poison, and though some persons use it for many years without much apparent injury, it costs many others loss of health and even of life. It weakens the nerves and the action of the heart, and is a fruitful source of dyspepsia."

"Pooh! I don't believe it will ever hurt me," said Ralph.

"I think it will," said Arthur; "you have not yet attained your growth, and therefore are the more certain to be injured by its use.

"Max, my boy, I admire your father greatly, particularly his magnificent physique."

Max flushed with pleasure.

"Do you not wish to be like him in that? as tall and finely developed?"

"Yes, sir; yes, indeed! I want to be like papa in everything!"

"Then eschew tobacco, for it will stunt your growth!"

"But papa smokes," repeated Max.

"Now, but probably he did not until grown," said Arthur. "And very likely he sometimes wishes he had never contracted the habit. Now I must leave you for a time, as I have some other patients to visit."

"I told you he was an old fogy," said Ralph, as the door closed on his brother, adding with an oath, "I believe he wouldn't allow a fellow a bit of pleasure if he could help it."

Max started, and looked at Ralph with troubled eyes. "I didn't think you would swear," he said. "If you do, I—I can't be intimate with you, because my father won't allow it."

"I don't often," said Ralph, looking ashamed, "I won't again in your company."



CHAPTER XIV.

"Be sure your sin will find you out." —Num. 32:33.

Gracie and Walter were in the play-room. They had been building block-houses for an hour or more, when Gracie, saying, "I'm tired, Walter, I'm going in yonder to see the things Max and Lulu are making," rose and sauntered into the work-room.

She watched the busy carvers for some minutes, then went down to Violet's apartments in search of her.

She found no one there but Agnes busied in putting away some clean clothes, fresh from the iron.

"Where's mamma?" asked the little girl.

"In de drawin'-room, Miss Gracie. Comp'ny dar."

"Oh, dear!" sighed Gracie, "I just wanted her to talk to me."

"'Spect you hab to wait till de comp'ny am gone," returned Agnes, picking up her empty clothes-basket and leaving the room.

Gracie wandered disconsolately about the rooms, wishing that the callers would go and mamma come up. Presently she paused before the bureau in Violet's dressing-room, and began fingering the pretty things on it.

She was not usually a meddlesome child, but just now was tempted to mischief from the lack of something else to interest and employ her.

She handled the articles carefully, however, and did them no damage till she came to a beautiful cut-glass bottle filled with a costly perfume of which she was extravagantly fond.

Violet had frequently given her a few drops on her handkerchief without being asked, and never refused a request for it.

Gracie, seized with a desire for it, took a clean handkerchief from a drawer and helped herself, saying half aloud, by way of quieting her conscience, "Mamma would give it to me if she was here, she always does, and I'll be careful not to break the bottle."

She was pouring from it as she spoke. Just at that instant she heard a step in the hall without, and a sound as if a hand was laid on the door-knob.

It so startled her that the bottle slipped from her fingers, and striking the bureau as it fell, lay in fragments at her feet; its contents were spilled upon the carpet, and the air of the room was redolent of the delicious perfume.

Gracie, naturally a timid child, shrinking from everything like reproof or punishment, stood aghast at the mischief she had wrought.

"What will mamma say?" was her first thought. "Oh, I'm afraid she will be so vexed with me that she'll never love me any more!" And the tears came thick and fast, for mamma's love was very sweet to the little feeble child, who had been so long without a mother's care and tenderness.

Then arose the wish to hide her fault. Oh, if she could only replace the bottle! but that was quite impossible. Perhaps, though, there might be a way found to conceal the fact that she was the author of the mishap; she did not want to have any one else blamed for her fault, but she would like not to be suspected of it herself.

A bright thought struck her. She had seen the cat jump on that bureau a few days before and walk back and forth over it. If she (pussy) had been left in the room alone there that afternoon she might have done the same thing again, and knocked the bottle off upon the floor.

It would be no great harm, the little girl reasoned, trying to stifle the warnings and reproaches of conscience, if she should let pussy take the blame.

Mamma was kind, and wouldn't have pussy beaten, and pussy's feelings wouldn't be hurt, either, by the suspicion.

She hurried out in search of the cat, found her in the hall, pounced on her, carried her into the dressing-room, and left her there with all the doors shut, so that she could not escape, till some one going in would find the bottle broken, and think the cat had done it.

This accomplished, Gracie went back to the play-room and tried to forget her wrong-doing in the interesting employment of dressing her dolls.

Lulu presently left her carving and joined her. Max had gone for a ride.

While chasing the cat Gracie had not perceived a little woolly head thrust out of a door at the farther end of the hall, its keen black eyes closely watching her movements.

"He, he, he!" giggled the owner of the head, as Gracie secured pussy and hurried into the dressing-room with her, "wondah what she done dat fer!"

"What you talkin' 'bout, you sassy niggah?" asked Agnes, coming up behind her on her way to Mrs. Raymond's apartments with another basket of clean clothes, just as Gracie reappeared and hurried up the stairs to the story above."

"Why, Miss Gracie done come pounce on ole Tab while she paradin' down de hall, and ketch her up an' tote her off into Miss Wilet's dressin'-room, an's lef her dar wid de do' shut on her. What for you s'pose she done do dat?"

"Oh, go 'long! I don' b'lieve Miss Gracie didn't do no sich ting!" returned Agnes.

"She did den, I seed her," asserted the little maid positively. "Mebbe she heerd de mices runnin' 'round an want ole Tab for to ketch 'em."

"You go 'long and 'tend to yo' wuk. Bet, you lazy niggah," responded Agnes, pushing past her. "Miss Wilet an Miss Gracie dey'll min' dere own consarns widout none o' yo' help."

The child made no reply, but stole on tiptoe after Agnes.

Violet was coming up the front stairway, and reached the door of her dressing-room, just in advance of the girl. Opening it she exclaimed at the powerful perfume which greeted her nostrils, then catching sight of the bottle lying in fragments on the floor.

"Who can have done this?" she asked in a tone of surprise not wholly free from displeasure.

"De cat, mos' likely, Miss Wilet," said Agnes, setting down her basket and glancing at puss who was stretched comfortably on the rug before the fire. "I s'pect she's been running ober de bureau, like I see her do, mor'n once 'fo' dis."

"She looks very quiet now," remarked Violet, "and if she did the mischief it was certainly not intentional. But don't leave her shut up here again, Agnes."

"She didn't do it, Agnes didn't," volunteered Betty, who had stolen in after them; "it was Miss Gracie, Miss Wilet, I seed her ketch ole Tab out in de hall dere, and put her in hyar, an' shut de do onto her, an' go off up-stairs."

A suspicion of the truth flashed into Violet's mind; but she put it resolutely from her; she would not believe Gracie capable of slyness and deceit.

But she wanted the little girl, and sent Betty up with a message to that effect, bidding her make haste, and as soon as she had attended to that errand, brush up the broken glass and put it in the fire.

Betty ran nimbly up to the play-room, and putting her head in at the door, said with a grin, "Miss Gracie, yo' ma wants you down in de dressin'-room."

"What for?" asked Gracie, with a frightened look.

"Dunno, s'pect you fin' out when you gits dar."

"Betty, you're a saucy thing," said Lulu.

"S'pect mebbe I is, Miss Lu," returned the little maid with a broader grin than before, apparently considering the remark quite complimentary, while she held the door open for Gracie to pass out.

"Miss Gracie," she asked, as she followed Grace down the stairs, "what fo' you shut ole Tab up in de dressin'-room? She's done gone an' broke Miss Wilet's bottle what hab de stuff dat smell so nice, an' cose Miss Wilet she don' like dat ar."

"What makes you say I put her in there, Betty?" said Gracie.

"Kase I seed you, he, he, he!"

"Did you?" asked Gracie, looking still more alarmed than at the summons to the dressing-room. "Don't tell mamma, Betty. I'll give you a penny and help you make a frock for your doll if you won't."

Betty's only answer was a broad grin and a chuckle as she sprang past Gracie and opened the door for her.

Violet, seated on the farther side of the room, looked up with her usual sweet smile. "See, Gracie dear, I am making a lace collar for you, and I want to try it on to see if it fits."

"Now, Betty, get a dust-pan and brush and sweep up that glass. Don't leave the least bit of it on the carpet, lest some one should tramp on it and cut her foot."

"Some one has broken that cut-glass perfume bottle you have always admired so much, Gracie. Aren't you sorry?"

"Yes, I am, mamma. I never touch your things when you're not here."

The words were out almost before Grace knew she meant to speak them, and she was terribly frightened and ashamed. She had never thought she would be guilty of telling a lie. She hung her head, her cheeks aflame.

Violet noted the child's confusion with a sorely troubled heart.

"No, dear," she said very gently, "I did not suspect you, but if ever you should meet with an accident, or yield to temptation to do some mischief, I hope you will come and tell me about it at once. You need not fear that I will be severe with you, for I love you very dearly, little Gracie."

"Perhaps it was the cat knocked it off the bureau, mamma," said the child, speaking low and hesitatingly. "I've seen her jump up there several times."

"Yes; so have I, and she must not be left alone in here any more."

Betty had finished her work and was sent away. Agnes, too, had left the room, so that Violet and Gracie were quite alone.

"Come, dear, I am quite ready to try this on." Violet said, holding up the collar. "There, it fits very nicely," as she put it on the child and gently smoothed it down over her shoulders. "But what is the matter, my darling?" for tears were trembling on the long silken lashes that swept Gracie's flushed cheeks.

At the question they began to fall in streams, while the little bosom heaved with sobs. She pulled out a handkerchief from her pocket to wipe her eyes, and a strong whiff of perfume greeted Violet's nostrils, telling a tale that sent a pang to her heart.

Gracie was instantly conscious of it, as she, too, smelled the tell-tale perfume, and stole a glance at her young stepmother's face.

"O mamma!" she sobbed, covering her face with her hands, "I did pour a little on my handkerchief 'cause I knew you always let me have it, but I didn't mean to break the bottle; it just slipped out o' my hands and fell and broke."

Violet clasped her in her arms and wept bitterly over her.

"Mamma, don't cry," sobbed the child, "I'll save up all my money till I can buy you another bottle, just like that."

"O Gracie, Gracie, it is not that!" Violet said, when emotion would let her speak. "I valued the bottle as the gift of my dear dead father, but I would rather have lost it a hundred times over than have my darling tell a lie. It is so wicked, so wicked! God hates lying. He says, 'All liars shall have their part in the lake that burneth with fire and brimstone.' 'He that speaketh lies shall not escape.' He says that Satan is the father of lies, and that those who are guilty of lying are the children of that wicked one.

"Have you forgotten how God punished Gehazi for lying by making him a leper, and struck Ananias and Sapphira dead for the same sin? O my darling, my darling, it breaks my heart to think you have both acted and spoken a falsehood!" she cried, clasping the child still closer to her bosom and weeping over her afresh.

Gracie, too, cried bitterly. "Mamma, mamma," she said, "will God never forgive me? will He send me to that dreadful place?"

"He will forgive you if you are truly sorry for your sin because it is dishonoring and displeasing to Him, and if you ask Him to pardon you for Jesus' sake; and He will take away the evil nature that leads you to commit sin, giving you a new and good heart, and take you to heaven when you die.

"But no one can go to heaven who is not first made holy. The Bible bids us follow 'holiness without which no man shall see the Lord.' And Jesus is a Saviour from sin. 'Thou shalt call His name Jesus, for He shall save His people from their sins.' Shall we kneel down now and ask Him to save you from yours?"

"Yes, mamma," sobbed the child.

Violet's prayer was short and to the point. Then she held Gracie for some time in her arms, while they mingled their tears together.

At length, "Gracie dear," she said, "I believe God has heard our prayer and forgiven you. I am sure He has if you are truly sorry in your heart and asked with it, and not only with your lips, for forgiveness; but I want you to stay here alone for an hour and think it all over quietly, I mean about your wrongdoing and God's willingness to forgive for Jesus' sake, and that we could not have been forgiven and saved from sin and hell if the dear Saviour had not died for us the cruel death of the cross.

"Oh, think what a dreadful thing sin must be that it could not be blotted out except by Jesus suffering and dying in our stead! And think how great was His love for us, when He was willing to lay down His own life that we might live!"

Then with a kiss of tender motherly love, she went out and left the child alone.

Gracie was sincerely penitent. She had always been taught that lying was a dreadful sin, and had never before told a direct falsehood; but while in her former home, Mrs. Scrimp's faulty management, joined to her own natural timidity, had tempted her to occasional slyness and deceit, and from these the descent to positive untruth was easy.

Violet's faithful dealing, and even more her evident deep distress because of the sin against God of which her darling had been guilty, had so convinced the child of the heinousness of her conduct that she was sorely distressed because of it, and on being left alone, knelt down again and pleaded for pardon with many bitter tears and sobs.

She had risen from her knees and was lying on a couch, still weeping, when Lulu came into the room.

"Why, Gracie, what is the matter?" she asked, running to the couch and bending over her little sister in tender concern.

"Don't ask me, Lulu, I don't want to tell you," sobbed Gracie, turning away her blushing, tear-stained face.

"Mamma Vi has been scolding or punishing you for some little naughtiness, I suppose," said Lulu, frowning.

"No, she hasn't!" cried Gracie indignantly; then hastily correcting herself, "except that she said she wanted me to stay here alone for a while. So you must go and leave me."

"I won't till you tell me what it was all about. What did you do? or was it something you didn't do?"

"I don't want to tell you, 'cause you wouldn't ever do such a wicked thing, and you—you'd despise me if you knew I'd done it," sobbed Gracie.

"No, I wouldn't. You are better than I am. Papa said I was worse than you and Max both put together. So you needn't mind my knowing."

"I meddled and broke mamma's pretty bottle that her dead father gave her; but she didn't scold me for that; not a bit; but—but 'cause I tried to put the blame on puss, and—and said I—I never touched her things when she wasn't here."

"O Gracie, that was wicked! to say what wasn't true! I think papa would have whipped you, for I've heard him say if there was anything he would punish severely in one of his children, it was falsehood. But don't cry so. I'm sure you're sorry and won't ever do it again."

"No, no! never, never! Mamma hugged me up in her arms and cried hard 'cause I'd been so wicked. And she asked Jesus to forgive me and make me good, so I shouldn't have to go to that dreadful place. Now go away, Lu, 'cause she said I must stay alone."

"Yes, I will; but stop crying or you'll be sick," Lulu said, kissing Gracie, then left the room and went to her own to make herself neat before going down to join the family at tea.

Her thoughts were busy with Gracie and her trouble while she brushed her hair, washed her hands, and changed her dress. "Poor, little weak thing, she was frightened into it, of course, for it's the very first time she ever told an untruth. I suppose Mamma Vi must have looked very cross about the broken bottle; and she needn't, I'm sure, for she has plenty of money to buy more. Such a shame! but I just knew she wouldn't always be kind to us."

Thus Lulu worked herself up into a passion, quite forgetting, in her unreasonable anger, how very mild was the punishment Violet had decreed to Gracie (if indeed it was meant as such at all); so much less severe than the one she herself had said their father would have been likely to administer.

Max was riding without companion or attendant. He had taken the direction of the village, but not with any thought of going there until, as he reached its outskirts, it occurred to him that he was nearly out of wood for carving, and that this would be a good opportunity for laying in a supply.

The only difficulty was that he had not asked leave before starting, and it was well understood that he was not at liberty to go anywhere—visiting or shopping—without permission.

"How provoking!" he exclaimed half aloud. "I haven't time to go back and ask leave, and a long storm may set in before to-morrow, and so my work be stopped for two or three days. I'll just go on, for what's the difference, anyhow? I'm almost there, and I know I'd have got leave if I'd only thought of asking."

So on he went, made his purchase, and set off home with it.

He was rather late: a storm seemed brewing, and as he rode up the avenue Violet was at the window looking out a little anxiously for him.

Mr. Dinsmore, hearing her relieved exclamation, "Ah, there he is!" came to her side as Max was in the act of dismounting.

"The boy has evidently been into the town making a purchase," he said. "Had he permission from you or any one, Violet?"

"Not from me, grandpa," she answered with reluctance.

"Did you give him leave, Elsie?" he asked, turning to his daughter. "Or you, wife?"

Both answered in the negative, and with a very stern countenance Mr. Dinsmore went out to the hall to meet the delinquent.

"Where have you been, Max?" he asked, in no honeyed accents.

"For a ride, sir," returned the lad respectfully.

"Not merely for a ride," Mr. Dinsmore said, pointing to the package in the boy's hand; "you did not pick that up by the roadside. Where have you been?"

"I stopped at Turner's just long enough to buy this wood that I shall need for carving to-morrow. I should have asked leave, but forgot to do so."

"Then you should have come home and left the errand for another day. You were well aware that in going without permission you were breaking rules. You will go immediately to your room and stay there until this time to-morrow."

"I think you're very hard on a fellow," muttered Max, flushing with mortification and anger as he turned to obey.

Lulu, coming down the stairs, had heard and seen it all. She stood still for a moment at the foot of the stairway, giving Mr. Dinsmore a look that, had it been a dagger, would have stabbed him to the heart, but which he did not see; then, just as the tea-bell rang, turned and began the ascent again.

"Why are you going back, Lulu? did you not hear the supper bell?" asked Mr. Dinsmore.

"Yes, sir," she answered, facing him again with flashing eyes, "but if my brother is not to go to the table neither will I."

"Oh, very well," he said; "you certainly do not deserve a seat there after such a speech as that. Go to your own room and stay there until you find yourself in a more amiable and respectful mood."

It was exactly what she had intended to do, but because he ordered it, it instantly became the thing she did not want to do.

However, she went into her room, and closing the door after her, not too gently, said aloud with a stamp of her foot, "Hateful old tyrant!" then walked on into Violet's dressing-room, where her sister still was.

Gracie had lain down upon a sofa and wept herself to sleep, but the supper bell had waked her, and she was crying again. Catching sight of Lulu's flushed, angry face, she asked what was the matter.

"I wish we could go away from these people and never, never come back again!" cried Lulu in her vehement way.

"I don't," said Gracie. "I love mamma and Grandma Elsie, and Grandma Rose, and Grandpa Dinsmore, too, and——"

"I hate him! I'd like to beat him! the old tyrant!" interrupted Lulu, in a burst of passion.

"O Lu! I'm sure he's been kind to us; they're all kind to us when we're good," expostulated Grace. "But what has happened to make you so angry, and why aren't you eating your supper with the rest?"

"Do you think I'd go and sit at the table with them when they won't have you and Max there, too?"

"What about Max? did he do something wrong, too?"

"No; it wasn't anything wicked; he just bought some wood for his carving with some of his own money."

"But maybe he went without leave?" Gracie said, half inquiringly.

"Yes, that was it; he forgot to ask. A very little thing to punish him for, I'm sure; but Mr. Dinsmore (I sha'n't call him grandpa) says he must stay in his own room till this time to-morrow."

"Why," said Gracie, "that's worse than mamma's punishment to me for—for doing such a wicked, wicked thing!"

"Yes, she's not such a cruel tyrant. He'd have beaten you black and blue. I hope she won't tell him about it."

A terrified look came into Gracie's eyes, and she burst out crying again.

"O Gracie, don't!" Lulu entreated, kneeling down beside the sofa and clasping her arms about her. "I didn't mean to frighten you so. Of course, Mamma Vi won't; if she meant to she'd have done it before now, and you'd have heard from him, too."

A step came along the hall, the door opened, and Agnes appeared bearing a large silver waiter.

"Ise brung yo' suppah, chillens," she said, setting it down on a table.

Then lifting a stand and placing it near Gracie's couch, she presently had it covered with a snowy cloth and a dainty little meal arranged upon it: broiled chicken, stewed oysters, delicate rolls, hot buttered muffins and waffles, canned peaches with sugar and rich cream, sponge cake, nice and fresh, and abundance of rich sweet milk.

The little girls viewed these dainties with great satisfaction, and suddenly discovered that they were very hungry.

Agnes set up a chair for each, saw them begin their meal, then left the room, saying she would be back again directly with more hot cakes.

"There, Gracie, you needn't be the least bit afraid you're to be punished any more," remarked Lulu. "They'd never have sent us such a supper as this if they wanted to punish us."

"Do you want to run away from them now?" asked Gracie. "Do you think Grandpa Dinsmore is so very, very cross to us?"

"He's too hard on Max," returned Lulu, "though not so hard as he used to be on Grandma Elsie when she was his own little girl; and perhaps papa would be just as hard as he is with Max."

"But 'tisn't 'cause they like to make us sorry, except for being naughty, so that we'll grow up good, you know," said Grace. "I'm sure our dear papa loves us, every one, and wouldn't ever make us sorry except just to make us good. And you know we can't be happy here, or go to heaven when we die, if we're not good."

"Yes, I know," said Lulu; "I'm not a bit happy when I'm angry and stubborn, but for all that I can't help it."



CHAPTER XV.

"Happy in this, she is not yet so old But she may learn." —Shakespeare.

Violet, meeting her grandfather on the way to the supper-room, gave him an anxious, troubled inquiring look, which he answered by a brief statement, given in an undertone, of what had just passed between himself and Max and Lulu.

"All of them!" sighed the young stepmother to herself, "all three of them at once! Ah me!"

Though Mr. Dinsmore had spoken low, both his daughter and Zoe had heard nearly all he said, and as they sat down to the table the one looked grieved and distressed, the other angry.

During the meal Zoe never once addressed Mr. Dinsmore, and when he spoke to her she answered as briefly as possible, and not in a very pleasant or respectful tone.

Edward noticed it, and looked at her in displeased surprise; then, becoming aware of the absence of the Raymonds, asked, "Where are Max, Lulu, and Gracie?"

He had not heard the story of their disgrace, having come to the supper-room a little later than the others, and directly from his own.

For a moment the question, addressed to no one in particular, remained unanswered; then Mr. Dinsmore said, "Max and Lulu are in disgrace. I know nothing about Gracie, but presume she is not feeling well enough to come down."

Zoe darted an angry glance at him.

Violet looked slightly relieved. She had not spoken at all of Gracie's wrongdoing, and did not want any one to know of it.

"I may send the children their supper, grandpa?" she said inquiringly, with a pleading look.

"Do just as you please about it," he answered. "Of course I would not have growing children go fasting for any length of time; certainly not all night, for that would be to the injury of their health; and I leave it to you to decide how luxurious their meal shall be."

"Thank you, grandpa," she said, and at once gave the requisite order.

Meanwhile Max had obeyed the order to go to his room in almost as angry and rebellious a mood as Lulu's own. He shut the door, threw down his package, tore off his overcoat and stamped about the floor for a minute or two, fuming and raging.

"I say it's just shameful! abominable treatment! I'm tired being treated like a baby, and I won't stand it! The idea of being shut up here for twenty-four hours for such a trifle! Oh, dear!" he added, dropping into a chair, "I'm as hungry as a bear. I wonder if he doesn't mean to let me have any supper? I don't believe Mamma Vi would approve of his starving me altogether; no, nor Grandma Elsie, either; I hope they'll manage to give me something to eat before bedtime. If they don't, I believe I'll try to bribe Tom when he comes to see to the fire."

It was not long before he heard Tom's step on the stairs, then his knock on the door.

"Come in," he answered, in cheerful tones; then, as he caught sight of a waiter full of good things, such as his sisters were supping upon, "Hurrah! Tom, you're a brick! But who sent it?"

"Miss Wilet; and she says if dars not nuff ob it to satisfy yo' appetite, you's to ring for mo'."

"All right; tell Mamma Vi I'm much obliged," said Max.

"Very good prison fare," he added to himself, as he fell to work, Tom having withdrawn, "I've good reason to be fond of Mamma Vi, and as she's fond of her grandfather, I s'pose I'll have to forgive him for her sake," he concluded, quite restored to good humor, and laughing gleefully at his own jest.

"O Lulu," exclaimed Gracie, struck with a sudden recollection, and laying down the spoon with which she was eating her oysters, "you know I was to stay alone. You oughtn't to have come in here."

"Pooh! your time was up a good while ago," returned Lulu, "and Mamma Vi must have expected me to come in here to eat supper along with you. I hope she has sent as good a one to poor Maxie."

Violet went directly from the supper-room to her own apartments, where she found the two little girls quietly talking together, while Agnes gathered up the remainder of their repast and carried it and the dishes away.

"I hope you enjoyed your supper, dears," she said.

They both said they had, and thanked her for it.

"And I didn't deserve it, mamma," added Gracie, her tears beginning to fall again; "but oh, I'm sorry, very sorry! Please, mamma, forgive me."

"I have entirely forgiven the sin against me, darling," whispered Violet, folding her close to her heart, "and I trust God has forgiven your far greater sin against Him. Now do not cry any more, or you will make yourself sick, and that would make me very sad."

Lulu was sitting near fighting a battle with pride and passion, in which ere-long she came off conqueror.

"Mamma Vi," she said with determination, "I didn't deserve it either, and I'm sorry, too, for being angry at your grandfather and saucy to him."

"Dear child," said Violet, drawing her to her side and kissing her with affectionate warmth, "how glad I am to hear you say that. May I repeat your words to grandpa as a message from you?"

Again Lulu had a struggle with herself, and perhaps it was only the thought that this was the easiest way to make an apology, which would probably be required of her sooner or later, that helped her to conquer.

Her entry in her diary in regard to the occurrence was, "I was a little saucy to Grandpa Dinsmore because he was hard on Max for just a little bit of a trifle, but I've said I'm sorry, and it's all right now."

* * * * *

Edward and his grandfather having a business matter to talk over together, repaired to the library on leaving the table, and Zoe, instead of going, as usual, to the parlor with the others, went to her own rooms.

She had seen Violet, who was a little in advance of her, going into hers, and only waiting to take a little package from a closet, she ran lightly up to Max's door, tapped gently on it, then in her eagerness, opened it slightly, with a whispered, "It's only I, Max. May I come in?"

"Yes, indeed," he answered, springing forward to admit her and hand her a chair. "How good in you to come, Aunt Zoe!"

"No, I did it to please myself. You know you've always been a favorite with me, Max, and I want to know what this is all about."

Max told her.

"It's a perfect shame!" she exclaimed indignantly. "I can't see the least bit of harm in your going to the store and buying what you did. You weren't even wasting the pocket money that you had a right to spend as you pleased. Grandpa Dinsmore is a—a—rather tyrannical, I think."

"It does seem hard to have so little liberty," Max said, discontentedly, "but I don't know that he's any more strict, after all, than papa."

"Well, I must run away now," said Zoe, jumping up. "Here's something to sweeten your imprisonment," putting a box of confectionery into his hand. "Good-by," and she tripped away.

She met her husband in the hall upon which their rooms opened. "Where have you been?" he asked coldly, and with a suspicious look.

"That's my affair," she returned, flushing, and with a saucy little toss of her pretty head.

He gave her a glance of mingled surprise and displeasure. "What has come over you, Zoe?" he asked. "Can't you give a civil answer to a simple question?"

"Of course I can, Mr. Travilla, but I think it's a pretty story if I'm to be called to account as to where I go even about the house."

"Nothing but a guilty conscience could have made you look at my question in that light," he said, leaning against the mantel and looking down severely at her as she stood before him, for they were now in her boudoir. "I presume you have been in Max's room, condoling with and encouraging him in his defiance of grandpa's authority; and let me tell you, I won't allow it."

"It makes no difference whether you allow it or not," she said, turning away with a contemptuous sniff. "I'm my own mistress."

"Do you mean to defy my authority, Zoe?" he asked, with suppressed anger.

"Yes, I do. I'll do anything in the world for love and coaxing, but I won't be driven. I'm your wife, sir, not your slave."

"I have no desire to enslave you, Zoe," he said, his tone softening, "but you are so young, so very young for a married woman, that you surely ought to be willing to submit to a little loving guidance and control."

"I didn't perceive much love in the attempt you made just now," she said, seating herself and opening a book.

He watched her for a moment. She seemed absorbed in reading, and he could not see that the downcast eyes were too full of tears to distinguish one letter from another.

He left the room without another word, and hardly had the door closed on him when she flung the book from her, ran into the dressing-room, and throwing herself on a couch, cried as if her heart would break.

"He's all I have, all I have!" she moaned, "and he's beginning to be cruel to me! Oh, what shall I do! what shall I do! Papa, papa, why did you die and leave your darling all alone in this cold world?"

She hoped Edward would come back presently, say he was sorry for his brutal behavior, and try to make his peace with her by coaxing and petting; but he did not, and after a while she gave up expecting him, undressed, went to bed and cried herself to sleep, feeling that she was a sadly ill-used wife.

Meanwhile Edward had returned to the library for a time, then gone into the family parlor, hoping and half expecting to find Zoe there with the rest; but the first glance showed him that she was not in the room.

He made no remark about it, but sitting down beside his mother, tried to interest himself in the evening paper handed him by his grandfather.

"What have you done with your wife, young man?" asked his sister Elsie sportively. "We have seen nothing of her since supper."

"I left her in her room," he answered in a tone in which there seemed a shade of annoyance.

"Have you locked her up there for bad behavior?" asked Rosie, laughing.

"Why, what do you mean, Rosie?" he returned, giving the child a half-angry glance, and coloring deeply.

"Oh, I was only funning, of course, Ned. So you needn't look so vexed about it; that's the very way to excite suspicion that you have done something to her," and Rosie laughed gleefully.

But to the surprise of mother and sisters, Edward's brow darkened, and he made no reply.

"Rosie," said Violet, lightly, "you are an incorrigible tease. Let the poor boy alone, can't you?"

"Thank you, Mrs. Raymond," he said, with a forced laugh, "but I wouldn't have Rosie deprived of her sport."

"I hope," remarked Mrs. Travilla, with a kindly though grave look at her youngest daughter, "that my Rosie does not find it sport to inflict annoyance upon others."

"No, mamma, not by any means, but how could I suppose my wise oldest brother would care for such a trifle?" returned the little girl in a sprightly tone.

"My dear," said her mother, "it is the little things—little pleasures, little vexations—that far more than the great make up the sum total of our happiness or misery in this life."

Edward was very silent during the rest of the evening, and his mother, watching him furtively and putting that and that together, felt sure that something had gone wrong between him and his young wife.

When the good-nights had been said and the family had scattered to their rooms, he lingered behind, and his mother, who had left the room, perceiving it, returned to find him standing on the hearth, gazing moodily into the fire.

She went to him, and laying her hand gently on his shoulder. "My dear boy," she said, in her sweet low tones, "I cannot help seeing that something has gone wrong with you; I don't ask what it is, but you have your mother's sympathy in every trouble."

"It is unfortunately something you would not want me to repeat even to you, my best and dearest of mothers, but your assurance of sympathy is sweet and comforting, nevertheless," he said, taking her in his arms with a look and manner so like his father's, that tears sprang unbidden to her eyes.

"Ah," he said presently, with a sigh that betrayed more than he was aware of, "my father was a happy man in having such a woman for his wife!"

"A good husband makes a good wife, my boy," she returned, gazing searchingly yet tenderly into his eyes; "and I think no woman with any heart at all could have failed to be such to him."

"I am not worthy to be his son," he murmured, the hot blood mounting to his very hair.

There was a moment or more of silence, then she said, softly caressing his hair and cheek as she spoke, "Edward, my son, be very patient, very gentle, forbearing and loving toward the orphan child, the care of whom you assumed of your own free will, the little wife you have promised to love and cherish to life's end."

"Yes, mother, I have tried very earnestly to be all that to her—but she is such a child that she needs guidance and control, and I cannot let her show disrespect to you or my grandfather."

"She has always been both dutiful and affectionate to me, Ned, and I have never known her to say a disrespectful word to or about your grandfather."

"Did you not notice the looks she gave him at the table, to-night? the tone in which she replied when he spoke to her?"

"I tried not to do so," she said with a smile. "I learned when my first children were young that it was the part of wisdom to be sometimes blind to venial faults. Not," she added more gravely, "that I would ever put disrespect to my father in that category, but we must not make too much of a little girlish petulance, especially when excited by a generous sympathy with the troubles of another."

The cloud lifted from his brow. "How kind in you to say it, mother dear! kind to her and to me. Yes, she is very fond of Max, quite as if he were a younger brother, and it is very natural that she should sympathize with him when in disgrace."

"And having been so petted and indulged by her father, allowed to have her own way in almost everything, and seldom, if ever, called to account for her doings, comings and goings, she can hardly fail to think my father's rule strict and severe."

"True," Edward responded with a sigh, "and grandpa is a strict disciplinarian, yet so kind and affectionate with it all that one cannot help loving him."

"So I think. And now, good-night, my dear son. I must go; and perhaps your little wife is looking and longing for your coming. She is very fond and proud of her young husband," and with a motherly kiss and smile she left him.

Edward paced the floor for several minutes with thoughtful air, then went up-stairs to Zoe's boudoir.

She was not there or in the dressing-room. He took up a lamp and went on into the adjoining bedroom. Shading the light with his hand, he drew near the bed with noiseless step.

She lay there sleeping, tears on her eyelashes and her pillow wet with them. His heart smote him at the sight. She looked such a mere child and so sweet and innocent that he could hardly refrain from imprinting a kiss upon the round rosy cheek and the full red lips.

And he longed for a reconciliation, but it seemed cruel to wake her, so it should be the first thing in the morning, he said to himself.

He set the lamp down in a distant part of the room, and prepared for rest.

* * * * *

Max had spent the evening over his books and diary. His entry in that was a brief statement of his delinquency, its punishment, and his resolve to be more obedient in future.

He had just wiped his pen and put it away, when Grandma Elsie came for a little motherly talk with him, as she often did at bedtime.

He received her with a mortified, embarrassed air, but her kind, gentle manner quickly restored his self-possession.

"I was sorry, indeed," she said, "to hear that our boy Max had become a breaker of rules, and so caused us the loss of his society at the table and in the parlor."

"I thought the loss was all on my side. Grandma Elsie," he returned with a bright, pleased look. "I didn't suppose anybody would miss me unpleasantly."

"Ah, you were quite mistaken in that; we are all fond of you, Max."

"Not Grandpa Dinsmore, I'm sure," he said, dropping his eyes and frowning.

"Why, Max, what else could induce him to give you a home here and be at the trouble of teaching you every day?"

"I thought it was you who gave me a home, Grandma Elsie," Max said in a softened tone, and with an affectionate look at her.

"This is my house," she said, "but my father is the head of the family, and without his approval I should never have asked you and your sisters here, much as I desire your happiness, and fond of you as I certainly am."

"You are very, very good to us!" he exclaimed with warmth; "you do so much for us! I wish I could do something for you!"

"Do you, my dear boy?" she said, smiling and softly patting his hand, which she had taken in hers; "then be respectful and obedient to my father. And to your mamma—my dear daughter. Nothing else could give me so much pleasure."

"I love Mamma Vi!" exclaimed Max. 'I'm sure there couldn't be a sweeter lady. And I like Grandpa Dinsmore, too, but—don't you think now he's very strict and ready to punish a fellow for a mere trifle, Grandma Elsie?"

"I dare say it seems but a trifle to you for a boy of your age to go into town and do an errand for himself without asking leave," she replied, "but that might lead to much worse things; the boy might take to loitering about the town and fall into bad company and so be led into I know not what wickedness. For that reason parents and guardians should know all about a boy's comings and goings."

"That's so, Grandma Elsie," Max said reflectively. "I don't mean to get into bad company ever, but papa says I'm a heedless fellow, so perhaps I might do it before I thought. I'll try to keep to rules after this."

"I hope so, for both your own sake and ours," she said; then with a motherly kiss bade him good-night.



CHAPTER XVI.

"O jealousy! thou merciless destroyer, More cruel than the grave! what ravages Does thy wild war make in the noblest bosoms!" —Mullet.

Edward stretched himself beside Zoe, but not to sleep for hours, for ever and anon she drew a sobbing breath that went to his very heart.

"Poor little thing!" he sighed, "I must have acted like a brute to grieve her so deeply, I should not have undertaken the care of a child who I knew had been spoiled by unlimited petting and indulgence, if I could not be more forbearing and tender with her. If, instead of a show of authority, I had tried reasoning and coaxing, doubtless the result would have been very different, and she would have been saved all this. I am ashamed of myself! Grandpa might possibly have acted so toward a wife, but my father never, I am sure."

He was really very fond of his little wife, loving her with a protecting love as something peculiarly his own, to be guided and moulded to suit his ideas and wishes, so that she might eventually become the perfectly congenial companion, capable of understanding and sympathizing in all his views and feelings, which he desired, but found that she was not yet.

He began to fear she might never attain to that; that perhaps his sudden marriage was a mistake that would ruin the happiness of both for life.

Tormented thus, he turned restlessly on his pillow with many a groan and sigh, nor closed an eye in sleep till long past midnight.

He was sleeping very soundly when, about sunrise, Zoe opened her eyes.

She lay still for a moment listening to his breathing, while memory recalled what had passed between them previous to her retiring.

"And there he lies and sleeps just as soundly as if he hadn't been playing the tyrant to the woman he promised to love and cherish to life's end," she said to herself, with a flash of anger and scorn in her eyes. "Well, I don't mean to be here when he wakes; I'll keep out of his way till he's had his breakfast; for they say men are always savage on an empty stomach."

She slipped cautiously out of the bed, stole quietly into the next room, made her toilet, arraying herself in riding habit and hat, went down-stairs, ordered her pony saddled and brought to the door, and was presently galloping away down the avenue.

Edward had requested her never to go alone, always to take a servant as an attendant, even if she had one of the children with her, and especially if she had not; but she disregarded his wishes in this instance, partly from a spirit of defiance, partly because she much preferred a solitary ride, and could not see that there was any danger in it.

It was a bright spring morning, the air just cold enough to be delightfully bracing; men were at work in the fields, orchards were full of bloom and fragrance, forest trees leafing out, and springing grass and flowers making the roadsides lovely.

Zoe's spirits rose with every mile she travelled, the perfume of flowers, the songs of birds, and all the sweet sights and sounds of nature that greeted eye, and ear, and every sense, filled her with joy. How could she, so young and full of life and health, be unhappy in so beautiful a world?

So keen was her enjoyment that she rode farther than she had intended. Time passed so quickly that, on looking at her watch, she was surprised to find that she would hardly be able, even at a gallop, to reach Ion by the breakfast hour.

She was a little disturbed at that, for everybody was expected to be punctual at meals. Grandpa Dinsmore was particular about it, and she did not wish to give Edward fresh cause for displeasure.

As she galloped swiftly up the avenue, she was surprised to see him pacing the veranda to and fro, watch in hand, while his horse stood near ready saddled and bridled.

As she drew rein close by the veranda steps, Edward hastily returned his watch to its fob, sprang forward, and lifted her from the saddle.

"Good-morning, little wife," he said with an affectionate kiss as he set her down, yet still keeping his arm about her. "I was not so kind as I might, or should have been last night, but you will not lay it up against your husband, love?"

"No, of course not, Ned," she returned, looking up into his face flushed and happy, that so loving an apology had been given her in place of the reproof she expected; "and you won't hate me because I was cross when you were?"

"Hate you, love! No, never! I shall love you as long as we both live. But I must say good-by. I am summoned away on important business, and shall have hardly time to catch the next train."

"You might have told me last night," she pouted, as with another kiss he took his arm from her waist and turned to leave her.

"I did not receive the summons till half an hour ago," he answered, hastily mounting his steed.

"When will you come back?" she asked.

"I hope to be with you by tea-time, this evening. Au revoir, darling."

He threw her a kiss and was gone, galloping so rapidly away that in a minute or two he was out of sight; all the more speedily to her because her eyes were blinded with tears as she stood motionless, gazing after him.

It was their first parting, and there came over her a feeling that, should he never come back, the world would be a desert, nothing left worth living for.

"Never mind, dear child, it is for only a few hours, if all goes well," said a kind sweet voice at her side.

"Yes, mamma, but—oh, I wish he never had to go away without me! And why couldn't I have gone with him this time?" she sobbed, beginning to feel herself quite aggrieved, though the idea of going with Edward had but just occurred to her.

"Well, dear, there really was not time to arrange that," Elsie said, embracing her with motherly affection. "But come now and get some breakfast. You must be hungry after your ride."

"Is Grandpa vexed because I was not here in season?" Zoe asked, following her mother-in-law on her way to the breakfast-room.

"He has not shown any vexation," Elsie answered lightly; "and you are not much behind time; they are all still at the table. Edward took his breakfast early in order to catch his train."

Zoe's apprehensions were relieved immediately on entering the breakfast-room, as Mr. Dinsmore and all the others greeted her with the usual pleasant "Good-morning."

Reconciled to her husband and smiled upon by all the rest of the family, she grew quite happy.

In saying she was not to be driven, but would do anything for love and coaxing, she had spoken truly; and now her great desire was to do something to please Edward.

She had been rather remiss in her studies of late, and though he had administered no reproof, she knew that he felt discouraged over it. She determined to surprise him on his return with carefully prepared lessons.

After giving due attention to them, she spent hours at the piano learning a song he admired and had lately bought for her, saying he thought it suited to her voice, and wanted to hear her play and sing it.

"What a dear, industrious little woman," Elsie said, meeting her in the hall as she left the music-room, and bestowing upon her a motherly smile and caress. "I know whom you are trying so hard to please, and if he does not show appreciation of your efforts, I shall think him unworthy of so good a little wife."

Zoe colored with pleasure. "O mamma," she said, "though I have been cross and wilful sometimes, I would do anything in the world to please my husband when he is loving and kind to me. But do you know, I can't bear to be driven. I won't; if anybody tries it with me, it just rouses all that is evil in me."

"Well, dear, I don't think any one in this house wants to drive you," Elsie said, repeating her caress, "not even your husband; though he is, perhaps, a trifle masterful by nature. You and he will need to take the two bears into your counsels," she added sportively.

"Two bears, mamma?" and Zoe looked up in surprise and perplexity.

"Yes, dear; bear and forbear, as the poet sings—

"'The kindest and the happiest pair Will find occasion to forbear, And something every day they live To pity and perhaps forgive.'"

Zoe went slowly up to her own rooms and sat down to meditate upon her mother-in-law's words.

"'Bear and forbear.' Well, when Edward reproves me as if he were my father instead of my husband, and talks about what he will and won't allow, I must bear with him, I suppose; and when I want to answer back that I'm my own mistress and not under his control, I must forbear and deny myself the pleasure. Hard for me to do, but then it isn't to be all on one side; and if he will only forbear lecturing me in the beginning, all will go right.

"I mean to tell him so. If he wants me to be very good, he should set me the example. Good! when he scolds me again, I'll just remind him that example is better than precept.

"No, I won't either; I'll forbear. Ned is good to me, and I don't want to provoke him. I mean to be a good little wife to him, and I know he wants to be the best of husbands to me.

"Oh, how kind and good he was to me when papa died, and I hadn't another friend in the world! how he took me to his heart and comforted and loved me! I must never make him wish he hadn't. I'll do everything I can to prove that I'm not ungrateful for all his love and kindness."

Tears sprang to her eyes, and she was seized with a longing desire for his presence, for an opportunity to pour out her love and gratitude, and have him clasp her to his heart with tenderest caresses, as was his wont.

She glanced at the clock. Oh joy! he might, he probably would, return in an hour or perhaps a trifle sooner.

She sprang up and began her toilet for the evening, paying close attention to his taste in the arrangement of her hair and the selection of her dress and ornaments.

"I want to look just as beautiful in his sight as I possibly can, that he may be pleased with me and love me better than ever," was the thought in her heart. "I am his own wife, and who has a better right to his love than I? Dear Ned! I hope we'll never quarrel, but always keep the two bears with us in our home."

Her labors completed, she turned herself about before the pier-glass, mentally pronounced her attire faultless from the knot of ribbon in her hair to the dainty boots on the shapely little feet, and her cheek flushed with pleasure as the mirror told her that face and form were even prettier than the dress and ornaments that formed a fit setting to their charms.

The hour was almost up. She glanced from the window to see if he were yet in sight.

He was not, but she wanted a walk, so would go to meet him; he would dismount at sight of her, and they would walk home together.

Tying on a garden hat and throwing a light shawl about her shoulders, she hastened down-stairs and out into the grounds.

She had walked more than half the length of the avenue, when she saw the family carriage turning in at the gates, Edward riding beside it.

The flutter of a veil from its window caused her to change her plans. He was not returning alone, but bringing lady visitors; therefore, she would not go to meet him.

And no one had told her visitors were expected. She felt aggrieved, and somehow, unreasonable as she knew it to be, she was angry at Edward's look of interest and pleasure as he leaned from the saddle in a listening attitude, as if hearkening to the talk of some one within the carriage.

Zoe had stepped behind a clump of bushes, whose leafy screen hid her from the view of the approaching party, while through its interstices she could see them very plainly.

As they drew nearer, she saw that the carriage contained two young, pretty, ladylike girls, one of whom was talking to Edward with much animation and earnestness, he listening with evident interest and amusement.

When the carriage had passed her, Zoe glided away through the shrubbery, gained the house by a circuitous route and a side entrance, and her own rooms by a back stairway.

She fully expected to find Edward there, but he was not.

"Where can he be?" she asked herself half aloud, then sat down and waited for him—not very patiently.

After some little time, which, to Zoe's impatience, seemed very long, she heard the opening and shutting of a door, then the voices of Mr. Dinsmore, his daughter, and Edward in conversation, as they came down the hall together.

"He has been to see his mother first," she pouted. "I think a man ought always to put his wife first." And turning her back to the door, she took up a book and made a pretence of being deeply interested in its perusal.

Edward's step, however, passed on into the dressing-room, and as she heard him moving about there, she grew more and more vexed. It seemed that he was in no great haste to greet her after this their first day's separation; he could put it off, not only for a visit to his mother in her private apartments, but also until he had gone through the somewhat lengthened duties of the toilet.

Well, she would show him that she, too, could wait—could be as cool and indifferent as himself. She assumed a graceful attitude in an easy-chair, her pretty little feet upon a velvet-cushioned stool, and with her book lying in her lap listened intently to every sound coming from the adjoining room.

At last she heard his step approach the door, then his hand upon the knob, when she instantly took up her book and fixed her eyes upon its open page, as though unconscious of everything but what was printed there, yet really not taking in the meaning of a single word.

Edward came in, came close to her side. Still she neither moved nor lifted her eyes. But she could not control her color, and he saw through her pretences.

He knelt down beside her chair, bent his head and looked up into her face with laughing eyes.

"What can it be that so interests my little wife that she does not even know that her husband has come home, after this their first day of separation? Have you no kiss of welcome for him, little woman?"

The book was thrust hastily aside, and in an instant her arms were about his neck, her lips pressed again and again to his.

"O Ned, I do love you!" she said softly, "but I began to think you didn't care for me—going to see mamma first, and then waiting to dress."

"Mamma and grandpa were concerned in the business that took me away to-day, and I owed them a prompt report upon it; yet I looked in here first for my wife, but couldn't find her; then I asked for her, and was told that she had been seen going out for a walk. So I thought I would dress and be ready for her when she came in."

"Was that it?" she asked, looking a little ashamed. "But," regarding him with critical eyes, "you'd better always let me help with your dressing; your cravat isn't tied nicely, and your hair doesn't look half so well as when I brush it for you."

"Can't you set matters straight, then?" he asked, releasing her from the close embrace in which he had held her for the last few minutes.

"Yes; just keep still as you are, and I'll re-tie the cravat."

He held still, enjoying, as he always did, having her deft fingers at work about him, and gazing the while into the pretty face, with eyes full of loving admiration.

"There!" she said at length, leaning back a little to take in the full effect, "I don't believe that can be improved upon."

"Much obliged," he said, getting up from his knees. "Now, what next?"

"Your hair, of course," she answered, jumping up and leading the way into the dressing-room. "Sit down," arming herself with comb and brush, "you know I'm not tall enough to reach your head while you're standing up."

He obeyed, asking, "What have you been doing to-day?"

"What a question!" she returned, laughing; "of course, I'd take my pleasure when my lord and master was away."

"Don't call me that, dear," he said in a tone of gentle, half remorseful expostulation.

"Why not? doesn't the Bible say Sarah obeyed Abraham, calling him lord?"

"But it doesn't say master, and besides, these are very different times."

"We seem to have changed sides on that subject," she said, with a merry little laugh, as she laid the brush away, and standing behind his chair, put her arms around his neck and laid her cheek to his.

He drew her round to a seat upon his knee. "Darling, I don't mean to play the tyrant, and am quite ashamed of some things I said last night."

"Then you won't say them any more, will you? I was really afraid you were turning into a horrid tyrant. Oh, you haven't told me who the visitors are who came in the carriage with you!"

"The daughter and niece of an old friend of my father's, Miss Fanny Deane and Miss Susie Fleming."

"How long are they likely to stay?"

"I don't know; probably two or three weeks."

"You asked what I'd been doing. Studying hard part of the time, that I might please this old tutor of mine," giving him another tug. "Will you be pleased to hear me recite now?"

"There would not be time before tea, dear," he said, consulting his watch; "so we will put it off till later in the evening. Come down to the drawing-room with me and let me introduce you to the ladies."

"Very well; but first tell me if my toilet satisfies you."

He gave her a scrutinizing glance. "Entirely; you are as lovely as a fairy," he said, with a proud, fond smile.

"Oh, you flatterer!" she returned with a pleased laugh, and slipping her hand into his.

"Your wife!" exclaimed both ladies when the introduction was over. "She looks so young!"

"So very young that I should have taken her for a school-girl," added Miss Deane, with a condescending smile that enraged Zoe.

"And I take you for an old maid of twenty-five," was her mental retort. "I dare say you'd be glad enough to be as young as I am, and to have such a handsome husband." But she merely made a demure little courtesy and withdrew to a seat beside her mother-in-law on the farther side of the room, her heightened color and flashing eyes alone telling how indignant she felt.

"Never mind, dear, you are growing older every day," Elsie said in a soothing undertone, "and are just the right age for Edward. We all think that, and I that you are a dear little daughter for me."

"Thank you, dear mamma," whispered Zoe. "I think it was very rude and unkind to liken me to a school-girl. I believe it was just because she envies me my youth and my husband."

"Perhaps so," Elsie said, with difficulty restraining a smile, "but we will try to be charitable and think the remark was not unkindly meant."

Edward took Miss Deane in to supper, which was presently announced. Zoe did not like that, as Elsie perceived with some concern.

The young lady had very fine conversational powers and was very fond of displaying them; she soon obtained and held the attention of all the older people at the table, and Zoe felt herself more and more aggrieved. Edward was positively careless of her wants, leaving her to be waited upon by the servants.

When they returned to the drawing-room he seated himself beside Miss Deane again, and the flow of talk recommenced, he continuing a delighted listener.

Zoe feigned not to notice or care, but it was a very transparent pretence. Edward had devoted himself so almost exclusively to her ever since their marriage, that she could scarce endure to have it otherwise.

She could not refrain from watching him furtively and trying to catch his every look, word and tone.

After a little she stole quietly from the room and went up to her own.

"He will miss me presently," she thought, "remember about the lessons, and come up to hear them, and I'll have him all to myself for at least a little while."

He did not come, but at length Rosie looked in to say, "Won't you come down to the music-room, Zoe? Miss Fleming is going to play for us, and she is said to be quite a wonderful performer."

Zoe accepted the invitation; she was fond of music, and it wasn't Miss Fleming who had robbed her of Edward. Yet, when she saw him standing beside her, a rapt and delighted listener, and assiduously turning her music, she began to almost hate her, too.

The advent of these two strangers seemed to have rendered ineffectual all the efforts she had put forth that day to gratify her husband; of what use was it that she had so carefully prepared the lessons he would not trouble himself to hear? or that she had spent hours of patient practice at the piano in learning the song she was given no opportunity to play and sing?

But womanly pride was awaking within her, and she made a tolerably successful effort to control and hide her feelings.

When at length she found herself alone with Edward in their own apartments, she moved silently about making her preparations for retiring, seeming to have nothing to say.

He burst into enthusiastic praises of the talents of their guests—the conversational gift of the one, the musical genius of the other.

Zoe, standing before the mirror, brushing out her soft shining tresses, made no response.

"Why are you so silent, little woman?" Edward asked presently.

"Because I have nothing to say that you would want to hear."

"Nothing that I would want to hear? why, I am fond of the very sound of your voice. But what's the matter?" for he had come to her side, and perceived with surprise and concern that her eyes were full of tears.

"Oh, nothing! except that I'd looked forward to a delightful evening with my husband, after being parted from him all day, and didn't get it."

"My dear Zoe," he said, "I owe you an apology! I actually forgot all about those lessons."

"And me, too," she said bitterly. "My musical and conversational gifts sink into utter insignificance beside those of these newcomers."

"Jealousy is a very mean and wicked passion, Zoe; I don't like to see you indulging it," he said, turning away from her. "I am, of course, expected to pay some attention to my mother's guests, and you will have to put up with it."

"You are always right and I am always wrong," she said, half choking with indignation; "but if you are always to do as you please, I shall do as I please."

"In regard to what?" he asked coldly.

"Everything!" she answered in a defiant tone.

Edward strode angrily into the next room; but five minutes sufficed to subdue his passion, and in tender tones he called softly to his wife, "Zoe, love, will you please come here for a moment?"

She started with surprise at the kindness of his tones, her heart leaped for joy, and she ran to him, smiling through her tears.

He had seated himself in a large easy-chair. "Come, darling," he said, drawing her to a seat upon his knee. Then with his arm about her waist, "Zoe, love, we are husband and wife, whom nothing but death can ever separate. Let us be kind to one another, kind and forbearing, so that when one is taken the other will have no cause for self-reproach."

"O Ned, don't talk of that," she sobbed with her arms about his neck, her cheek laid to his. "I'm sure it would kill me to lose you. You are all I have in the wide world."

"So I am, you poor little dear," he said, softly smoothing her hair, "and I ought to be always kind to you. But, indeed, Zoe, you have no need to be jealous of any other woman. I may like to talk with them and listen to their music, but when I want some one to love and pet, my heart turns to my own little wife."

"It was very foolish!" she said, penitently, "but I did so want you to myself to-night, and I'd worked so busily all day learning the lessons and that song you brought me, thinking to please you."

"Did you, dear? well, it was too bad in me to neglect you so, and even to forget to give you this, which I bought expressly for my dear little wife, while in the city to-day."

He took her hand as he spoke, and slipped a ring upon her finger.

"O Ned, thank you!" she exclaimed, lifting to his a face full of delight. "It's very pretty, and so good in you to remember to bring me something."

"Then shall we kiss and be friends, and try not to quarrel any more?"

"Yes; oh yes!" she said, offering her lips.

"I must have that song to-morrow," he said, caressing her again and again.

"No, no! I can't think of singing before such a performer as Miss Fleming."

"But you are an early bird, and she and Miss Deane will probably be late. Can't you sing and play for me before they are down in the morning?"

"Well, perhaps," she answered coquettishly. "And the lessons? will you hear them, too, before breakfast?"

"If you wish it, dear."



CHAPTER XVII.

"The beginning of strife is as when one letteth out water: therefore leave off contention, before it be meddled with."

—Proverbs 17:14.

Zoe went to bed that night and rose again the next morning a happy little woman.

The song was sung, the performance eliciting warm praise from the solitary listener.

Then they had a delightful ride together, all before breakfast, and she brought to the table such dancing eyes and rosy cheeks that Mr. Lilburn could not refrain from complimenting her upon them, while the rest of the older people smiled in approval.

"She looks younger than ever," remarked Miss Deane, sweetly. "It is quite impossible to realize that she is married."

"It is altogether possible for me to realize that she is my own dear little wife," said Edward, regarding Zoe with loving, admiring eyes. "A piece of personal property I would not part with for untold gold," he added with a happy laugh.

"And we all think our Zoe is quite old for so young a husband," said Elsie, bestowing upon the two a glance of smiling, motherly affection.

It was a busy season with Edward, and he was compelled to leave the entertainment of the guests through the day to his mother and other members of the family.

Zoe excused herself from any share in that work on the plea that she was too young to be companionable to the ladies, spent some hours in diligent study, then walked out with the children.

"I have two sets of lessons ready for you," was her greeting to Edward, when he came in late in the afternoon.

"Have you, dear?" he returned, taking the easy-chair she drew forward for him. "Then let me hear them. You must have been an industrious little woman to-day."

"Tolerably; but you know one set was ready for you yesterday."

"Ah, yes; you were industrious then, also. And I dare say it is rather stupid work studying alone."

"Not when one has such a nice teacher," she answered sportively. "Praise from your lips is sweeter than it ever was from any other but papa's," she added, tears trembling in her eyes.

He was glad to be able, on the conclusion of the recitation, to give it without stint.

She flushed with pleasure, and helping herself to a seat upon his knee, thanked him with a hug and kiss.

"Easter holidays begin next week," he remarked, putting an arm about her and returning her caress; "do you wish to give up your studies during that time?"

"No," she said; "I've wasted too much time during the past few weeks, and I'd rather take my holidays in the very warm weather."

"That is what mamma's and grandpa's pupils are to do," he said. "They are invited to both the Oaks and the Laurels in May and June, to spend some weeks at each place. And you are included in both invitations."

"I shall not go unless you do," she said with decision. "Parted from my husband for weeks? No, indeed! I can hardly stand it for a single day," she added, laying her cheek to his.

"Nor I, little wife," he said, passing his hand softly over her hair. "Do you feel equal to a ride this afternoon?"

"Why, yes; of course! shall I get ready at once?"

"Yes, do, dearie. There is to be a party of us—grandpa, mamma, and Miss Fleming, Miss Deane, you and I."

Zoe's brow clouded. "Riding three abreast, I suppose. But why did you ask Miss Deane? She'll spoil all my enjoyment."

"Don't let her; I must show some attention to her as a guest in the house, and really felt obliged to invite her. We are to call at Fairview, and see how Lester and Elsie get on with their housekeeping. Now, do promise me that you will be a good, sensible little woman, and not indulge in jealousy."

"To please you I'll do the very best I can. I told you I would do anything for love and coaxing," she answered in a sprightly tone, with her arm still about his neck, her eyes gazing fondly into his.

He drew her closer. "I'll try always to remember and practice upon that," he said, "Now, darling, don that very becoming hat and habit you wore this morning."

Miss Deane was an accomplished coquette, whose greatest delight was to prove her power over every man who came in her way, whether married or single, and perceiving Zoe's dislike to her, and jealousy of any attention paid her by Edward, she took a malicious pleasure in drawing him to her side whenever opportunity offered, and keeping him there as long as possible.

Edward, with a heart entirely true to his young wife, endeavored to resist the fascinations of the siren and avoid her when politeness would permit; and Zoe struggled against her inclination to jealousy, yet Miss Deane succeeded in the course of a few days in bringing about a slight coldness between them.

They did not actually quarrel, but there was a cessation of loving looks and endearing words and names. It was simply Zoe and Edward now instead of dearest and love and darling, while they rather avoided than sought each other's society.

Edward was too busy to walk or ride with his wife, and Max and Ralph Conly, at home now for the Easter holidays and self-invited to Ion, became the almost constant sharers of her outdoor exercise.

Edward saw it with displeasure, for Ralph was no favorite with him. When things had gone on in that way for several days, he ventured upon a mild remonstrance, telling Zoe he would rather she would not make a familiar associate of Ralph.

"If I am debarred from my husband's society, I'm not to be blamed for taking what I can get," she answered coldly.

"I don't blame you for what is past, Zoe," he said, "but request that in future you will not have more to do with Ralph than is quite necessary."

Zoe was in a defiant mood. She walked away without making any reply, and an hour later Edward met her riding out with Ralph by her side. Max was not with them, as it was during his study hours, and they had not even an attendant.

They had been laughing and chatting gayly, but at sight of Edward a sudden silence fell on them.

Zoe's head drooped and her cheeks flushed hotly as she perceived the dark frown on her husband's brow. She expected some cutting word of rebuke, but he simply wheeled his horse about, placing himself on her other side, so that she was between him and Ralph, and rode on with them.

Not a word was spoken until they drew rein at their own door, when Edward, dismounting, lifted his wife from her pony, and as he set her down, said, "I will be obliged to you, Zoe, if you will now prepare your lessons for to-day."

Zoe had already begun to repent of her open disregard of his wishes, for during the silent ride memory had been busy with the many expressions of love and tenderness he had lavished upon her in their short married life, and if there had been the least bit of either in his tones now, she would have whispered in his ear that she was sorry and would not so offend again; but the cold, stern accents made the request sound like a command, and roused again the spirit of opposition that had almost died out.

She shook off his detaining hand, and walked away in silence, with head erect and cheeks burning with indignation.

Ralph had not heard Edward's low-spoken words, but looking after Zoe, as she disappeared within the doorway, "Seems to me you're a bit of a tyrant, Ned," he remarked with a coarse, disagreeable laugh.

"I am not aware of having shown any evidence of being such," Edward returned rather haughtily, as he remounted. Then, turning his horse's head, he rode rapidly away.

Zoe went to her boudoir, gave vent to her anger in a hearty fit of crying, then set to work at the lessons with a sincere desire to please the husband she really loved with all her heart.

"I've been forgetting the two bears," she said to herself, "but I'll try again, and when that hateful Miss Deane goes away, everything will be right again. I know Ned has to be polite to her; and it's very silly in me to get vexed when he talks to her; but I can't help it, because he's my all."

She finished her tasks, dressed herself for dinner with care and taste, and when she heard his step on the stairs ran to the door to meet him.

Her face was bright and eager, but changed at sight of his cold, forbidding looks.

"I am ready for you," she said timidly, shrinking away from him.

"Very well, bring your books," he said with, she thought, the air of a schoolmaster toward a pupil in disgrace, and seating himself as he spoke.

She brought them, keeping her eyes cast down to hide the tell-tale tears. She controlled her emotion in another moment, and went through the recitations very creditably to herself.

He made no comment upon that, though usually he would have bestowed warm praise, but simply appointed the tasks for the next day, rose and left the room.

Zoe looked after him with a swelling heart, wiped away a tear or two, and assuming an air of indifference, went down to the parlor to join the rest of the family.

"Where's Ned?" asked Rosie. "You two used never to be seen apart; but of late——"

The sentence was suddenly broken off because of a warning look from her mamma.

"Don't you know, little girl," said Miss Deane in a soft, purring tone, "that nobody expects married people to remain lovers always?"

"It is what they should do," Elsie said with gentle decision. "It was so with my husband and myself, and I trust will be with all my children."

"Allow me to advise you to deliver Ned a lecture on the subject, cousin," laughed Ralph.

"He doesn't need it," Zoe exclaimed with spirit, turning on Ralph with flashing eyes.

"Oh," he said, with a loud guffaw, "I should have remembered that any one taking the part of an abused wife is sure to have her wrath turned upon himself."

"What do you mean by that, sir? I am not an abused wife," said Zoe, tears springing to her eyes; "there never was a kinder, tenderer husband than mine, and I know he loves me dearly."

"He does, indeed, dear; we none of us doubt that in the least; and so you can well afford to let Ralph enjoy his forlorn joke," remarked Mrs. Dinsmore, with an indignant, reproving look at the latter, who colored under it, and relapsed into silence.

The weather was delightful, and the children having been given a half holiday, spent the afternoon in the grounds. Zoe forsook the company of the older people for theirs, and joined in their sports, for she was still child-like in her tastes.

She was as active as a boy, and before her marriage had taken keen delight in climbing rocks and trees. The apple-trees in the orchard were in full bloom, and taking a fancy to adorn herself with their blossoms, she climbed up among the branches of one of the tallest, in order, as she said, to "take her pick and choice," Rosie, Lulu, Gracie and Walter standing near and watching her with eager interest.

"Oh, Zoe, take care!" Rosie called to her, "that branch doesn't look strong, and you might fall and hurt yourself badly."

"Don't you be afraid. I can take care of myself," she returned with a light laugh.

But another voice spoke close at hand, fairly startling her, it was so unexpected. "Zoe, what mad prank is this? Let me help you down at once."

"There's no need for you to trouble yourself, I am quite able to get down without assistance, when I'm ready," she replied, putting a strong emphasis upon the last words.

"No; it is too dangerous," and he held up his arms with an imperative, "Come!"

"How you do order me about," she muttered, half under her breath, and more than half inclined to rebel.

But no; the children were looking and listening, and must not be allowed to suspect any unpleasantness between herself and her husband.

She dropped into his arms, he set her upon her feet, drew her hand within his arm, and walked away with her.

"I do not approve of tree-climbing for a married woman, Zoe," he said, when they were out of ear-shot of the children; "at least, not for my wife; and I must request you not to try it again."

"It's a pity I didn't know how much my liberty would be curtailed by getting married," she returned bitterly.

"And I am exceedingly sorry it is out of my power to restore your liberty to you, since it seems that would add to your happiness."

At that she hastily withdrew her hand from his arm and walked quickly away from him, taking the direction of the house.

Leaning against a tree, his arms folded, his face pale and stern, he looked after her with a heart full of keenest anguish. She had never been dearer to him than at this moment, but alas, she seemed to have lost her love for him, and what a life of miserable dissension they were likely to lead, repenting at leisure their foolishly hasty marriage!

And she was half frantic with pain and passion. He was tired of her already—before they had been married a year—he did not love her any longer and would be glad to be rid of her. Oh, what should she do! would that she could fly to the ends of the earth that he might be relieved of her hated presence.

And yet—oh, how could she ever endure constant absence from him? She loved him so dearly, so dearly!

She hurried on past the house, down the whole length of the avenue and back again, the hot tears all the time streaming over her cheeks. Then she hastily wiped them away, went to her rooms, bathed her eyes, and dressed carefully for tea.

Womanly pride had come to her aid; she must hide her wounds from all, especially from Edward himself and "that detestable Miss Deane." She would pretend to be happy, very happy, and no one should guess how terribly her heart was aching.



CHAPTER XVIII.

"Where lives the man that has not tried How mirth can into folly glide, And folly into sin!" —Scott.

Ralph Conly was not a favorite with any of his Ion relatives, because they knew his principles were not altogether such as they could approve, nor indeed his practice either; yet they had no idea how bad a youth he was, else intimacy between him and Max would have been forbidden.

All unsuspected by the older people, he was exerting a very demoralizing influence over the younger boy. Every afternoon they sought out some private spot and had a game of cards, and little by little Ralph had introduced gambling into the game, till now the stakes were high in proportion to the means of the players.

On this particular afternoon they had taken possession of a summer-house in a retired part of the grounds, and were deep in play.

Ralph at first let Max win, the stakes being small; then raising them higher, he won again and again, till he had stripped Max of all his pocket money and his watch.

Max felt himself ruined, and broke out in passionate exclamations of grief and despair, coupled with accusations of cheating, which were, indeed, well founded.

Ralph grew furious and swore horrible oaths, and Max answered with a repetition of his accusation, concluding with an oath, the first he had uttered since his father's serious talk with him on the exceeding sinfulness and black ingratitude of profanity.

All that had passed then, the passages of Scripture telling of the punishment of the swearer under the Levitical law, flashed back upon him as the words left his lips, and covering his face with his hands he groaned in anguish of spirit at thought of his fearful sin.

Then Mr. Dinsmore's voice, speaking in sternest accents, startled them both. "Ralph, is this the kind of boy you are? a gambler and profane swearer? And you, too, Max? Do you mean to break your poor father's heart and some day bring down his gray hairs with sorrow to the grave? Go at once to your room, sir. And you, Ralph, return immediately to Roselands. I cannot expose my grandchildren to the corrupting influence of such a character as yours."

The mandate was obeyed promptly and in silence by both, Ralph not daring to gather up his plunder, or even his cards from the table where they lay.

Mr. Dinsmore took possession of both, and followed Max to the house. In the heat of their altercation the lads had raised their voices to a high pitch, and he, happening to be at no great distance, and hastening to the spot to learn the cause of the disturbance, had come upon them in time to hear the last sentence uttered by each, and had taken in the whole situation at a glance.