Wilford groaned, and Katy's chance for being Mrs. Cameron was growing constantly less and less as he saw more and more how vast was the difference between the Barlows and himself. Helen, he acknowledged, was passable, though she was not one whom he could ever introduce into New York society; and he was wondering how Katy came to be so unlike the rest, when Uncle Ephraim came up from the meadow, and announced himself as ready now to visit, apologizing for his apparent neglect, and seeming so absolutely to believe that his company was, of course, desirable, that Wilford felt amused, wondering again what Juno, or even Mark Ray, would think of the rough old man, sitting with his chair tipped back against the wall, and going occasionally to the outside door to relieve himself of his tobacco juice, for chewing was one of the deacon's weaknesses. His pants were faultlessly clean, and his vest was buttoned nearly up to his throat, but his coat was hanging on a nail out by the kitchen door, and, to Katy's distress and Wilford's horror, he sat among them in his shirt sleeves, all unconscious of harm or of the disquiet awakened in the bosom of the young man, who on that point was foolishly fastidious, and who showed by his face how much he was annoyed. Not even the presence of Morris, who came in about tea time, was of any avail to lift the cloud from his brow, and he seemed moody and silent until supper was announced. This was the first opportunity Morris had had of trying his powers of persuasion upon the deacon, and now, at a hint from Katy, he said to him in an aside, as they were passing into the dining-room: "Suppose, Uncle Ephraim, you put on your coat for once. It is better than coming to the table so."

"Pooh," was Uncle Ephraim's innocent rejoinder, spoken loudly enough for Wilford to hear, "I don't need it an atom. I shan't catch cold, for I am used to it; besides that, I never could stand the racket this hot weather."

In his simplicity he did not even suspect Morris' motive, but imputed it wholly to his concern lest he should take cold. And so Wilford Cameron found himself seated next to a man who willfully trampled upon all rules of etiquette, shocking him in his most sensitive parts, and making him thoroughly disgusted with the country and country people generally. All but Morris and Katy—he did make an exception in their favor, leaning most to Morris, whom he admired more and more as he became better acquainted with him, wondering how he could content himself to settle down quietly in Silverton, when he would surety die if compelled to live there for a week. Something like this he said to Dr. Grant when that evening they sat together in the handsome parlor at Linwood, for Morris kindly invited him to spend the night with him:

"I stay at Silverton, first, because I think I can do more good here than elsewhere, and, secondly, because I really like the country and the country people, for, strange and uncouth as they may seem to you, who never lived among them, they have kinder, truer hearts beating beneath their rough exteriors, than are often found in the city."

This was Morris' reply, and in the conversation which ensued Wilford Cameron caught glimpses of a nobler, higher phase of manhood than he had thought existed, feeling an unbounded respect for one who, because he believed it to be his duty, was, as it seemed to him, wasting his life among people who could not appreciate his character, though they might idolize the man. But this did not reconcile Wilford one whit the more to Silverton. Uncle Ephraim had completed the work commenced by the two feather beds, and at the breakfast, spread next morning in the coziest of breakfast-rooms, he announced his intention of returning to New York that day. To this Morris offered no objection, but asked to be remembered to the mother, the sisters, and little Jamie, and then invited Wilford to stop altogether at Linwood when he came again to Silverton.

"Thank you; but it is hardly probable that I shall be here very soon," Wilford replied, adding, as he met the peculiar glance of Morris' eye: "I found Miss Katy a delightful traveling acquaintance, and on my way from Newport thought I would renew it and see a little of rustic life."

Poor Katy! how her heart would have ached could she have heard those words and understood their meaning, just as Morris did, feeling a rising indignation for the man with whom he could not be absolutely angry, he was so self-possessed, so pleasant and gentlemanly, while better than all, was he not virtually giving Katy up? and if he did, might she not turn at last to him?

These were Morris' thoughts as he walked with Wilford across the fields to the farmhouse, where Katy met them with her sunniest smile, singing to them, at Wilford's request, her sweetest song, and making him half wish he could revoke his hasty decision and tarry a little longer. But it was now too late for that; the carriage which would take him to the depot was already on its way from Linwood; and when the song was ended he told her of his intentions to leave on the next train, feeling a pang when he saw how the blood left her cheek and lip, and then came surging back as she said timidly: "Why need you leave so soon?"

"Oh, I have already outstayed my time. I thought of going yesterday, and my partner, Mr. Ray, will be expecting me," Wilford replied, involuntarily laying his hand upon Katy's shining hair, while Morris and Helen stole quietly from the room.

Thus left to himself, Wilford continued:

"Maybe I'll come again some time. Would you like to have me?"

"Yes," and Katy's blue eyes were lifted pleadingly to the young man, who had never loved her so well as that very moment when resolving to cast her off.

And as for Katy, she mentally called herself a fool for suffering Wilford Cameron to see what was in her heart; but she could not help it, for she loved him with all the strength of her impulsive nature, and to have him leave her so suddenly hurt her cruelly.

For a moment Wilford was strongly tempted to throw all family pride aside, and ask that young girl to be his; but thoughts of his mother, of Juno and Bell, and more than all, thoughts of Uncle Ephraim and his Sister Betsy, arose in time to prevent it, and so he only kissed her forehead caressingly as he said good-by, telling her that he should not soon forget his visit to Silverton, and then as the carriage drove up, going out to where the remainder of the family were standing together and commenting upon his sudden departure.

It was not sudden, he said, trying to explain. He really had thought seriously of going yesterday, and feeling that he had something to atone for, he tried to be unusually gracious as he shook their hands, thanking them for their kindness, but seeming wholly oblivious to Aunt Betsy's remark that "she hoped to see him again, if not at Silverton, in New York, where she wanted dreadfully to visit, but never had on account of the 'bominable prices charged to the taverns, and she hadn't no acquaintances there."

This was Aunt Betsy's parting remark, and after Katy, simple-hearted Aunt Betsy liked Wilford Cameron better than any one of the group which watched him as he drove rapidly from their door. Aunt Hannah thought him too much stuck up for farmer's folks, while Mrs. Lennox, whose ambition would have accounted him a most desirable match for her daughter, could not deny that his manner toward them, though polite in the extreme, was that of a superior to people greatly beneath him; while Helen, who saw clearer than the rest, read him tolerably aright, and detected the struggle between his pride and his love for poor little Katy, whom she found sitting on the floor, just where Wilford left her standing, her head resting on the chair and her face hidden in her hands as she sobbed quietly, hardly knowing why she cried or what to answer when Helen asked what was the matter.

"It was so queer in him to go so soon," she said; "just as if he were offended about something."

"Never mind, Katy," Helen said, soothingly. "If he's for you he will come back again. He could not stay here always, of course; and I must say I respect him for attending to his business, if he has any. He has been gone from home for weeks, you know."

This was Helen's reasoning; but it did not comfort Katy, whose face looked white and sad, as she moved listlessly about the house, almost crying again when she beard in the distance the whistle of the train which was to carry Wilford Cameron away, and end his first visit to Silverton.



CHAPTER VI.

IN THE SPRING.

Katy Lennox had been very sick, and the bed where Wilford slept had stood in the parlor during the long weeks while the obstinate fever ran its course; but she was better now, and sat nearly all day before the fire, sometimes trying to crochet a little, and again turning over the books which Morris had brought to interest her—Morris, the kind physician, who had attended her so faithfully, never leaving her while the fever was at its height, unless it was necessary, but staying with her day and night, watching her symptoms carefully, and praying so earnestly that she might not die—not, at least, until some token had been given that again in the better world he should find her, where partings were unknown and where no Wilford Camerons could contest the prize with him. Not that he was greatly afraid of Wilford now; that fear had mostly died away just as the hope had died from Katy's heart that she would ever meet him again.

Since the September morning when he left her, she had not heard from him except once, when in the winter Morris had been to New York, and having a few hours' leisure on his hands had called at Wilford's office, receiving a most cordial reception, and meeting with young Mark Ray, who impressed him as a man quite as highly cultivated as Wilford; and possessed of more character and principle. This call was not altogether of Morris' seeking, but was made rather with a view to pleasing Katy, who, when she learned that he was going to New York, had said inadvertently: "Oh, I do so hope you'll meet with Mr. Cameron, for then we shall know that he is neither sick nor dead, as I have sometimes feared."

And so, remembering this, Morris had sought out his rival, feeling more than repaid for the mental effort it had cost him, when he saw how really glad Wilford seemed to meet him. The first commonplaces over, Wilford inquired for Katy. Was she well, and how was she occupying her time this winter?

"Both Helen and Katy are pupils of mine," Morris replied, "reciting their lessons to me every day when the weather will admit of their crossing the fields to Linwood. We have often wondered what had become of you, that you did not even let us know of your safe arrival home," he added, looking Wilford fully in the eye, and rather enjoying his confusion as he tried to apologize.

He had intended writing, but an unusual amount of business had occupied his time. "Mark will tell you how busy I was," and he turned appealingly to his partner, in whose expressive eyes Morris read that Silverton was not unknown to him.

But if Wilford had told him anything derogatory of the farmhouse or its inmates, it did not appear in Mr. Ray's manner, as he replied that Mr. Cameron had been very busy ever since his return from Silverton, adding: "From what Cameron tells me of your neighborhood there must be some splendid hunting and fishing there, and I had last fall half a mind to try it."

This time there was something comical in the eyes turned so mischievously upon Wilford, who colored scarlet for an instant, but soon recovered his composure, and invited Morris home with him to dinner.

"I shall not take a refusal," he said, as Morris began to decline. "Mother and the young ladies will be delighted to see you again, while Jamie—well, Jamie, I believe, worships the memory of the physician who was so kind to him in France. You did Jamie a world of good, Dr. Grant, and you must see him. Mark will go with us, of course."

There was something so hearty in Wilford's invitation that Morris did not again object, and two hours later found him in the drawing-room at No. —— Fifth Avenue, receiving the friendly greetings of Mrs. Cameron and her daughter, each of whom vied with the other in their polite attentions to him, while little Jamie, to whose nursery he was admitted, wound his arms around his neck and laying his curly head upon his shoulder, cried quietly, whispering as he did so: "I am so glad, Dr. Grant, so glad to see you again. I thought I never should, but I've not forgotten the prayer you taught me, and I say it often when my back aches so I cannot sleep and there's no one around to hear but Jesus. I love Him now, if he did make me lame, and I know that He loves me."

Surely the bread cast upon the waters had returned again after many days, and Morris Grant did not regret the time spent with the poor crippled boy, teaching him the way of life and sowing the seed which now was bearing fruit. Nor did he regret having accepted Wilford's invitation to dinner, as by this means he saw the home which had well-nigh been little Katy Lennox's. She would be sadly out of place here with these people, he thought, as he looked upon all their formality and ceremony and then contrasted it with what Katy had been accustomed to. Juno would kill her outright, was his next mental comment, as he watched that haughty young lady, dressed in the extreme of fashion and dividing her coquetries between himself and Mr. Ray, who, being every way desirable both in point of family and wealth, was evidently her favorite. She had colored scarlet when first presented to Dr. Grant, and her voice had trembled as she took his offered hand, for she remembered the time when her liking had not been concealed, and was only withdrawn at the last because she found how useless it was to waste her affections upon one who did not prize them.

When Wilford first returned from Silverton he had, as a sore means of forgetting Katy, told his mother and sisters something of the farmhouse and its inmates; and Juno, while ridiculing both Helen and Katy, had felt a fierce pang of jealousy in knowing they were cousins to Morris Grant, who lived so near that he could, if he liked, see them every day. In Paris Juno had suspected that somebody was standing between her and Dr. Grant and how with the quick insight of a smart, bright woman, she guessed that it was one of these same cousins, Katy most likely, her brother having described Helen as very commonplace, and for a time she had hated poor, innocent Katy most cordially for having come between her and the only man for whom she had ever really cared. Gradually, however, the feeling died away, but was revived again at sight of Morris Grant, and at the table she could not forbear saying to him:

"By the way, Dr. Grant, why did you never tell us of those charming cousins, when you were in Paris? Why, Brother Will describes one of them as a little water lily, she is so fair and pretty. Katy, I think is her name. Wilford, isn't it Katy Lennox whom you think so beautiful, and with whom you are more than half in love?"

"Yes, it is Katy," and Wilford spoke sternly, for he did not like Juno's bantering tone, but he could not stop her, and she went on:

"Are they your cousins, Dr. Grant?"

"No, they are removed from me two or three degrees, their father having been only my second cousin."

The fact that Katy Lennox was not nearly enough related to Dr. Grant to prevent his marrying her if he liked, did not improve Juno's amiability, and she continued to ask questions concerning both Katy and Helen, the latter of whom she persisted in thinking was strong-minded, until Mark Ray came to the rescue, diverting her attention by adroitly complimenting her in some way, and so relieving Wilford and Morris, both of whom were exceedingly annoyed.

"When Will visits Silverton again I mean to go with him," she said to Morris at parting, but he did not tell her that such an event would give him the greatest pleasure. On the contrary, he merely replied:

"If you do you will find plenty of room at Linwood for those four trunks which I remember seeing in Paris, and your brother will tell you whether I am a hospitable host or not."

Biting her lip with chagrin, Juno went back to the drawing-room, while Morris returned to his hotel, accompanied by Wilford, who passed the entire evening with him, appearing somewhat constrained, as if there was something on his mind which he wished to say; but it remained unspoken, and there was no allusion to Silverton until as Wilford was leaving, he said:

"Remember me kindly to the Silverton friends, and say I have not forgotten them."

And this was all there was to carry back to the anxious Katy, who on the afternoon of Morris' return from New York was over at Linwood waiting to pour his tea and make his toast, she pretended, though the real reason was shining all over her telltale face, which grew so bright and eager when Morris said:

"I dined at Mr. Cameron's, Kitty."

But the brightness gradually faded as Morris described his call and then repeated Wilford's message.

"And that was all," Katy whispered sorrowfully as she beat the damask cloth softly with her fingers, shutting her lips tightly together to keep back her disappointment.

When Morris glanced at her again there was a tear on her long eyelashes, and it dropped upon her cheek, followed by another and another, but he did not seem to see it, talking of New York and the fine sights in Broadway until Katy was herself again, able to take part in the conversation.

"Please don't tell Helen that you saw Wilford," she said to Morris as he walked home with her after tea, and that was the only allusion she made to it, never after that mentioning Wilford's name or giving any token of the wounded love still so strong within her heart, and waiting only for some slight token to waken it again to life and vigor.

This was in the winter, and Katy had been very sick since then—so sick that even to her the thought had sometimes come: "What if I should die?" but she was too weak, too nearly unconscious, to go further and reflect upon the terrible reality death would bring if it found her unprepared. She had only strength and sense enough to wonder if Wilford would care when he heard that she was dead; and once, as she grew better, she almost worked herself into a second fever with assisting at her own obsequies, seeing only one mourner, and that one Wilford Cameron. Even he was not there in time to see her in her coffin, but he wept over her little grave and called her "darling Katy." So vividly had Katy pictured all this scene, that Morris, when he called, found her flushed and hot, with traces of tears on her face.

In reply to his inquiries as to what was the matter, she had answered laughingly: "Oh, nothing much—only I have been burying myself," and so Morris never dreamed of the real nature of her reveries, or guessed that Wilford Cameron was mingled with every thought. She had forgotten him, he believed; and when, as she grew stronger, he saw how her eyes sparkled at his coming, and how impatient she seemed if he was obliged to hurry off, hope whispered that she would surely be his, and his usually grave face wore a look of happiness which even his patients noticed, feeling themselves better after one of his cheery visits. Poor Morris! he was little prepared for the terrible blow in store for him, when one day early in April he started, as usual, to visit Katy, saying to himself: "If I find her alone, perhaps I'll tell her of my love, and ask if she will come to Linwood this summer;" and Morris paused a moment beneath a beechwood tree to still the throbbings of his heart, which beat so fast as he thought of going home some day from his weary work and finding Katy there, his little wife—his own—whom he might caress and love all his affectionate nature would prompt him to. He knew that in some points she was weak—a silly little thing she called herself when comparing her mind with Helen's—but there was about her so much of purity, innocence, and perfect beauty, that few men, however strong their intellect, could withstand her, and Morris, though knowing her weakness, felt that in possessing her he should have all he needed to make this life desirable. She would improve as she grew older, and it would be a most delightful task to train her into what she was capable of becoming. Alas! for Dr. Morris! He was very near the farmhouse now, and there were only a few minutes between him and the cloud which would darken his horizon so completely. Katy was alone, sitting up in her pretty dressing gown of blue, which was so becoming to her pure complexion. Her hair, which had been all cut away during her long sickness, was growing out again somewhat darker than before, and lay in rings upon her head, making her look more childish than ever. But to this Morris did not object. He liked to have her a child, and he thought he had never seen her so wholly beautiful as she was this morning, when, with glowing cheek and dancing eyes, she greeted him as he came in.

"Oh, Dr. Morris!" she began, holding up a letter she had in her hand, "I am so glad you've come, for I wanted to tell you so badly Wilford has not forgotten me, as I used to think, and as I guess you thought, too, though you did not say so. He has written, and he is coming again, if I will let him; and, oh, Morris! I am so glad! Ain't you? Seeing you knew all about it, and never told Helen, I'll let you read the letter."

And she held it toward the young man leaning against the mantel and panting for the breath which came so heavily.

Something he said apologetically about being snow blind, for there was that day quite a fall of soft spring snow; and then with a mighty effort, which made his heart quiver with pain, Morris was himself once more, and took the letter in his hand.

"Perhaps I had better not read it," he said, but Katy insisted that he might, and thinking to himself: "It will cure me sooner perhaps," he read the few lines Wilford Cameron had written to his "dear little Katy."

That was the way he addressed her, going on to say that circumstances which he could not explain to her had kept him silent ever since he left her the previous autumn; but through all he never for a moment had forgotten her, thinking of her the more for the silence he had maintained. "And now that I have risen above the circumstances," he added, in conclusion, "I write to ask if I may come to Silverton again. If I may, just drop me one word, 'come,' and in less than a week I shall be there. Yours very truly, W. Cameron."

Morris read the letter through, feeling that every word was separating him further and further from Katy, to whom he said: "You will answer this?"

"Yes, oh yes; perhaps to-day."

"And you will tell him to come?"

"Why, yes—what else should I tell him?" and Katy's blue eyes looked wonderingly at Morris, who hardly knew what he was doing, or why he said to her next: "Listen to me, Katy. You know why Wilford Cameron comes here a second time, and what he will probably ask you ere he goes away; but, Katy, you are not strong enough yet to see him under so exciting circumstances, and, as your physician, I desire that you tell him to wait at least three weeks before he comes. Will you do so, Katy?"

"That is just as Helen talked," Katy answered, mournfully. "She said I was not able."

"And will you heed us?" Morris asked again, while Katy after a moment consented; and glad of this respite from what he knew to a certainty would be, Morris dealt out her medicine, and for an instant felt her rapid pulse, but did not retain her hand within his own, nor lay his other upon her head, as he had sometimes done.

He could not do that now, and so he hurried away, finding the world into which he went far different from what it had seemed an hour ago. Then all was bright and hopeful; but now, alas! a darker night was gathering around him than any he had ever known, and the patients visited that day marveled at the whiteness of his face, asking if he were ill? Yes, he answered them truly, and for two days he was not seen again, but remained at home alone, where none but his God was witness to what he suffered; but when the third day came he went again among his sick, grave, quiet and unchanged to outward appearance, unless it was that his voice, always so kind, had now a kinder tone and his manner was tenderer, more sympathizing. Inwardly, however, there was a change, for Morris Grant had lain himself upon the sacrificial altar, willing to be and to endure whatever God should appoint, knowing that all would eventually be for his good. To the farmhouse he went every day, talking most with Helen now, but never forgetting who it was sitting so demurely in the armchair, or flitting about the room, for Katy was gaining rapidly. Love perhaps had had nothing to do with her dangerous illness, but it had much to do with her recovery, and those not in the secret wondered to see how she improved, her cheeks growing round and full and her eyes shining with returning health and happiness.

At Helen's instigation Katy had deferred Wilford's visit four weeks instead of three, but in that time there had come two letters from him, letters so full of anxiety and sympathy for "his poor little Katy who had been so sick," that even Helen began to think she had done injustice to him, that he was not as proud and heartless as she supposed, and that he did love her sister after all.

"If I supposed he meant to deceive her I should wish I was a man to cowhide him," she said to herself, with flashing eye, as she heard Katy exulting that he was coming "to-morrow."

This time he would stop at Linwood, for Katy had asked Morris if he might, while Morris had told her "yes," feeling his heart wound throb afresh, as he thought how hard it would be to entertain his rival. Of himself Morris could do nothing, but with the help he never sought in vain he could do all things, and so he gave orders that the best chamber should be prepared for his guest, bidding Mrs. Hull, his housekeeper, see that no pains were spared for his entertainment, and then with Katy he waited for the day, the last one in April, which should bring Wilford Cameron a second time to Silverton.



CHAPTER VII.

WILFORD'S SECOND VISIT.

Wilford Cameron had tried to forget Katy Lennox, while his mother and sisters had done their best to help to forget, or at least sicken of her; and as the three, Juno, Bell and the mother, were very differently constituted, they had widely different ways of assisting him in his dilemma, the mother complimenting his good sense in drawing back from an alliance which could only bring him mortification; Bell, the blue sister, ignoring the idea of Wilford's marrying that country girl as something too preposterous to be contemplated for a moment, much less to be talked about; while Juno spared neither ridicule nor sarcasm, using the former weapon so effectually that her brother at one time nearly went over to the enemy; and Katy's tears, shed so often when no one could see her, were not without a reason. Wilford was trying to forget her, both for his sake and her own, for he foresaw that she could not be happy with his family, and he came to think it might be a wrong to her, transplanting her into a soil so wholly unlike that in which her habits and affections had taken root.

His father once had abruptly asked him if there was any truth in the report that he was about to marry and make a fool of himself, and when Wilford had answered "No," he had replied with a significant:

"Umph! Old enough, I should think, if you ever intend to marry. Wilford," and the old man faced square about: "I know nothing of the girl, except what I gathered from your mother and sisters. You have not asked my advice. I don't suppose you want it, but if you do, here it is. If you love the girl and she is respectable, marry her if she is poor as poverty and the daughter of a tinker; but if you don't love her, and she's rich as a nabob, for thunder's sake keep away from her."

This was the elder Cameron's counsel, and Katy's cause arose fifty per cent, in consequence. Still Wilford was sadly disquieted, so much so that his partner, Mark Ray, could not fail to observe that something was troubling him, and at last frankly asked what it was. Wilford knew he could trust Mark, and he confessed the whole, telling him far more of Silverton than he had told his mother, and then asking what his friend would do were the case his own.

Fond of fun and frolic, Mark laughed immoderately at Wilford's description of Aunt Betsy bringing her "herrin' bone" patchwork into the parlor, and telling him it was a part of Katy's "settin' out," but when it came to her hint for an invitation to visit in New York, the amused young man roared with laughter, wishing so much that he might live to see the day when poor Aunt Betsy Barlow stood ringing for admittance at No. —— Fifth Avenue.

"Wouldn't it be rich, though, the meeting between your Aunt Betsy and Juno?" and the tears fairly poured down the young man's face.

But Wilford was too serious for trifling, and after his merriment had subsided, Mark talked with him candidly, sensibly, of Katy Lennox, whose cause he warmly espoused, telling Wilford that he was far too sensitive with regard to family and position.

"You are a good fellow on the whole, but too outrageously proud," he said. "Of course this Aunt Betsy in her pongee, whatever that may be, and the uncle in his shirt sleeves, and this mother whom you describe as weak and ambitious, are objections which you would rather should not exist; but if you love the girl, take her, family and all. Not that you are to transport the whole colony of Barlows to New York," he added, as he saw Wilford's look of horror, "but make up your mind to endure what cannot be helped, resting yourself upon the fact that your position is such as cannot well be affected by any marriage you might make, provided the wife were right."

This was Mark Ray's advice, and it had great weight with Wilford, who knew that Mark came, if possible, from a better line of ancestry than himself, inasmuch as his maternal grandmother was a near relative of the English Percys, and the daughter of a lord. And still Wilford hesitated, waiting until the winter was over before he came to the decision which when it was reached was firm as a granite rock. He had made up his mind at last to marry Katy Lennox if she would accept him, and he told his mother so in the presence of his sisters, when one evening they were all kept at home by the rain. There was a sudden uplifting of Bell's eyelashes, a contemptuous shrug of her shoulders, and then she went on with the book she was reading, wondering if Katy was at all inclined to literature, and thinking if she were that it might be easier to tolerate her. Juno, who was expected to say the sharpest things, turned upon him with the exclamation:

"If you can stand those two feather beds, you can do more than I supposed," and as one means of showing her disapproval, she quitted the room, while Bell, who had taken to writing articles on the follies of the age, soon followed her sister to elaborate an idea suggested to her mind by her brother's contemplated marriage.

Thus left alone with her son, Mrs. Cameron tried all her powers of persuasion upon him in vain. But nothing she said influenced him in the least, seeing which she suddenly confronted him with the question: "Shall you tell her all? A husband should have no secrets of that kind from his wife."

Wilford's face was white as ashes, and his voice trembled as he replied: "Yes, mother, I shall tell her all; but, oh! you do not know how hard it has been for me to bring my mind to that, or how sorry I am that we ever kept that secret—when Genevra died—"

"Hush-h!" came warningly from the mother as Juno reappeared, the warning indicating that Genevra, whoever she might be, was a personage never mentioned, except by mother and son.

As Juno remained the conversation was not resumed, and the next morning Wilford wrote to Katy Lennox the letter which carried to her so much of joy, and to Dr. Grant so much of grief. To wait four weeks, as Katy said he must, was a terrible trial to Wilford, who counted every moment which kept him from her side. It was all owing to Dr. Grant and that perpendicular Helen, he knew, for Katy in her letter had admitted that the waiting was wholly their suggestion; and Wilford's thoughts concerning them were anything but complimentary, until a new idea was suggested, which drove every other consideration from his mind.

Wilford was naturally jealous, but that fault had once led him into so deep a trouble that he had struggled hard to overcome it, and now, at its first approach, after he thought it dead, he tried to shake it off—tried not to believe that Morris cared especially for Katy. But the mere possibility was unendurable, and in a most feverish state of excitement he started again for Silverton.

As before, Morris was waiting for him at the station, his cordial greeting and friendly manner disarming him from all anxiety in that quarter, and making him resolve anew to trample the demon jealousy under his feet, where it could never rise again. Katy's life should not be darkened by the green monster, he thought, and her future would have been bright indeed had it proved all that he pictured it as he drove along with Morris in the direction of the farmhouse, for he was to stop there first and then at night go over to sleep at Linwood.

Katy was waiting for him, and as he met her alone, he did not hesitate to kiss her more than once as he kept her for a moment in his arms, and then held her off to see if her illness had left any traces upon her. It had not, except it were in the increased delicacy of her complexion and the short hair now growing out in silky rings. She was very pretty in her short hair, but Wilford felt a little impatient as he saw how childish it made her look, and thought how long it would take for it to attain its former length. He was already appropriating her to himself, and devising ways of improving her. In New York, with Morris Grant standing before his jealous gaze, he could see no fault in Katy, and even now, with her beside him, and the ogre jealousy gone, he saw no fault in her; it was only her dress, and that could be so easily remedied. Otherwise she was perfect, and in his delight at meeting her again he forgot to criticise the farmhouse and its occupants, as he had done before.

They were very civil to him—the mother overwhelmingly so—insomuch that Wilford could not help detecting her anxiety that all should be settled this time. Helen, on the contrary, was unusually cool, confirming him in his opinion that she was strong-minded and self-willed, and making him resolve to remove Katy as soon as possible from her strait-laced influence. When talking with his mother he had said that if Katy had told him "yes," he should probably place her at some fashionable school for a year or two; but on the way to Silverton he had changed his mind. He could not wait a year, and if he married Katy at all, it should he immediately. He would then take her to Europe, where she could have the best of teachers, besides the advantage of traveling; and it was a very satisfactory picture he drew of the woman whom he should introduce into New York society as his wife, Mrs. Wilford Cameron. It is true that Katy had not yet said the all-important word, but she was going to say it, and when late that afternoon they came up from the walk he had asked her to take, she was his promised wife.

They had sat together on the very rock where Katy sat that day when Uncle Ephraim told her of the different paths there were through life, some pleasant and free from care, some thorny and full of grief. Katy had never forgotten the conversation, and, without knowing why, she had always avoided that rock beneath the butternut as a place where there had been revealed to her a glimpse of something sad; and so, when Wilford proposed resting there, she at first objected, but yielded at last, and, with his arm around her, listened to the story of his love. It was what she had expected and thought herself prepared for, but when it came it was so real, so earnest, that she could only clasp her hands over her face, which she hid on Wilford's shoulder, weeping passionately as she thought how strange it was for a man like Wilford Cameron to seek her for his wife. Katy was no coquette; whatever she felt she expressed, and when she could command herself she frankly confessed to Wilford her love for him, telling him how the fear that he had forgotten her had haunted her all the long, long winter; and then with her clear, truthful blue eyes looking into his, asking him why he had not sent her some message if, as he said, he loved her all the time.

For a moment Wilford's lip was compressed and a flush overspread his face, as, drawing her closer to him, he replied: "My little Katy will remember that in my first note I spoke of certain circumstances which had prevented my writing earlier. I do not know that I asked her not to seek to know those circumstances; but I ask it now. Will Katy trust me so far as to believe that all is right between us, and never allude to these circumstances?"

He was kissing her fondly, and his voice was so winning that Katy promised all that was required; and then came the hardest, the trying to tell her all, as he had said to his mother he would. Twice he essayed to speak, and as often something sealed his lips, until at last he began: "You must not think me perfect, Katy, for I have faults, and perhaps if you knew my past life you would wish to revoke your recent decision and render a different verdict to my suit. Suppose I unfold the blackest leaf for your inspection?"

"No, no, oh, no," and Katy playfully stopped his mouth with her hand. "Of course you have some faults, but I would rather find them out myself. I could not hear anything against you now. I am satisfied to take you as you are."

Wilford felt his heart throb wildly with the feeling that he was in some way deceiving the young girl; but if she would not suffer him to tell her, he was not to be censured if she remained in ignorance. And so the golden moment fled, and when he spoke again he said: "If Katy will not now read that leaf I offered to show her, she must not shrink back in horror if ever it does meet her eye."

"I don't, I promise," Katy answered, a vague feeling of fear creeping over her as to what the reading of that mysterious page involved. But this was soon forgotten, as Wilford, remembering his suspicions of Dr. Grant, thought to probe a little by asking if she had ever loved any one before himself?

"No, never," she answered. "I never dreamed of such a thing until I saw you, Mr. Cameron;" and Wilford believed the trusting girl, whose loving nature shone in every lineament of her face, upturned to receive the kisses he pressed upon it, resolving within himself to be to her what he ought to be.

"By the way," he continued, "don't call me Mr. Cameron again, as you did just now. I would rather be your Wilford. It sounds more familiar. And still," he added, "it may be better at present to reserve that name for the time when we are alone. To your family I may as well remain Mr. Cameron."

This was an after thought, suggested by his knowing how he should shiver to hear Aunt Betsy call him "Wilford," as she surely would if Katy did. Then he told her of his projected tour to Europe, and Katy felt her pulses quicken as she thought of London, Paris and Rome, as places which her plain country eyes might yet look upon. But when it came to their marriage, which Wilford said must be soon—within a few weeks—she demurred, for this arrangement was not in accordance with her desires. She should so much enjoy a long courtship with Wilford coming often to Silverton, and such quantities of letters passing between them as should make her the envy of all Silverton. This was Katy's idea, and she opposed her lover with all her strength, telling him she was so young, not eighteen till July, and she knew so little of housekeeping. He must let her stay at home until she learned at least the art of making bread!

Poor, ignorant Katy! Wilford could not forbear a smile as he thought how different were her views from his, and tried to explain that the art of bread-making, though very desirable in most wives, was not an essential accomplishment for his. Servants would do that; besides he did not intend to have a house of his own at once; he should take her first to live with his mother, where she could learn what was necessary much better than there in Silverton.

Wilford Cameron expected to be obeyed in every important matter by the happy person who should be his wife, and as he possessed the faculty of enforcing perfect obedience without seeming to be severe, so he silenced Katy's arguments, and when they left the shadow of the butternut tree she knew that in all human probability six weeks' time would find her on the broad ocean alone with Wilford Cameron. So perfect was Katy's faith and love that she had no fear of Wilford now, but as his affianced wife walked confidently by his side, feeling fully his equal, nor once dreaming how great the disparity his city friends would discover between the fastidious man of fashion and the unsophisticated country girl. And Wilford did not seek to enlighten her, but suffered her to talk of the delight it would be to live in New York, and how pleasant for mother and Helen to visit her, especially the latter, who would thus have a chance to see something of the world.

"When I get a house of my own I mean she shall live with me all the while," she said, stooping to gather a tuft of wild bluebells growing in a marshy spot.

Wilford winced a little, for in his estimation Helen Lennox formed no part of that household to be established on Madison Square, but he would not so soon tear down Katy's castles, and so he merely remarked as she asked if it would not be nice to have Helen with them.

"Yes, very nice, but do not speak of it to her yet, as it will probably be some time before she will come to us, and she had better not have it in anticipation."

And so Helen never knew the honor in store for her as she stood in the doorway anxiously waiting for her sister, who, she feared, would take cold from being out so long. Something though in Katy's face made her guess that to her was lost forever the bright little sister whom she loved so dearly, and fleeing up the narrow stairway to her room she wept bitterly as she thought of the coming time when she would share that room alone, and know that never again would a little golden head lie upon her neck just as it had lain, for there would be a new love, a new interest between them, a love for the man whose voice she could hear now talking to her mother in the peculiar tone he always assumed when speaking to any one of them excepting Morris or Katy.

"I wish it were not wrong to hate him," she exclaimed passionately; "it would be such a relief; but if he is only kind to Katy, I do not care how much he despises us," and bathing her face in water Helen sat down by her window, gazing out upon the fresh green earth, where the young grass was springing, wondering if Mr. Cameron took her sister, when it would probably be. "Not this year or more," she said, "for Katy is so young;" but on this point she was soon set right by Katy herself, who, leaving her lover alone with her mother, stole up to tell her sister the good news.

"Yes, I know; I guessed as much when you came back from the meadows," and Helen's voice was very unsteady in its tone as she smoothed back the soft rings clustering around her sister's brow.

"Crying. Helen! oh, don't. I shall love you just the same, and you are coming to live with us in the new house on Madison Square," Katy said, forgetting Wilford's instructions in her desire to comfort Helen, who broke down again, while Katy's tears were mingled with her own.

It was the first time Katy had thought what it would be to leave forever the good, patient sister, who had been so true, so kind, treating her like a petted kitten and standing between her and every hardship.

"Don't cry, Nellie," she said, twining her arms around her neck; "New York is not far away, and I shall come so often—that is, after we return from Europe. Did I tell you we are going there first, and Wilford will not wait, but says we must be married the tenth of June; that's his birthday—thirty—and he is telling mother now."

"So soon—oh, Katy! and you so young!" was all Helen could say, as with quivering lip she kissed her sister's hand raised to wipe her tears away.

"Yes, it is soon, and I am young; but Wilford is in such a hurry; he don't care," Katy replied, trying to comfort Helen, and begging of her not to cry so hard.

No, Wilford did not care, as it would seem, how much he wrung the hearts of Katy's family by taking her from them at once, and by dictating to a certain extent the way in which he would take her. There must be no invited guests, he said; no lookers-on, except such as chose to go to the church where the ceremony would, of course, be performed, and from which place he should go directly to the Boston train. It was his wish, too, that the matter should be kept as quiet as possible, and not be generally discussed in the neighborhood, as he disliked being a subject for gossip. And Mrs. Lennox, to whom this was said, promised compliance with everything, or if she ventured to object she found herself borne down by a stronger will than her own, and weakly yielded, her manner fully testifying to her delight at the honor conferred upon her by this high marriage of her child. Wilford knew just how pleased she was, and her obsequious manner annoyed him far more than did Helen's blunt, straightforwardness, when, after supper was over, she told him how averse she was to his taking Katy so soon, adding still further that if it must be, she saw no harm in inviting a few of their neighbors. It was customary—it would be expected, she said, while Mrs. Lennox, emboldened by Helen's boldness, chimed in, "at least your folks will come; I shall be glad to meet your mother."

Wilford was very polite to them both; very good-humored, but he kept to his first position, and poor Mrs. Lennox saw fade into airy nothingness all her visions of roasted fowls and frosted cake trimmed with myrtle and flowers, with hosts of the Silverton people there to admire and partake of the marriage feast. It was too bad, and so Aunt Betty said, when, after Wilford had gone to Linwood, the family sat together around the kitchen stove, talking the matter over.

"Yes, it was too bad, when there was that white hen turkey she could fat up so easy before June, and she knew how to make 'lection cake that would melt in your mouth, and was enough sight better than the black stuff they called weddin' cake. Vum! she meant to try what she could do with Mr. Cameron."

And next morning when he came again she did try, holding out as inducements why he should be married the night before starting for Boston, the "white hen, turkey, the 'lection cake, and the gay old times the young folks would have playing snap-and-catchem; or if they had a mind, they could dance a bit in the kitchen. She didn't believe in it, to be sure—none of the orthodox did; but as Wilford was a 'Piscopal, and that was a 'Piscopal quirk, it wouldn't harm for once."

Wilford tried not to show his disgust, and only Helen suspected how hard it was for him to keep down his utter contempt. She saw it in his eyes, which resembled two smoldering volcanoes as they rested upon Aunt Betsy during her harangue.

"Thank you, madam, for your good intentions, but I think we will dispense with the turkey and the cake," was all he said, though he did smile at the old lady's definition of dancing, which for once she might allow.

Even Morris, when appealed to, decided with Wilford against Mrs. Lennox and Aunt Betsy, knowing how unequal he was to the task which would devolve on him in case of a bridal party at the farmhouse. In comparative silence he had heard from Wilford of his engagement, offering no objection when told how soon the marriage would take place, but congratulating him so quietly that, if Wilford had retained a feeling of jealousy, it would have disappeared; Morris was so seemingly indifferent to everything except Katy's happiness. But Wilford did not observe closely, and failed to detect the hopeless look in Morris' eyes, or the whiteness which settled about his mouth as he fulfilled the duties of host and sought to entertain his guest. Those were dark hours for Morris Grant, and he was glad when at the end of the second day Wilford's visit expired, and he saw him driven from Linwood around to the farmhouse, where he would say his parting words to Katy and then go back to New York.



CHAPTER VIII.

GETTING READY TO BE MARRIED.

"Miss Helen Lennox, Silverton, Mass."

This was the superscription of a letter, postmarked New York, and brought to Helen within a week after Wilford's departure. It was his handwriting, too; and wondering what he could have written to her, Helen broke the seal, starting as there dropped into her lap a check for five hundred dollars.

"What does it mean?" she said, her cheek flushing with anger and insulted pride as she read the following brief lines:

"NEW YORK, May 8th.

"MISS HELEN LENNOX: Please pardon the liberty I take in inclosing the sum of five hundred dollars, to be used by you in procuring whatever Katy may need for present necessities. Presuming that the country seamstresses have not the best facilities for obtaining the latest fashions, my mother proposes sending out her own private dressmaker, Mrs. Ryan. You may look for her the last of the week.

"Yours truly, WILFORD CAMERON."

It would be impossible to describe Helen's indignation as she read this letter, which roused her to a pitch of anger such as Wilford Cameron had never imagined when he wrote the offensive lines. He had really no intention of insulting her. On the contrary, the gift of money was kindly meant, for he knew very well that Uncle Ephraim was poor, while the part referring to the dressmaker was wholly his mother's proposition, to which he had acceded, knowing how much confidence Juno had in her taste, and that whatever she might see at the farmhouse would remain a secret with her, or at most be confined to the ears of his mother and sisters. He wished Katy to look well, and foolishly fancying that no country artiste could make her look so, he consented to Mrs. Ryan's going, never suspecting the storm of anger it would rouse in Helen, whose first impulse was to throw the check into the fire. Her second, however, was soberer. She would not destroy it, nor tell any one she had it but Morris—he should know the whole. Accordingly, without a word to any one, she repaired to Linwood, finding Morris at home, and startling him with the vehemence of her anger as she explained the nature of her errand.

"If I disliked Wilford Cameron before, I hate him now. Yes, hate him," she said, stamping her little foot in fury.

"Why, Helen!" Morris exclaimed, laying his hand reprovingly on her shoulder. "Is this the right spirit for one who professes better things? Stop a moment and think."

"I know it is wrong," Helen answered, the tears glittering in her eyes; "but somehow since he came after Katy, I have grown so hard, so wicked toward Mr. Cameron. He seems so proud, so unapproachable. Say, Cousin Morris, do you think him a good man—that is, good enough for Katy?"

"Most people would call him too good for her," Morris replied. "And, in a worldly point of view, she is doing well, while Mr. Cameron, I believe, is better than three-fourths of the men who marry our girls. He is very proud; but that results from his education and training. Looking only from a New York standpoint he misjudges country people, but he will appreciate you by and by. Do not begin by hating him so cordially."

"Yes, but this money. Now, Morris, we do not want him to get Katy's outfit. I would rather go without clothes my whole life. Shall I send it back?"

"I think that the best disposition to make of it," Morris replied. "As your brother, I can and will supply Katy's needs."

"I knew you would, Morris. What should we do without you?" and Helen smiled gratefully upon the doctor, who in word and deed was to her like a dear brother. "And I'll send it to-day, in time to keep that dreadful Mrs. Ryan from coming; for, Morris, I won't have any of Wilford Cameron's dressmakers in the house."

Morris could not help smiling at Helen's energetic manner as she hurried to his library and taking his pen wrote to Wilford Cameron as follows:

"SILVERTON, May 9th.

"Mr. WILFORD CAMERON: I give you credit for the kindest of motives in sending the check, which I now return to you, with my compliments. We are not as poor as you suppose, and would almost deem it sacrilege to let another than ourselves provide for Katy so long as she is ours. And furthermore, that Mrs. Ryan's services will not be needed, so it is not worth her while to make a journey here for nothing. Yours,

"HELEN LENNOX."

Helen felt better after this letter had gone, wondering often how it would be received, and if Wilford would be angry. She hoped he would, and his mother too. "The idea of sending that Ryan woman to us, as if we did not know anything!" and Helen's lip curled scornfully as she thus denounced the Ryan woman, whose trunk was all packed with paper patterns and devices of various kinds when the letter arrived saying she was not needed. Being a woman of few words, she quietly unpacked her patterns and went back to the work she was engaged upon when Mrs. Cameron proposed her going into the country. Juno, on the contrary, flew into a violent passion to think their first friendly advances should be thus received. Bell laughed immoderately, saying she rather liked Helen Lennox's spirit, and almost wished her brother had chosen her instead of the other, who, she presumed, was a milk and water thing, even if Mrs. Woodhull did extol her so highly. Mrs. Cameron felt the rebuff keenly, wincing under it, and saying "that Helen Lennox must be a very rude, ill-bred girl," and hoping her son would draw the line of division between his wife and her family so tightly that the sister could never pass over it. She had received the news of her son's engagement without opposition, for she knew the time for that was passed. Wilford would marry Katy Lennox, and she must make the best of it, so she offered no word of remonstrance, but, when they were alone, she said to him: "Did you tell her? Does she know it all?"

"No, mother," and the old look of pain came back into Wilford's face. "I meant to do so, and I actually began, but she stopped me short, saying she did not wish to hear my faults, she would rather find them out herself. Away from her it is very easy to think what I will do, but when the trial comes I find it hard, we have kept it so long; but I shall tell her yet; not till after we are married though, and I have made her love me even more than she does now. She will not mind it then. I shall take her where I first met Genevra, and there I will tell her. Is that right?"

"Yes, if you think so," Mrs. Cameron replied.

Whatever it was which Wilford had to tell Katy Lennox, it was very evident that he and his mother looked at it differently, he regarding it as a duty he owed to Katy not to conceal from her what might possibly influence her decision, while his mother only wished the secret told in hopes that it would prevent the marriage; but now that Wilford had deferred it till after the marriage, she saw no reason why it need be told at all. At least Wilford could do as he thought best, and she changed the conversation from Genevra to Helen's letter, which had so upset her plans. That her future daughter-in-law was handsome she did not doubt, for Wilford said so, and Mrs. Woodhull said so in her letter of congratulation; but she, of course, had no manner, no style, and as a means of improving her in the latter respect, and making her presentable at the altar and in Boston, she had proposed sending out Ryan, as she was called in the family; but that project had failed, and Helen Lennox did not stand very high in the Cameron family, though Wilford in his heart felt an increased respect for her independent spirit, notwithstanding that she had thwarted his designs.

"I have another idea," Mrs. Cameron said to her daughters that afternoon, when talking with them upon the subject. "Wilford tells me Katy and Bell are about the same size and figure, and Ryan shall make up a traveling suit proper for the occasion. Of course there will be no one at the wedding for whom we care, but in Boston, at the Revere, it will be different. Cousin Harvey boards there, and she is very stylish. I saw some elegant gray poplins, of the finest luster, at Stewarts yesterday. Suppose we drive down this afternoon."

This was said to Juno as the more fashionable one of the sisters, but Bell answered quickly: "Poplin, mother, on Katy? It will not become her style, I am sure, though suitable for many. If I am to be fitted I shall say a word about the fabric. Get a little checked silk, as expensive as you like. It will suit her better than a heavy poplin."

Perhaps Bell was right, Mrs. Cameron said; they would look at both, and as the result of this looking, two dresses, one of the finest poplin, and one of the softest, richest, plaided silk were given the next day into Mrs. Ryan's hands, with injunctions to spare no pains or expense in trimming and making both. And so the dressmaking for Katy's bridal was proceeding in New York, in spite of Helen's letter; while down in Silverton, at the farmhouse, there were numerous consultations as to what was proper and what was not, Helen sometimes almost wishing she had thrown off her pride and suffered Mrs. Ryan to come. Katy would look well in anything, but Helen knew there were certain styles preferable to others, and in a maze of perplexity she consulted with this and that individual, until all Silverton knew what was projected, each one offering the benefit of her advice until Helen and Katy both were nearly distracted. Aunt Betsy suggested a blue delaine and round cape, offering to get it herself, and actually purchasing the material with her own funds, saved from drying apples. That would answer for one dress, Helen said, but not for the wedding; and she was becoming more and more undecided, when Morris came to the rescue, telling Katy of a young woman who had for some time past been his patient, but who was now nearly well and anxious to obtain work again. She had evidently seen better days, he said; was very ladylike in her manner, and possessed of a great deal of taste, he imagined; besides that, she had worked in one of the largest shops in New York. "As I am going this afternoon over to North Silverton," he added, in conclusion, "and shall pass Miss Hazelton's house, you or Helen might accompany me and see for yourself."

It was decided that Helen should go, and about four o'clock she found herself ringing at the cottage over whose door hung the sign: "Miss M. Hazelton, Fashionable Dressmaker." She was at home, so said the little slipshod girl who answered the ring, and in a few moments Helen was talking with Marian Hazelton, whose face showed signs of recent illness, but, nevertheless, very attractive, from its peculiarly sad expression and the soft liquid eyes of dark blue, which looked as if they were not strangers to tears. At twenty she must have been strikingly beautiful; and even now, at thirty, few ladies could have vied with her had she possessed the means for gratifying her taste and studying her style. About the mouth, so perfect in repose, there was when she spoke a singularly sweet smile, which in a measure prepared one for the low, silvery voice, which had a strange note of mournful music in its tone, making Helen start as it asked: "Did you wish to see me?"

"Yes; Dr. Grant told me you were—" Helen paused here, for though Marian Hazelton's dress indicated poverty, the words "were wanting work" seemed at variance with her whole being, and so she changed her form of speech, and said instead: "Told me you could make dresses, and I drove around with him to secure your services, if possible, for my sister, who is soon to be married. We would like it so much if you could go to our house instead of having Katy come here."

Marian Hazelton was needing work, for there was due more than three months' board, besides the doctor's bill, and so, though it was not her custom to go from house to house, she would, in this instance, accommodate Miss Lennox, especially as during her illness her customers had many of them gone elsewhere, and her little shop was nearly broken up. "Was it an elaborate trousseau she was expected to make?" and she bent down to turn over some fashion plates lying upon the table.

"Oh, no! we are plain country people. We cannot afford as much for Katy as we would like; besides, I dare say Mr. Cameron will prefer selecting most of her wardrobe himself, as he is very wealthy and fastidious," Helen replied, repenting the next instant the part concerning Mr. Cameron's wealth, as that might look like boasting to Miss Hazelton, whose head was bent lower over the magazine as she said: "Did I understand that the gentleman's name was Cameron?"

"Yes, Wilford Cameron, from New York," Helen answered, holding up her skirts and s-s-kt-ing at the kitten which came running toward her, evidently intent upon springing into her lap.

Fear of cats was Helen's weakness, if weakness it can be called, and in her efforts to frighten her tormentor she did not look again at Miss Hazelton until startled by a gasping cry and heavy fall. Marian had fainted, and Helen was just raising her head from the floor to her lap when Morris appeared, relieving her of her burden, of whom he took charge until she showed signs of life. In her alarm Helen forgot entirely what they were talking about when the faint came on, and her first question put to Marian was: "Were you taken suddenly ill? Why did you faint?"

There was no answer at first, except tears, which quivered on the long eyelashes, and then rolled down the cheeks; but when she did speak she said: "I am still so weak that the least exertion affects me, and I was bending over the table; it will soon pass off."

If she was so weak, she was not able to work, Helen said, proposing that the plan be for the present abandoned; but to this Marian would not listen; her great eager eyes had in them so scared a look that Helen said no more on that subject, but made arrangements for her coming to them at once. Morris was to leave his patient some medicine, and while he was preparing it Helen had time to notice her more carefully, admiring her ladylike manners, and thinking her smile the sweetest she had ever seen. Especially was this the case when it was given to Morris, and Helen felt that in his presence Miss Hazelton was, if possible, softer, sweeter, more gracious than before; and still there was nothing immodest or unwomanly in her manner, nothing but that peculiar air which attractive women sometimes put on before the other sex. She might not have been conscious of it herself; and yet, when once she met Helen's eyes as she was smiling gratefully upon Dr. Morris, there came a sudden change into her face, and she bit her lip with evident vexation. Could it be that she was fascinated by the young physician who had attended her so long, and who, within the last few months, had grown so popular? Helen asked herself this question several times on her way home, and inquired of Morris what he knew of her.

"Nothing, except that she came to North Silverton a year ago, opening her shop, and by her faithfulness, and pleasant, obliging manners, winning favor with all who employed her. Previous to her sickness she had a few times attended St. Paul's at South Silverton, that being the church of her choice. Had Helen never observed her?"

No, Helen had not. And then she spoke of her fainting, telling how sudden it was and wondering if she was subject to such turns. Marian Hazelton had made a strong impression on Helen's mind, and she talked of her so much that Katy waited her appearance at the farmhouse with feverish anxiety. It was evening when she came, looking very white, and seeming to Helen as if she had changed since she saw her first. In her eyes there was a kind of hopeless, weary expression, while her smile made one almost wish to cry, it was so sad, and yet so strangely sweet. Katy felt its influence at once, growing very confidential with the stranger, who, during the half hour in which they were accidentally left alone, drew from her every particular concerning her intended marriage. Very closely the dark blue eyes scrutinized little Katy, taking in first the faultless beauty of her face, and then going away down into the inmost depths of her character, as if to find out what was there.

"Pure, loving, innocent, and unsuspecting," was Marian Hazelton's verdict, and she followed wistfully every movement of the young girl as she flitted around the room, chatting as familiarly with the dressmaker as if she were a friend long known instead of an entire stranger.

"You look very young to be married," said Miss Hazelton to her once, and shaking back her short rings of hair Katy answered: "Eighteen next Fourth of July; but Mr. Cameron is thirty."

"Is he a widower?" was the next question, which Katy answered with a merry laugh. "Mercy, no! I marry a widower! How funny! I don't believe he ever cared a fig for anybody but me. I mean to ask him."

"I would," and the pale lips shut tightly together, while a resentful gleam shot for a moment across Marian's face; but it quickly passed away, and her smile was as sweet as ever as she at last bade the family good-night and repaired to the little room where Wilford Cameron once had slept.

A long time she stood before the glass, brushing her dark, abundant hair, and intently regarding her own features, while in her eyes there was a hard, terrible look, from which Katy Lennox would have shrunk abashed. But that too passed, and the eyes grew soft with tears as she turned away, and falling on her knees moaned sadly: "I never will—no, I never will, God help me to keep the promise. Were it the other—Helen—I might, for she could bear it; but Katy, that child—-no, I never will," and as the words died on her lips there came struggling up from her heart a prayer for Katy Lennox's happiness, as fervent and sincere as any which had ever been made for her since she was betrothed.

They grew to liking each other rapidly, Marian and Katy, the latter of whom thought her new friend greatly out of place as a dressmaker, telling her she ought to marry some rich man, calling her Marian altogether, and questioning her very closely of her previous life. But Marian only told her that she was born in London; that she learned her trade on the Isle of Wight, near to the Osborne House, where the royal family sometimes came, and that she had often seen the present Queen, thus trying to divert Katy's mind from asking what there was besides that apprenticeship to the Misses True on the Isle of Wight. Once, indeed, she went further, learning that Marian's friends were dead; that she had come to America in hopes of doing better than she could at home; that she had stayed in New York until her health began to fail, and then had tried what country air would do, coming to North Silverton because a young woman who worked in the same shop was acquainted there, and recommended the place. This was all Katy could learn, and Marian's heart history, if she had one, was guarded carefully. One day as they sat together alone, when Helen had gone to the village to do some shopping for Katy, Marian abruptly said: "I have lived in New York, you know, and why do you not ask if I ever saw these Camerons?"

"You! did you?—have you, really?—and what are they like?" Katy almost screamed, skipping across the floor and seating herself by Marian, who replied: "Much like other ladies of their stamp—proud and fashionable. The father I never saw, but your Mr. Cameron I used to see in the street driving his handsome bays."

Anything relating to the pride and fashion of her future relations made Katy uncomfortable, and she remained silent, cutting into bits a piece of silk, until Marian continued: "Sometimes there was a child in the Cameron carriage. Do you know who it was?"

Delighted that she too could impart information, Katy hastened to say that it was probably "little Jamie, the orphan grandchild, whose parents died in Italy. Morris told me he met them in Paris, and he said Jamie's father died of consumption, and the mother, too, either then or afterward. At all events Jamie is an orphan and a cripple. He will never walk, Morris says; and he told me so much about him—how patient he was and how good."

Katy did not see the tears which threatened to mar the silk on which Marian Hazelton was working, for they were brushed away almost as quickly as they came, while in her usual voice she asked: "What was the cause of his lameness?"

"I don't know just how it happened," Katy replied, "but believe it resulted from the carelessness of a servant in leaving him alone, or something."

"A servant!" Marian repeated, a flush rising to her cheek and a strange light flashing on her eye.

She had heard all she cared to hear of the Camerons that day, and she was glad when Helen returned from the village, as her appearance diverted Katy's mind into another channel, and in examining the dress trimmings which Helen had brought, she forgot to talk of Jamie Cameron. The trimmings, fringe and buttons were for the wedding dress, the one in which Katy was to be married, and which Helen reserved the right to make to herself. Miss Hazelton must fit it, of course, but to her belonged the privilege of making it, every stitch; Katy would think more of it if she did it all, she said; but she did not confess how the bending over that one dress, both early and late, was the escape valve for the feeling which otherwise would have found vent in passionate tears. Helen was very wretched during the pleasant May days she usually enjoyed so much, but over which now a dark pall was spread, shutting out all the brightness and leaving only the terrible certainty that Katy was lost to her forever—bright, frolicsome Katy, who, without a shadow on her heart sported amid the bridal finery, unmindful of the anguish tugging at the hearts of both the patient women, Marian and Helen, who worked on so silently, reserving their tears for the night time, when Katy lay sweetly sleeping and dreaming of Wilford Cameron. Helen had ceased to think that Hiss Hazelton had any designs on Dr. Grant, for her manner toward Uncle Ephraim was just as soft and conciliating, and she dismissed that subject from her mind with the reflection that it was the nature of some girls to be very pretty to the gentlemen, without meaning any harm. She liked Marian on the whole, regarding her as a quiet woman, who knew her business and kept to it, but never guessing that her feelings, too, were stirred to their very depths as the bridal preparations progressed. She only knew how wretched she was herself, and how hard it was to fight her tears back as she bent over the plaided silk, weaving in with every stitch a part of the clinging love which each day grew stronger for the only sister, who would soon be gone, leaving her alone. Only once did she break entirely down, and that was when the dress was done and Katy tried it on, admiring its effect, and having a second glass brought that she might see it behind.

"Isn't it lovely?" she exclaimed; "and the more valuable because you made it, I shall think of you every time I wear it," and the impulsive girl found her arms around Helen's neck, kissing her lovingly, while Helen sank into a chair and sobbed aloud: "Oh, Katy, darling Katy! you won't forget me when you are rich and admired and can have all you want? You will remember us here at home, so sad and lonely? You don't know how desolate it will be, knowing you are gone, never to come back again, just as you go away."

In an instant Katy was on her knees before Helen whom she tried to comfort by telling her how she should come back, come often, too, staying a long while; and that when she had a city home of her own she should live with her for good, and they would be so happy.

"I cannot quite give Wilford up to please you," she said, when that gigantic sacrifice suggested itself as something which it was possible Helen might require of her; "but I will do anything else, only please don't cry, darling Nellie—please don't cry. It spoils all my pleasure," and Katy's soft hands wiped away the tears running so fast over her sister's face.

After that Helen did not cry again in Katy's presence, but the latter knew she wanted to and it made her rather sad, particularly when she saw reflected in the faces of the other members of the family the grief she had witnessed in Helen. Even Uncle Ephraim was not as cheerful as usual, and once when Katy came upon him in the woodshed chamber, where he was shelling corn, she found him resting from his work and looking from the window far off across the hills, with a look which made her guess he was thinking of her, and stealing up beside him she laid her hand upon his wrinkled face, whispering softly: "Poor Uncle Eph, are you sorry, too?"

He knew what she meant, and the aged chin quivered, while a big tear dropped into the tub of corn, as he replied: "Yes, Katy-did—very sorry."

That was all he said, and Katy, after smoothing his cheek a moment kissed his silvery hair and then stole away, wondering if every girl's family felt so badly before she was married, and wondering next if the love to which she was going was equal to the love of home, which, as the days went by, grew stronger and stronger, enfolding her in a mighty embrace, which could only be severed by bitter tears and fierce heart-pangs, such as death itself sometimes brings. In that household there was, after Katy, no one glad of that marriage except the mother, and she was only glad because of the position it would bring to her daughter. But among them all Morris suffered most, and suffered more because he had to endure in secret, to cover up his sorrow so that no one guessed the pain it was for him to go each day where Katy was, and watch her as she sometimes donned a part of her finery for his benefit, asking him once if he did not almost wish he were in Wilford's place, so as to have as pretty a bride as she should make. Then Marian Hazelton glanced up in time to see the expression of his face, a look whose meaning she readily recognized, and when Dr. Grant left the farmhouse that day, another than himself knew of his love for Katy, drawing her breath hurriedly as she thought of taking back the words "I never will," of revoking the decision and telling Katy what Wilford Cameron should have told her long before. But the wild wish fled, and Wilford's secret was safe, while Marian watched Morris Grant with a pitying interest as he came among them, speaking always in the same kind, gentle tone, and trying so hard to enter into Katy's joy.

"His burden is greater than mine. God help us both," Marian said, as she resumed her work.

And so amid joy and gladness, silent tears and breaking hearts the preparations went on until all was done, and only three days remained before the eventful tenth. Marian Hazelton was going home, for she would not stay at the farmhouse until all was over, notwithstanding Katy's entreaties, joined to those of Helen.

"Perhaps she would come to the church," she said, "though she could not promise;" and her manner was so strange as she gathered up her things that Katy wondered if in any way she could have been offended, and at last said to her timidly, as she stood with her bonnet on waiting for Uncle Ephraim: "You are not angry with me for anything, are you?"

"Angry with you!" and Katy never forgot the glitter of the tearful eyes, or their peculiar expression as they turned upon her. "No, oh, no; I could not be angry with you, and yet, Katy Lennox, some in my position would hate you, contrasting your prospects with their own; but I do not; I love you; I bless you, and pray that you may be happy with your husband; honor him, obey him if need be, and above all, never give him the slightest cause to doubt you. You will have admirers, Katy Lennox. In New York others than your husband will speak to you words of flattery, but don't you listen. Remember what I tell you; and now, again, God bless you."

She touched her lips to Katy's forehead, and when they were withdrawn there were great tears there which she had left! Marian's tears on Katy's brow; and truly, it was very meet that just before her bridal day Wilford Cameron's bride should receive such baptism from Marian Hazelton.



CHAPTER IX.

BEFORE THE MARRIAGE.

On the morning of the ninth day of June, 18—, Wilford Cameron stood in his father's parlor, surrounded by the entire family, who, after their usually early breakfast, had assembled to bid him good-by, for Wilford was going for his bride, and it would be months, if not a year, ere he returned to them again. They had given him up to his idol, asking only that none of the idol's family should be permitted to cross their threshold, and also that the idol should not often be allowed the privilege of returning to the place from whence she came. These restrictions had emanated from the female portion of the Cameron family, the mother, Juno and Bell. The father, on the contrary, had sworn roundly as he would sometimes swear at what he called the contemptible pride of his wife and daughters. Katy was sure of a place in his heart just because of the pride which was building up so high a wall between her and her friends, and when at parting he held his son's hand in his, he said:

"I charge you, Will, be kind to that young girl, and don't, for Heaven's sake, go to cramming her with airs and nonsense which she does not understand. Tell her I'll be a father to her; her own, you say, is dead, and give her this as my bridal present."

He held out a small-sized box containing a most exquisite set of pearls, such as he fancied would be becoming to the soft, girlish beauty Wilford had described. Something in his father's manner touched Wilford closely, making him resolve anew that if Kitty were not happy as Mrs. Cameron it should not be his fault. His mother had said all she wished to say, while his sisters had been gracious enough to send their love to the bride, Bell hoping she would look as well in the poplin and little plaid as she had done. Either was suitable for the wedding day, Mrs. Cameron said, and she might take her choice, only Wilford must see that she did not wear with the poplin the gloves and belt intended for the silk; country people had so little taste, and she did want Katy to look well, even if she were not there to see her. And with his brain a confused medley of poplins and plaids, belts and gloves, pearls and Katy, Wilford finally tore himself away, and at three o'clock that afternoon drove through Silverton village, past the little church which the Silverton maidens were decorating with flowers, pausing a moment in their work to look at him as he went by. Among them was Marian Hazelton, but she did not look up, she only bent lower over her work, thus hiding the tear which dropped from the delicate buds she was fashioning into the words, "Joy to the Bride," intending the whole as the center of the wreath to be placed over the altar just where all could see it.

"The handsomest man I ever saw," was the verdict of most of the girls as they came hack to their work, while Wilford drove on to the farmhouse where Katy had been so anxiously watching for him.

When he came in sight, however, and she knew he was actually there, she ran away to hide her blushes and the feeling of awe which had come suddenly over her for the man who was to be her husband. But Helen bade her go back, and so she went coyly in to Wilford, who met her with loving caresses, and then put upon her finger the superb diamond which he said he had thought to send as a pledge of their engagement, but had finally concluded to wait and present himself. Katy had heard much of diamonds, and seen some in Canandaigua; but the idea that she, plain Katy Lennox, would ever wear them, had never once entered her mind; and now as she looked at the brilliant gem sparkling upon her hand, she felt a thrill of something more than joy at that good fortune which had brought her to diamonds. Vanity, we suppose it was—such vanity as was very natural in her case, and she thought she should never tire of looking at the precious stone; but when Wilford showed her next the plain broad band of gold, and tried it on her third finger, asking if she knew what it meant, the true woman spoke within her, and she answered, tearfully:

"Yes, I know, and I will try to prove worthy of what I shall be to you when I wear that ring for good."

Katy was very quiet for a moment as she sat with her head nestled against Wilford's bosom, but when he observed that she was looking tired, and asked if she had been working hard, the quiet fit was broken, and she told him of the dress "we had made," that "we" referring solely to Helen and Marian, for Katy had hardly done a thing. But it did not matter; she fancied she had, and she asked if he did not wish to see her dresses. Wilford knew it would please Katy, and so, though he cared very little about it, he followed her into the adjoining room where they were still spread out upon the tables and chairs, with Helen in their midst, ready to pack them away. Wilford thought of Mrs. Ryan and the check, but he shook hands with Helen very civilly, saying to her, playfully:

"I suppose that you are willing I should take your sister with me this time."

Helen could not answer, but turned away to hide her face, while Katy showed to her lover one dress after another, until she came to the little plaid, which, with a bright blush she told him "was the very thing itself—the one intended for to-morrow, and asked if he did not like it."

Wilford could not help telling her yes, for he knew she wished him to do so, but in his heart he was thinking bad thoughts against the wardrobe of his bride-elect—thoughts which would have won for him the title of hen-huzzy from Helen, could she have known them. And yet Wilford did not deserve that name. Accustomed all his life to hearing dress discussed in his mother's parlor, and in his sister's boudoir, it was natural he should think more of it and notice it more than Morris Grant would do, while for the last five weeks he had heard at home of little else than the probably tout ensemble of Katy's wardrobe, bought and made in the country, his mother deciding finally to write to her cousin, Mrs. Harvey, who boarded at the Revere, and have her see it before Katy left the city. Under these circumstances, it was not strange that Wilford did not enter into Katy's delight, even after she told him how Helen had made every stitch of the dress herself, and that it would on that account be very dear to her. This was a favorable time for getting the poplin off his mind, and with a premonitory ahem, he said: "Yes, it is very nice, no doubt; but," and here he turned to Helen, "after Mrs. Ryan's services were declined, my mother determined to have two dresses fitted to Sister Bell, who I think is just Katy's size and figure. I need not say"—and his eyes still rested on Helen, who gave him back an unflinching glance—"I need not say that no pains have been spared to make these garments everything they should be in point of quality and style. I have them in my trunk," and, tuning now to Katy, "it is my mother's special request that one of them be worn to-morrow. You could take your choice, she said—either was suitable. I will bring them for your inspection."

He left the room, while Helen's face resembled a dark thundercloud, whose lightnings shone in her flashing eyes as she looked after him and then back to where Katy stood, bewildered and wondering what was wrong.

"Who is Mrs. Ryan?" she asked. "What does he mean?" but before Helen could command her voice to explain, Wilford was with them again, bringing the dresses, over which Katy nearly went wild.

She had never seen anything as elegant as the rich heavy poplin or the soft lustrous silk, while even Helen acknowledged that there was about them a finish which threw Miss Hazelton's quite in the shade.

"Beautiful!" Katy exclaimed; "and trimmed so exquisitely! I do so hope they will fit!"

"I dare say they will," Wilford replied, enjoying her appreciation of his mother's gift. "At all events they will answer for to-morrow, and any needful alterations can be made in Boston. Which will you wear?"

"Oh, I don't know. I wish I could wear both. Helen, which shall I?" and Katy appealed to her sister, who could endure no more, but hid her head among the pillows of the bed and cried.

Katy understood the whole, and dropping upon the floor the silk to which she inclined the most, she flew to Helen's side, and whispered to her: "Don't, Nellie, right before Wilford. I won't wear either of them. I'll wear the one you made. It was mean and vain in me to think of doing otherwise."

During this scene Wilford had stolen from the room, and with him gone Helen was herself, capable of judging candidly and sensibly. She knew the city silk, which cost three dollars per yard, and was fastened with buttons of gold, having Katy's initial upon their face, was handsomer and better suited for Wilford Cameron's bride than the country plaid, costing one dollar per yard, and trimmed with buttons at eighteen pence per dozen, and so she said to Katy: "I would rather you should wear the one they sent. It will become you better. Suppose you try it on," and in seeking to gratify her sister Helen forgot in part her own cruel disappointment, and that her work of days had been for naught. The dress fitted well, though Katy pronounced it too tight and too long. A few moments, however, accustomed her to the length, and then her mother, Aunt Hannah, and Aunt Betsy came to see and admire, while Katy proposed going out to Wilford, but Helen kept her back. Aunt Betsy remarking, under her breath, that "she didn't see for the life on her how Catherine could be so free and easy with that man when just the sight of him was enough to take away a body's breath."

"More free and easy than she will be by and by," was Helen's mental comment as she proceeded quietly to pack the trunk which Morris had brought for the voyage across the sea, dropping into it many a tear as she folded away one article after another, and wondered under what circumstances she should see them again if she saw them ever.

Helen was a Christian girl, and many a time had she prayed in secret that He who rules the deep would keep its waters calm and still while her sister was upon them, and she prayed so now, constantly, burying her face once in her hands, and asking that Katy might come back to them unchanged, if possible, and asking next that God would remove from her heart all bitterness toward the bridegroom, who was to be her brother, and whom, after that short, earnest prayer, she found herself liking better. He loved Katy, she was sure, and that was all she cared for, though she did wish he would release her before twelve o'clock on that night, the last she would spend with them for a long, long time. But Wilford kept her with him in the parlor, kissing away the tears which flowed so fast when she recalled the prayer said that night by Uncle Ephraim, with her kneeling by him as she might never kneel again. He had called her by her name and his voice was very sad as he commended her to God, asking that he would "be with our little Katy wherever she might go, keeping her in all the mewandering scenes of life, and bringing her at last to his own heavenly home."

Wilford himself was touched, and though he noticed the deacon's pronunciation, he did not even smile, and his manner was very respectful, when after the prayer over and they were alone, the white-haired deacon felt it incumbent upon him to say a few words concerning Katy.

"She's a young, rattle-headed creature, not much like your own kin, I guess; but, young man, she is as dear as the apple of our eyes, and I charge you to treat her well. She has never had a crossways word spoke to her all her life, and don't you be the first to speak it, nor let your folks browbeat her."

As they were alone, and it was easier for Wilford to be humble and conciliatory, he promised all the old man required, and then went back to Katy, going into raptures over the beautiful little Geneva watch which Morris had just sent over as her bridal gift from him. Even Mrs. Cameron herself could have found no fault with this, and Wilford praised it as much as Katy could desire, noticing the inscription: "Katy, from Cousin Morris, June 10th, 18—," wishing that after the "Katy" had come the name Cameron, and wondering if Morris had any design in omitting it. Wilford had not yet presented his father's gift, but he did so now, and Katy's tears dropped upon the pale, soft pearls as she whispered: "I shall like your father. I never thought of having things like these."

Nor had she, but she would grow to them very soon, while even the family gathering around and sharing in her joy began to realize how great a lady their Katy was to be. It was late that night ere anybody slept, if sleep at all they did, which was doubtful, unless it were the bride, who with Wilford's kisses warm upon her lips, crept up to bed just as the clock was striking twelve, nor woke until it was again chiming for six, and over her Helen bent, a dark ring about her eyes and her face very white as she whispered: "Wake, Katy darling, this is your wedding day."



CHAPTER X.

MARRIAGE AT ST. JOHN'S.

There were more than a few lookers-on to see Katy Lennox married, and the church was literally jammed for full three-quarters of an hour before the appointed time. Back by the door, where she commanded a full view of the middle aisle, Marian Hazelton sat, her face as white as ashes, and her eyes gleaming strangely wild even from beneath the thickly dotted veil she wore over her hat. Doubts as to her wisdom in coming there were agitating her mind, but something kept her sitting just as others sat waiting for the bride until the sexton, opening wide the doors, and assuming an added air of consequence, told the anxious spectators that the party had arrived—Uncle Ephraim and Katy, Wilford and Mrs. Lennox, Dr. Morris and Helen, Aunt Hannah and Aunt Betsy—that was all, and they came slowly up the aisle, while countless eyes were turned upon them, every woman noticing Katy's dress sweeping the carpet with so long a trail, and knowing by some queer female instinct that it was city-made, and not the handiwork of Marian Hazelton, panting for breath in that pew near the door, and trying to forget herself by watching Dr. Grant. She could not have told what Katy wore; she would not have sworn that Katy was there, for she saw only two, Wilford and Morris Grant. She could have touched the former as he passed her by, and she did breathe the odor of his garments while her hands clasped each other tightly, and then she turned to Morris Grant, growing content with her own pain, so much less than his as he stood before the altar with Wilford Cameron between him and the bride which should have been his. How pretty she was in her wedding garb, and how like a bird her voice rang out as she responded to the solemn question:

"Will you have this man to be thy wedded husband?" etc.

Upon Uncle Ephraim devolved the duty of giving her away, a thing which Aunt Betsy denounced as a "'Piscopal quirk," classing it in the same category with dancing. Still if Ephraim had got it to do she wanted him to do it well, and she had taken some pains to study that part of the ceremony, so as to know when to nudge her brother in case he failed of coming up to time.

"Now, Ephraim, now; they've reached the quirk," she whispered, audibly, almost before Katy's "I will" was heard, clear and distinct; but Ephraim did not need her prompting, and his hand rested lovingly upon Katy's shoulder as he signified his consent, and then fell back to his place next to Hannah. But when Wilford's voice said: "I, Wilford, take thee Katy to be my wedded wife," there was a slight confusion near the door, and those sitting by said to those in front that some one had fainted.

Looking around, the audience saw the sexton leading Marian Hazelton out into the open air, where, at her request, he left her, and went hack to see the closing of the ceremony which made Katy Lennox a wife. Morris' carriage was at the door, and the newly married pair moved slowly out, Katy smiling upon all, kissing her hand to some and whispering a good-by to others, her diamond flashing in the light and her rich silk rustling as she walked, while at her side was Wilford, proudly erect, and holding his head so high as not to see one of the crowd around him, until arrived at the vestibule he stopped a moment and was seized by a young man with curling hair, saucy eyes, and that air of ease and assurance which betokens high breeding and wealth.