She did look beautiful, in lace and pearls, with her short hair curling on her neck. She would not allow us to put so much as a bud in her hair, showing in this respect a willfulness we never expected; but as she was perfectly irresistible, we suffered her to have her way, and when she was dressed, sent her in to father, who had asked to see her. And now comes the strangest thing in the world.

"You are very beautiful, little daughter," father said. "I almost wish I was going with you to see the sensation you are sure to create."

Then straight into his lap climbed Katy—father's lap—where none of us ever sat, I am sure, and began to coax him to go, telling him she should appear better if he were there, and that she should need him when Wilford left her, as of course he must a part of the time. And father actually dressed himself and went. But Katy did not need him after the people began to understand that Mrs. Wilford Cameron was the rage. Even Sybil Grey, in her palmiest days, never received such homage as was paid to the little Silverton girl, whose great charm was her perfect enjoyment of everything, and her perfect faith in what people said to her. Juno was nothing, and I worse than nothing, for I did go, wearing a plain black silk, with high neck and long sleeves, looking, as Juno said, like a Sister of Charity. But Bell Cameron can afford to dress plainly if she chooses, and I am glad, as it saves a deal of trouble, and somehow people seem to like me quite as well in my Quakerish dress as they do the fashionable Juno in diamonds and flowers, with uncovered neck and shoulders.

Lieutenant Bob was there; his light hair lighter than ever, and his chin as smooth as my hand. He likes to dance, and I do not, but somehow he persisted in staying where I was, notwithstanding that I said my sharpest things in hopes to get rid of him. He left me at last to dance with Katy, who makes up in grace and airiness what she lacks in knowledge. Once upon the floor, she did not lack for partners, but, I verily believe, danced every set, growing prettier and fairer as she danced, for hers is a complexion which does not get red and blowsy with exercise.

Mark Ray was there, too, and I saw him smile comically when Katy met the people with that bow she was making at the time he came so suddenly upon us. Mark is a good fellow, and I really think we have him to thank in a measure for Katy's successful debut. He was the first to take her from Wilford, walking with her up and down the hall by way of reassuring her, and once as they passed me I heard her say:

"I feel so timid here—so much afraid of doing something wrong—something countrified."

"Never mind," he answered. "Act yourself just as you would were you at home in Silverton, where you are known. That is far better than affecting a manner not natural to you."

After that Katy brightened wonderfully. The stiffness which at first was perceptible passed off, and she was Katy Lennox, queening it over all the city belles, who, because she was married, would not be jealous—drawing after her a host of gentlemen, and between the sets holding a miniature court at one end of the room, where the more desirable of the guests crowded around; flattering her until her little head ought to have been turned if it was not. To do her justice, she bore her honors well, and when we were in the carriage, and father complimented her upon her success, she only said:

"If I pleased you all I am glad."

So many calls as we had the next day, and so many invitations as there are now on our table for Mrs. Wilford Cameron, while our opera box between the scenes is packed with beaus, until one would suppose Wilford might be jealous; but Katy takes it all so quietly and modestly, seeming only gratified for his sake, that I really believe he enjoys it more than she does. At all events, he persists in her going, even when she would rather stay at home, so if she is spoiled, the fault will rest with him.

February—th.—Poor Katy. Dissipation is beginning to wear upon her, for she is not accustomed to our late hours, and sometimes falls asleep while Esther is dressing her. But go she must, for Wilford wills it so, and she is but an automaton to do his bidding.

Why can't mother let her alone, when everybody seems so satisfied with her? Somehow, she does not believe that people are as delighted as they pretend, and so she keeps training and tormenting her until I do not wonder that Katy sometimes hates to go out, lest she shall unconsciously be guilty of an impropriety. I pitied her last night, when, after she was ready for the opera, she came into my room, where I was indulging in the luxury of a loose dressing gown, with my feet on the sofa. Latterly she has taken to me, and now sitting down before the fire into which her blue eyes looked with a steady stare, she said:

"I wish I might stay here with you to-night. I have heard this opera before, and it will be so tiresome. I get so sleepy while they are singing, for I never care to watch the acting. I did at first, when it was new, but now it seems insipid to see them make-believe, while the theatre is worse yet," and she gave a weary yawn.

In less than three months she has exhausted fashionable life, and I looked at her in astonishment, asking what would please her if the opera did not. What would she like?

Turning her eyes full upon me, she exclaimed:

"I do like it some, I suppose, only I get so tired. I like to ride, I like to skate, I like to shop, and all that; but, oh, you don't know how I want to go home to mother and Helen. I have not seen them for so long, but I am going in the spring—going in May. How many days are there in March and April? Sixty-one," she continued; "then I may safely say that in eighty days I shall see mother, and all the dear old places. It is not a grand home like this. You, Bell, might laugh at it. Juno would, I am sure, but you do not know how dear it is to me, or how I long for a sight of the huckleberry hills and the rocks where Helen and I used to play, Helen is a darling sister, and I know you will like her."

Just then Will called to say the carriage was waiting, and Katy was driven away, while I sat thinking of her and the devoted love with which she clings to her home and friends, wondering if it were the kindest thing which could have been done, transplanting her to our atmosphere, so different from her own.

March 1st.—As it was in the winter, so it is now; Mrs. Wilford Cameron is the rage—the bright star of society—which quotes and pets and flatters, and even laughs at her by turns; and Wilford, though still watchful, lest she should do something outre, is very proud of her, insisting upon her accepting invitations, sometimes two for one evening, until the child is absolutely worn out, and said to me once, when I told her how well she was looking and how pretty her dress was: "Yes, pretty enough, but I am so tired. If I could lie down on mother's bed, in a shilling calico, just as I used to do!"

Mother's bed seems at present to be the height of her ambition—the thing she most desires; and as Juno fancied it must be the feathers she is sighing for, she wickedly suggests that Wilford either buy a feather bed for his wife, or else send to that Aunt Betsy for the one which was to be Katy's setting out! They go to housekeeping in May, and on Madison Square, too, I think Wilford would quite as soon remain with us, for he does not fancy change; but Katy wants a home of her own, and I never saw anything more absolutely beautiful than her face when father said to Wilford that No. —— Madison Square was for sale, advising him to secure it. But when mother intimated that there was no necessity for the two families to separate at present—that Katy was too young to have charge of a house—there came into her eyes a look of such distress that it went straight to father's heart, and calling her to him, he said:

"Tell me, sunbeam, what is your choice—to stay with us, or have a home of your own?"

Katy was very white, and her voice trembled as she replied:

"You have been kind to me here, and it is very pleasant; but I guess—I think—I'm sure—I should like the housekeeping best. I am not so young, either. Nineteen in July, and when I go home next month I can learn so much of Aunt Betsy and Aunt Hannah."

Mother looked at Wilford then; but he was looking into the fire, with an expression anything but favorable to that visit home, fixed now for April instead of May. But Katy has no discernment, and believes she is actually going home to learn how to make apple dumplings and pumpkin pies. In spite of mother, the house is bought, and now she is gone all day, deciding how it shall be furnished, always leaving Katy out of the question, as if she were a cipher, and only consulting Wilford's choice. They will be happier alone, I know. Mrs. General Reynolds says that it is the way for young people to live; that her son's wife shall never come home to her, for of course their habits could not be alike; and then she looked queerly at me, as if she knew I was thinking of Lieutenant Bob and who his wife might be.

Sybil Grandon is coming home in April or May, and Mrs. Reynolds wonders will she flirt as she used to do. Just as if Bob would care for a widow. There is more danger from Will, who thinks Mrs. Grandon a perfect paragon, and who is very anxious that Katy may appear well before her, saying nothing and doing nothing which shall in any way approximate to Silverton and the shoes which Katy told Esther she used to bind when a girl. Will need not be disturbed, for Sybil Grandon was never half as pretty as Katy, or half as much admired. Neither need Mrs. General Reynolds fret about Bob, as if he would care for her. Sybil Grandon, indeed!



CHAPTER XVI.

KATY.

For nearly four months Katy had been in New York, drinking deep draughts from the cup of folly and fashion held so constantly to her lips; but she cloyed of it at last, and what at first had been so eagerly grasped, began, from daily repetition, to grow insipid and dull. To be the belle of every place, to know that her dress, her style, and even the fashion of her hair, was copied and admired, was gratifying to her, because she knew how much it pleased her husband, who was never happier or prouder than when, with Katy on his arm, he entered some crowded parlor and heard the buzz of admiration as it circled around, while Katy, simple-hearted and guileless still, smiled and blushed like a little child, wondering at the attentions lavished upon her, and attributing them mostly to her husband, whose position she thoroughly understood, marveling more and more that he should have chosen her to be his wife. That he had so honored her made her love him with a strange kind of grateful, clinging love, which as yet would acknowledge no fault in him, no wrong, no error; and if ever a shadow did cloud her heart, she was the one to blame, not Wilford; he was right—he the idol she worshiped—he the one for whose sake she tried so hard to drop her country ways and conform to the rules his mother and sister taught, submitting with the utmost good-nature to what Bell in her journal had called the drill, but it must be confessed not succeeding very well in imitating Juno. Katy could hardly be other than her own easy, graceful self, and though the drills had their effect, and taught her many things, they could not divest her of that natural, playful, airy manner which so charmed the city people and made her the reigning belle. As Marian Hazleton had predicted, others than her husband had spoken words of praise in Katy's ear; but such was her nature that the shafts of flattery glanced aside, leaving her unharmed, so that her husband, though sometimes startled and disquieted, had no cause for jealousy, enjoying Katy's success far more than she did herself, urging her out when she would rather have stayed at home, and evincing so much annoyance if she ventured to remonstrate that she gave it up at last and floated on with the tide.

Mrs. Cameron had at first been greatly shocked at Katy's want of propriety, looking on aghast when she wound her arms around Wilford's neck, or sat upon his knee; but to the elder Cameron the sight was a pleasant one, bringing back sunny memories of a summer time years ago, when he was young, and a fair bride had for a few brief weeks made this earth a paradise to him. But fashion had entered his Eden—that summer time was gone, and only the dim leaves of autumn lay where the buds which promised so much had been. The girlish bride was a stately matron now, doing nothing amiss, but making all her acts conform to a prescribed rule of etiquette, and frowning majestically upon the frolicsome, impulsive Katy, who had crept so far into the heart of the eccentric man that he always found the hours of her absence long, listening intently for the sound of her bounding footsteps, and feeling that her coming to his household had infused into his veins a better, healthier life than he had known for years. Katy was very dear to him, and he felt a thrill of pain, while a shadow lowered on his brow when first the toning down process commenced. He had heard them talk about it, and in his wrath he had hurled a cut-glass goblet upon the marble hearth, breaking it in atoms, while he called them a pair of precious fools, and Wilford a bigger one because he suffered it. So long as his convalescence lasted, he was some restraint upon his wife, but when he was well enough to resume his duties in his Wall Street office, there was nothing in the way, and Katy's education progressed accordingly. For Wilford's sake, Katy would do anything, and as from some things he had dropped she guessed that her manner was not quite what suited him, she submitted to much which would otherwise have been excessively annoying. But she was growing tired now, and it told upon her face, which was whiter than when she came to New York, while her figure was, if possible, slighter and more airy; but this only enhanced her loveliness, Wilford thought, and so he paid no heed to her complaints of weariness, but kept her in the circle which welcomed her so warmly, and would have missed her so much.

Little by little it had come to Katy that she was not quite as comfortable in her husband's family as she would be in a house of her own. The constant watch kept over her by Mrs. Cameron and Juno irritated and fretted her, making her wonder what was the matter, and why she should so often feel lonely and desolate when surrounded by every luxury which wealth could purchase. "It is his folks," she always said to herself when cogitating upon the subject. "Alone with Wilford I shall feel as light and happy as I used to do in Silverton."

And so Katy caught eagerly at the prospect of a release from the restraint of No. ——, seeming so anxious that Wilford, almost before he was aware of it himself, became the owner of one of the most desirable situations on Madison Square; and Katy was the envy of the belles, who had copied and imitated her, even to the cutting off their hair, which fashion may be fairly said to have originated from Katy herself, whose short curls had ceased to be obnoxious to the fastidious Mrs. Cameron, for Juno had tried the effect, looking, as Bell said, "like a fool," while Juno would have given much to have again the long black tresses, the cutting of which did not make her look like Katy. Of all the household, after Katy, Juno was perhaps the only one glad of the new house. It would be a change for herself, for she meant to spend much of her time on Madison Square, where everything was to be on the most magnificent scale. Fortunately for Katy, she knew nothing of Juno's intentions and built many a castle of her new home, where mother could come with Helen and Dr. Grant. Somehow she never saw Uncle Ephraim, nor his wife, nor yet Aunt Betsy there. She knew how out of place they would appear, and how they would annoy Wilford: but surely to her mother and Helen there could be no objection, and when she first went over the house, she designated mentally this room as mother's, and another one as Helen's, thinking how each should be fitted up with direct reference to their tastes, Helen's containing a great many books, while her mother's should have easy-chairs and lounges, with a host of drawers for holding things. And Wilford heard it all, making no reply, but considering how he could manage best so as to have no scene, for he had not the slightest intention of inviting either Mrs. Lennox or Helen to visit him, much less to become a part of his household. That he did not marry Katy's relatives was a fact as fixed as the laws of the Medes and Persians, and Katy's anticipations were answering no other purpose than to divert her mind for the time being, keeping her bright and cheerful.

Very pleasant indeed were the pictures Katy drew of the new house where Helen was to come, but pleasanter far were her pictures of that visit to Silverton, to occur in April, and about which she thought so much, dreaming of it many a night, and waking in the morning with the belief that she had actually been where the young buds were swelling and the fresh grass was springing by the door. Poor Katy, how much she thought about that visit when she should see them all and go again with Uncle Ephraim down into the meadows, making believe she was Katy Lennox still—when she could climb the ladder in the barn after new-laid eggs, or steal across the fields to Linwood, talking with Morris as she used to talk in the days which seemed so long ago. Morris she feared was not liking her as well as of old, thinking her very frivolous and silly, for he had only written her one short note in reply to the letter she had sent, telling him of the opera, the parties she attended, and the gay, happy life she led, for to him she would not then confess that in her cup of joy there was a single bitter dreg. All was bright and fair, she said, and Morris had replied that he was glad. "But do not forget that death can find you even there amid your splendor, or that after death the judgment comes, and then what shall it profit you if you gain the whole world and lose your own soul."

These words had rung in Katy's ears for many a day, following her to the dance and to the opera, where even the music was drowned by the echo of the words, "lose your own soul." But the sting grew less and less, till Katy no longer felt it, and now was only anxious to talk with Morris and convince him that she was not as thoughtless as he might suppose, that she still remembered his teachings, remembered the Sunday school and the little church in the valley, preferring it to the handsome, aristocratic house where she went with the Camerons once on every Sunday, and would willingly go twice if Wilford would go with her. But the Camerons were merely fashionable churchgoers, and so their afternoons were spent at home, Katy enjoying them vastly because she usually had Wilford all to herself in her own room, a thing which did not often occur during the weekdays.

There was a kind of peace to be made with Helen, too, Katy feared; for Helen had sent back the diamond ring, saying it was not suitable for her, but never hinting that she had drawn from Morris the inference that Wilford was not well pleased at having his wife thus dispose of his costly presents. Katy had cried when she received the ring, feeling that something was wrong and longing so much for the time when she could make it right.

"One more week and then it is April," she said to Wilford one evening after they had retired to their room, and she was talking of Silverton. "I guess I had better go about the tenth. Shall you stay as long as I do?"

Wilford bit his lip, and after a moment replied:

"I have been talking with mother, and we think April is not a good time for you to be in the country; it is so wet and cold. You had better not till summer, and then I want you here to help order our furniture."

"Oh, Wilford," and Katy's voice trembled, for from past experience she knew that for Wilford to object to her plans was equivalent to a refusal, and her heart throbbed with disappointment as she tried to listen while Wilford urged many reasons why she should not go, convincing her at last that of all times for visiting Silverton spring was the worst, that summer or autumn were better, and that it was her duty to remain where she was until such time as he saw fit for her to do otherwise.

This was the meaning of what he said, and though his manner was guarded and his words kind, they were very conclusive, and with one gasping sob Katy gave up Silverton, charging it more to Mrs. Cameron than to Wilford, and writing next day to Helen that she could not come just then, but after she was settled they might surely expect her.

With a bitter pang Helen read this letter to the three women who had so much anticipated Katy's visit, and each of whom cried quietly over her disappointment, while even Uncle Ephraim went back to his work that afternoon with a sad, heavy heart, for now his labor was not lightened by thoughts of Katy's being there so soon.

"Please God she may come to us some time," he said, pausing beneath the butternut in the meadow, and remembering just how Katy looked on that first day of her return from Canandaigua, when she sat on the flat stone while he piled up the hay and talked with her of different paths through life, one of which she must surely tread.

She had said, "I will choose the straight and pleasant," and some would think she had; but Uncle Ephraim was not so sure, and leaning against a tree, he asked silently that, whether he ever saw his darling again or not, God would care for her and keep her unspotted from the world.



CHAPTER XVII.

THE NEW HOUSE.

It was a cruel thing for Wilford Cameron to try thus to separate Katy from the hearts which loved her so much: and, as if he felt reproached, there was an increased tenderness in his manner toward her, particularly as he saw how sad she was for a few days after his decision. But Katy could not be sorry long, and in the excitement of settling the new house her spirits rallied, and her merry laugh thrilled like a bird through the rooms where the workmen were so busy, and where Mrs. Cameron was the real superintendent, though there was always a show of consulting Katy, who nevertheless was a mere cipher in the matter. In everything the mother had her way, until it came to the room designed for Helen, and which Mrs. Cameron was for converting into a kind of smoking or lounging room for Wilford and his associates. Katy must not expect him to be always as devoted to her as he had been during the winter, she said. He had a great many bachelor friends, and now that he had a house of his own, it was natural that he should have some place where they could spend an hour or so with him without the restraint of ladies' society, and this was just the room—large, airy, quiet, and so far from the parlors that the odor of the smoke could not reach them.

"Oak and green will do nicely here," turning to Wilford, "but you must have some very handsome cigar sets, and one or two boxes of chess. Shall I see to that?"

Katy had submitted to much without knowing that she was submitting; but something Bell had dropped that morning had awakened a suspicion that possibly she was being ignored, and the wicked part of Helen would have enjoyed the look in her eye as she said, decidedly, not to Mrs. Cameron, but to Wilford: "I have from the very first decided this chamber for Helen, and I cannot give it up for a smoking room. You never had one at home. Why did you not, if it is so necessary?"

Wilford could not tell her that his mother would as soon have brought into her house one of Barnum's shows as to have had a room set apart for smoking, which she specially disliked; neither could he at once reply at all, so astonished was he at this sudden flash of spirit. Mrs. Cameron was the first to rally, and in her usual quiet tone she said: "Indeed, I did not know that your sister was to form a part of your household. When do you expect her?" and her cold gray eyes rested steadily upon Katy, who never before so fully realized the distance there was between her husband's friends and her own. But as the worm will turn when trampled on, so Katy, though hitherto powerless to defend herself, aroused in Helen's behalf, and in a tone as quiet and decided as that of her mother-in-law, replied: "She will come whenever I write for her. It was arranged from the first. Wasn't it, Wilford?" and she turned to her husband, who, unwilling to decide between a wife he loved and a mother whose judgment he considered infallible, affected not to hear her, and stole from the room, followed soon by Mrs. Cameron, so that Katy was left mistress of the field.

After that no one interfered in her arrangement of Helen's room, which, with far less expense than Mrs. Cameron would have done, she fitted up so cosily that Wilford pronounced it the pleasantest room in the house, while Bell went into ecstasies over it, and even Juno might have unbent enough to praise it, were it not that Mark Ray, who from being tacitly claimed by Juno was frequently admitted to their counsels, had asked the privilege of contributing to Helen's room a handsome volume of German poetry, such as he fancied she might enjoy. So long as Mark's attentions were not bestowed in any other quarter Juno was comparatively satisfied, but the moment he swerved a hair's breadth from the line she had marked out, her anger was aroused; and now, remembering his commendations of Helen Lennox, she hated her as cordially as one jealous girl can hate another whom she has not seen, making Katy so uncomfortable, without knowing what was the matter, that she hailed the morning of her exit from No. —— as the brightest since her marriage.

It was a very happy day for Katy, and when she first sat down to dinner in her own handsome home her face shone with a joy which even the presence of her mother-in-law could not materially lessen. She would rather have been alone with Wilford, it is true, but as her choice was not consulted she submitted cheerfully, proudly taking her rightful place at the table, and doing the honors so well that Mrs. Cameron, in speaking of it to her daughters, acknowledged that Wilford had little to fear if Katy always appeared as much at ease as she did that day. A thought similar to this passed through the mind of Wilford, who was very observant of such matters, and that night, after his mother was gone, he warmly commended Katy, but spoiled the pleasure his commendation would have given by telling her next, as if one thought suggested the other, that Sybil Grandon had returned, that he saw her on Broadway, accepting her invitation to a seat in her carriage which brought him to his door. She had made many inquiries concerning Katy, he said, expressing a great curiosity to see her, and saying that as she drove past the house that morning, she was strongly tempted to waive all ceremony and run in, knowing she should be pardoned for the sake of Auld Lang Syne, when she was privileged to take liberties with the Camerons. All this Wilford repeated to Katy, but he did not tell her how at the words Auld Lang Syne, Sybil had turned her fine eyes upon him with an expression which made him color, for he knew she was referring to the time when her name and his were always coupled together.

Wilford would not have exchanged Katy for a dozen Sybils, but there was about the latter a flash and sparkle very fascinating to most men, and Wilford felt himself so much exhilarated in her society that he half regretted leaving it, wishing as he did so that in some things Katy was more like the brilliant woman of the world, who, flashing upon him her most bewitching smile, leaned back in her handsome carriage with a careless, easy abandon, while he ran up the steps of his own dwelling, where Katy waited for him. In this state of mind her achievement at the dinner table was exceedingly gratifying. Sybil herself could not have done better. But alas, there were many points where Katy fell far below this standard; so after speaking of Sybil's inquiries for his wife, he went on to talk of Sybil herself, telling how much she was admired and how superior she was to the majority of ladies whom Katy had met, adding that he felt more anxious that Katy should make a favorable impression upon her than any one of his acquaintance, as she would be sure to note the slightest departure from her code of etiquette. How Katy hated the words etiquette, and style and manner, wishing they might be stricken from the language, and how she dreaded this Sybil Grandon, who seemed to her like some ogress, instead of the charming creature she was described to be. Thoughts of the secret picture and the dread fancy did not trouble her now, for she was sure of Wilford's love; but she had sometimes dreaded the return of Sybil Grandon, and now that she had come, she felt for a moment a chill at her heart and a terror at meeting her which she tried to shake off, succeeding at last, for perfect faith in Wilford was to her a strong shield of defense, and her only trouble was a fear lest she should fall in the scale of comparison which might be instituted between herself and Mrs. Grandon.

Nestling close to Wilford, she said, half earnestly, half playfully:

"I will try not to disgrace you when I meet this Mrs. Grandon."

Then, anxious to change the conversation to something more agreeable to herself, she began to talk of their house, thus diverting her own mind from Sybil Grandon, who after a few days ceased to be a bugbear, Wilford never mentioning her again, and Katy only hearing of her through Juno and Bell, the first of whom went into raptures over her, while the latter styled her a silly, coquettish widow, who would appear much better to have worn her weeds a little longer, and not throw herself quite so soon into the market. That she should of course meet her some time, Katy knew, but she would not distress herself till the time arrived, and so she dismissed her fears, or rather lost them in the excitement of her new dignity as mistress of a house.

In her girlhood Katy had evinced a taste for housekeeping, which now developed so rapidly that she won the respect of all the servants, from the man who answered the bell to the accomplished cook, hired by Mrs. Cameron, and who, like most accomplished cooks, was sharp and cross and opinionated, but who did not find it easy to scold the blithe little woman who every morning came flitting into her dominions, not asking what they would have for dinner, as she had been led to suppose she would, but ordering it with a matter of course air, which amused the usually overbearing Mrs. Phillips. But when the little lady, rolling her sleeves above her dimpled elbows and donning the clean white apron which Phillips was reserving for afternoon, announced her intention of surprising Wilford, who was very particular about dessert, with a pudding such as Aunt Betsy used to make, there were signs of rebellion, Phillips telling her bluntly that she couldn't be bothered—that it was not a lady's place in the kitchen under foot—that the other Mrs. Cameron never did it, and would not like it in Mrs. Wilford.

For a moment Katy paused and looked straight at Mrs. Phillips; then without a word of reply to that worthy's remarks, said, quietly: "I have only six eggs here—the receipt is ten. Bring me four more, please."

There was something in the blue eyes which compelled obedience, and the dessert progressed without another word of remonstrance. But when the door bell rang, and word came down that there were ladies in the parlor—Juno with some one else—Phillips would not tell her of the flour on her hair; and as Katy, after casting aside her apron and putting down her sleeves, only glanced hastily at herself in the hall mirror as she passed it, she appeared in the parlor with this mark upon her curls, and greatly to her astonishment was presented to "Mrs. Sybil Grandon," Juno explaining, that as Sybil was very anxious to see her, and they were passing the house, she had presumed upon her privilege as a sister and brought her in.

For a moment the room turned dark, and Katy felt that she was falling; it was so sudden, so unexpected, and she so unprepared; but Sybil's familiar manner soon quieted her, and she was able at last to look fully at her visitor, finding her not as handsome as she expected, nor as young but in all other points she had not perhaps been exaggerated. Cultivated and self-possessed, she was still very pleasing in her manner, making Katy feel wholly at ease by a few well-timed compliments, which had the merit of seeming genuine, so perfect was she in the art of deception, practicing it with so much skill that few saw through the mask, and knew it was put on.

To Katy she was very gracious, admiring her house, admiring herself, admiring everything, until Katy wondered how she could ever have dreaded to meet her, laughing and chatting as familiarly as if the fashionable woman were not criticising every movement and every act and every feature of her face, wondering most at the flour upon her hair!

Juno wondered, too, but knowing Katy's domestic propensities, suspected the truth, and feigning some errand with Phillips, she excused herself for a moment and descended to the kitchen, where she was not long in hearing about Katy's queer ways, coming where she was not needed, and making country puddings after some heathenish aunt's rule.

"Was it Aunt Betsy?" Juno asked, her face betokening its disgust when told that she was right, and her manner on her return to the parlor very frigid toward Katy, who had discovered the flour on her hair, and was laughing merrily over it, telling Sybil how it happened—how cross Phillips was—and lastly, how "our folks" often made the pudding, and that was why she wished to surprise Wilford with it.

There was a sarcastic smile upon Sybil's lip as she wished Mrs. Cameron success and then departed, leaving Katy to finish the dessert, which, when ready for the table, was certainly very inviting, and would have tempted the appetite of any man who had not been listener to matters not wholly conducive to his peace of mind.

On his way home Wilford had stopped at his father's, finding Juno, who had just come in, relating the particulars of her call upon his wife, and as she did not think it necessary to stop for him, he heard of Katy's misdoings, and her general appearance in the presence of Sybil Grandon, whom she entertained with a description of "our folks'" favorite dishes, together with Aunt Betsy's receipts. This was the straw too many, and since his marriage Wilford had not been as angry as he was while listening to Juno, who reported Sybil's verdict on his wife, "A domestic little body and very pretty."

Wilford did not care to have his wife domestic; he did not marry her for that, and in a mood anything but favorable to the light, delicate dessert Katy had prepared with so much care, he went to his luxurious home, where Katy ran as usual to meet him, her face brimming with the surprise she had in store for him, and herself so much excited that she did not at first observe the cloud upon his brow, as he moodily answered her rapid questions. But when the important moment arrived, and the dessert was brought on, he promptly declined it, even after her explanation that she made it herself, just to gratify and astonish him, urging him to try it for the sake of pleasing her, if nothing more. But Wilford was not hungry then, and even had he been, he would have chosen anything before a pudding formed from a receipt of Betsy Barlow, so the dessert was untasted even by Katy herself, who, knowing now that something had gone wrong, sat fighting back her tears until the servant left the room, when she timidly asked: "What is it, Wilford? What makes you seem so—". She would not say cross, and substituted "queer," while Wilford plunged at once into the matter by saying, "Juno tells me she called here this afternoon with Mrs. Grandon."

"Yes, I forgot to mention it," Katy answered, feeling puzzled to know why that should annoy her husband; but his next remarks disclosed the whole, and Katy's tears flowed fast as Wilford asked what he supposed Mrs. Grandon thought, to see his wife looking as if fresh from the flour barrel, and to hear her talk about Aunt Betsy's receipts and our folks. "That is a bad habit of yours, Katy," he continued, "one of which I wish you to break yourself, if possible. I have never spoken to you directly on the subject before, but it annoys me exceedingly, inasmuch as it is an indication of low breeding."

There was no answer from Katy, whose heart was too full to speak, and so Wilford went on: "Our servants were selected by mother with a direct reference to your youth and inexperience, and it is not necessary for you to frequent the kitchen, or, indeed, to go there oftener than once a week. Let them come to you for orders, not you go to them. Neither need you speak quite so familiarly to them, treating them almost as if they were your equals. Try to remember your true position, that whatever you may have been you are now Mrs. Wilford Cameron, equal to any lady in New York."

They were in the library now, and the soft May breeze came stealing through the open window, stirring the fleecy curtain and blowing across the tasteful bouquet which Katy had arranged; but Katy was too wretched to care for her surroundings. It was the first time Wilford had ever spoken to her just in this way, and his manner hurt her more than his words, making her feel as if she were an ignorant, ill-bred creature, whom he had raised to a position she did not know how to fill. It was cruel thus to repay her attempts to please, and so, perhaps, Wilford thought, as with folded arms he sat looking at her weeping so bitterly upon the sofa; but he was too indignant to make any concession then, and he suffered her to weep in silence until he remembered that his mother had requested him to bring her around that evening, as they were expecting a few of Juno's friends, and among them Sybil Grandon. If Katy went he wished her to look her best, and he unbent so far as to try to check her tears. But Katy could not stop, and she wept so passionately that Wilford's anger subsided, leaving only tenderness and pity for the wife he tried so hard to soothe, telling her he was sorry, and suing for forgiveness, until the sobbing ceased, and Katy lay passively in his arms, her face so white and the dark rings about her eyes showing so distinctly that Wilford did not press her when she declined his mother's invitation. He could go, she said, urging so many reasons why he should, that, for the first time since their marriage, he left her alone, and went to where Sybil Grandon smiled her sunniest smile, and put forth her most persuasive powers to keep him at her side, expressing so much regret that he did not bring his charming little wife, who completely won her heart, she was so childlike and simple-hearted, laughing so merrily when she discovered the flour on her hair, but not seeming to mind it in the least. Really, she did not see how it happened that he was fortunate enough to win such a domestic treasure. Where did he find her?

If Sybil Grandon meant this to be complimentary it was not received as such, Wilford almost grating his teeth with vexation as he listened to it, and feeling doubly mortified with Katy, whom he found waiting for him, when at a late hour he left the society of Sybil Grandon and repaired to his home.

To Katy the time of his absence had seemed an age, for her thoughts had been busy with the past, gathering up every incident connected with her married life since she came to New York, and deducing from them the conclusion that "Wilford's folks" were ashamed of her, and that Wilford himself might perhaps become so, if he were not already. That would be worse than death itself, and the darkest hours she had ever known were those she spent alone that night, sobbing so violently as to bring on a racking headache, which showed itself upon her face and touched Wilford at once.

Sybil Grandon was forgotten in those moments of contrition, when he ministered so tenderly to his suffering wife, whom he felt that he had wronged. But somehow he could not tell her so then. It was not natural for him to confess his errors. There had already been a struggle between his duty and his pride when he had done so, and now the latter conquered, especially as Katy, grown more calm, began to take the censure to herself, lamenting her shortcomings, and promising to do better, even to the imitating of Sybil Grandon, if that would make him forget the past and love her as before.

Wilford could accord forgiveness far more graciously than he could ask it, and so peace was restored again, and Katy's face next day looked bright and happy when seen in her new carriage, which took her down Broadway to Stewart's, where she encountered Sybil Grandon, and with her Juno Cameron.

From the latter Katy instinctively shrank, but she could not resist the former, who greeted her so familiarly that Katy readily forgave her the pain of which she had been the cause, and could even speak of her to Wilford without a pang when he next came home to dinner. Still she could not overcome her dread of meeting her, and she grew more and more averse to mingling in society, where she might do many things to mortify her husband or his family, and thus provoke a scene she hoped never again to pass through.

"Oh, if Helen were only here," she thought, as she began to experience a sensation of loneliness she had never felt before.

But Helen was not there, nor yet coming there at present. One word from Wilford had settled that, convincing Katy that it was better to wait until the autumn, inasmuch as they were going so soon to Saratoga and Newport, which Katy had so much wished to visit, but from which she now shrank, especially after she knew that Mrs. Cameron and Juno were to be of the party, and probably Sybil Grandon. Katy did not dislike the latter, but she was never quite easy in her presence, and was conscious of appearing to disadvantage whenever they were together, while she could not deny to herself that since Sybil's return Wilford had not been quite the same as before. In company he was more attentive than ever, but at home he was sometimes moody and silent, while Katy strove in vain to ascertain the cause.

They were not as happy in the new home as she had expected to be, but the fault did not lie with Katy. She performed well her part, and more, taking upon her young shoulders the whole of the burden which her husband should have helped her bear. Housekeeping far more than boarding brings out a husband's nature, for whereas in the latter case one rightfully demands the services for which he pays, in the former he is sometimes expected to do and think, and even wait upon himself. But this was not Wilford's nature. The easy, indolent life he had led so long as a petted son of a partial mother unfitted him for care, and he was as much a boarder in his own home as he had ever been in the hotels in Paris, thoughtlessly requiring of Katy more than he should have required, so that Bell was not far from right when in her journal she described her sister-in-law as "a little servant whose feet were never supposed to be tired, and whose wishes were never consulted." It is true Bell had put it rather strongly, but the spirit of what she said was right, Wilford seldom considering Katy, or allowing her wishes to interfere with his own plans, while accustomed to every possible attention from his mother, he exacted the same from his wife, whose life was not one of unmixed happiness, notwithstanding that every letter home bore assurance to the contrary.



CHAPTER XVIII.

MARIAN HAZELTON.

The last days of June had come, and Wilford was beginning to make arrangements for removing Katy from the city before the warmer weather. To this he had been urged by Mark Ray's remarking that Katy was not looking as well as when he first saw her, one year ago, "She had grown thin and pale," he said. "Had Wilford remarked it?"

Wilford had not. She complained much of headache; but that was only natural. Still he wrote to the Mountain House that afternoon to secure rooms for himself and wife, and then at an earlier hour than usual went home to tell her of the arrangement. Katy was out shopping, Esther said, and had not yet returned, adding: "There is a note for her upstairs, left by a woman who insisted on seeing the house, until I took her over it, showing her every room."

"A strange woman went over my house in Mrs. Cameron's absence! Who was it?" Wilford asked, hastily, visions of Helen, or possibly Aunt Betsy, rising before his mind.

"She said she was a friend of Mrs. Cameron, and that she knew she would allow the liberty," Esther replied, thus confirming Wilford in his suspicions that some country acquaintance had thrust herself upon them, and hastening up to Katy's room, where the note was lying, he took it up and examined the superscription, examined it closely, holding it up to the light full a minute, and forgetting to open it in his perplexity and the train of thought it awakened.

"They are singularly alike," he said, and still holding the note in his hand he went downstairs to the library, and opening a drawer of his writing desk, which was always kept locked, he took from it a picture and a bit of soiled paper, on which was written: "I am not guilty, Wilford, and God will never forgive the wrong you have done to me."

There was no name or date, but Wilford needed neither, for he knew well whose hand had penned those lines, and he sat looking at them, comparing them at last with the "Mrs. Wilford Cameron" which the strange woman had written. Then opening the note, he read that, having returned to New York, and wishing employment either as seamstress or dressmaker, Marian Hazelton had ventured to call upon Mrs. Cameron, remembering her promise to give her work if she should desire it. The note concluded by saying:

"I am sure you will pardon me for the liberty I took of going over the house. It was a temptation I could not resist. You have a delightful home. God grant you may be happy in it. You see I have also made bold to write this in your library, for which I beg pardon,

"Yours truly, MARIAN HAZELTON,

"No. —— Fourth St., 4th floor, N.Y."

"Who is Marian Hazelton?" Wilford asked himself as he threw down the missive. "Some of Katy's country friends, I dare say. Seems to me I have heard that name. She certainly writes as Genevra did, except that this Hazelton's is more decided and firm. Poor Genevra!"

There was a pallor about Wilford's lips as he said this, and taking up the picture he gazed for a long time upon the handsome, girlish face, whose dark eyes seemed to look reproachfully upon him, just as they must have looked when the words were penned: "God will never forgive the wrong you have done to me."

"Genevra was mistaken," he said. "At least, if God has not forgiven, he has prospered me, which amounts to the same thing;" and without a single throb of gratitude to Him who had thus prospered him, Wilford laid Genevra's picture and Genevra's note back with the withered grass and flowers plucked from Genevra's grave, and then went again upstairs, just as Katy's ring was heard and Katy herself came in.

As thoughts of Genevra always made Wilford kinder toward his wife, so now he kissed her white cheek, noticing that, as Mark had said, it was whiter than last year in June. But mountain air would bring back the roses, he thought, as he handed her the note.

"Oh, yes, from Marian Hazelton," Katy said, glancing first at the name and then hastily reading it through.

"Who is Marian Hazelton? Some intimate friend, I judge, from the liberty she took."

"Not very intimate, though I liked her so much, and thought her above her position," Katy replied, repeating all she knew of Marian, and how she chanced to know her at all. "Don't you remember Helen wrote that she fainted at our wedding, and I was so sorry, fearing I might have overworked her."

Wilford did remember something about it, and satisfied that Marian Hazelton had no idea of intruding herself upon them, except as she might ask for work, he dismissed her from his mind and told Katy of his plan for taking her to the Mountain House a few weeks before going to Saratoga.

"Would you not like it?" he asked, as she continued silent, with her eyes fixed upon the window opposite.

"Yes," and Katy drew a long and weary breath. "I shall like any place where there are birds, and rocks, and trees, and real grass, such as grows of itself in the country; but Wilford," and Katy crept close to him now, "if I might go to Silverton, I should get strong so fast. You don't know how I long to see home once more. I dream about it nights and think about it days, knowing just how pleasant it is there, with the roses in bloom and the meadows so fresh and green. May I go, Wilford? May I go home to mother?"

Had Katy asked for half his fortune, just as she asked to go home, Wilford would have given it to her, but Silverton had a power to lock all the softer avenues of his heart, and so he answered that the Mountain House was preferable, that the rooms were engaged, and that as he should enjoy it so much better he thought they would make no change.

Katy did not cry, nor utter a word of remonstrance; she was fast learning that quiet submission was better than useless opposition, and so Silverton was again given up. But there was one consolation. Seeing Marian Hazelton would be almost as good as going home, for had she not recently come from that neighborhood, bringing with her the odor from the hills and freshness from the woods. Perhaps, too, she had lately seen Helen or Morris at church, and had heard the music of the organ which Helen played, and the singing of the children just as it sometimes came to Katy in her dreams, making her start in her sleep and murmur snatches of the sacred songs which Dr. Morris taught. Yes, Marian could tell her of all this, and very impatiently Katy waited for the morning when she would drive around to Fourth Street with the piles of sewing she was going to take to Marian.

"Dear Marian, I wonder is she very poor?" Katy thought, as she next day made her preparations for the call, and had Wilford been parsimoniously inclined, he might have winced could he have seen the numerous stores gathered up for Marian and packed away in the carriage with the bundle of cambric and linen and lace, all destined for that fourth-story chamber where Marian Hazelton sat that summer morning, looking drearily out upon the dingy court and contrasting its sickly patch of grass, embellished with rain water barrels, coal hods and ash pails, with the country she had so lately left, the wooded hills and blooming gardens of Silverton, which had been her home for nearly two years.

It was a fault of Marian's not to remain long contented in any place, and so tiring of the country she had returned to the great city, urged on by a strange desire it may be to see Mrs. Wilford Cameron, to know just how she lived, to judge if she were happy, and perhaps—some time see Wilford Cameron, herself unknown, for not for the world would she have met face to face the man who had so often stood by Genevra Lambert's grave in the churchyard beyond the sea. Thinking she might succeed better alone, she had hired a room far up the narrow stairway of a high, somber-looking building, and then from her old acquaintances, of whom she had several in the city, she had solicited work. More than once she had passed the handsome house on Madison Square where Katy lived, walking slowly and gazing with dim eyes which could not weep at Wilford Cameron's luxurious home, and contrasting it with hers, that one room, which yet was not wholly uninviting, for where Marian went there was always an air of humble comfort; and Katy, as she crossed the threshold, uttered an exclamation of delight at the cheerful, airy aspect of the apartment, with its bright ingrain carpet, its simple shades of white, its chintz-covered lounge, its one rocking-chair, its small parlor stove, and its pots of flowers upon the broad window sill.

"Oh, Marian," she exclaimed, tripping across the floor, and impulsively throwing her arms around Miss Hazelton's neck, "I am so glad to meet some one from home. It seems almost like Helen I am kissing," and her lips again met those of Marian Hazelton, who amid her own joy at finding Katy unchanged, wondered what the Camerons would say to see their Mrs. Wilford kissing a poor seamstress whom they would have spurned.

But Katy did not care for Camerons then, or even think of them, as in her rich basquine and pretty hat, with emeralds and diamonds sparkling on her fingers, she sat down by Marian, whose hands, though delicate and small, showed marks of labor such as Katy had never known.

"You must forgive me for going over your house," Marian said, after they had talked together a moment, and Katy had told how sorry she was to miss the call. "I could not resist the temptation, and it did me so much good, although I must confess to a good cry when I came back and thought of the difference between us."

There was a quiver of her lip and a tone in her voice which touched Katy's heart, and she tried to comfort her, forgetting entirely whether what she said was proper or not, and impetuously letting out that even in houses like hers there was trouble. Not that she was unhappy in the least, for she was not; but, oh! the fuss it was to be fashionable and keep from doing anything to shock his folks, who were so particular about every little thing, even to the way she tied her bonnet and sat in a chair.

This was what Katy said, and Marian, looking straight into Katy's face, felt that she would not exchange places with the young girl-wife whom so many envied.

"Tell me of Silverton," was Katy's next remark. "You don't know how I want to go there; but Wilford does not think it best—that is, at present. Next fall I am surely going. I picture to myself just how it will look; Morris' garden, full of the autumnal flowers—the ripe peaches in our orchard, the grapes ripening on the wall, and the long shadows on the grass, just as I used to watch them, wondering what made them move so fast, and where they could be going. Will it be unchanged, Marian? Do places seem the same when once we have left them?" and Katy's eager eyes looked wistfully at Marian, who replied: "Not always—not often, in fact; but in your case they may. You have not been long away."

"Only a year," Katy said. "I was as long as that in Canandaigua; but this past year is different. I have seen so much, and lived so much, that I feel ten years older than I did last spring, when you and Helen made my wedding dress. Darling Helen! When did you see her last?"

"I was there five weeks ago," Marian replied. "I saw them all, and told them I was coming to New York."

"Do they miss me any? Do they talk of me? Do they wish me back again?" Katy asked, and Marian replied: "They talked of little else—that is, your own family. Dr. Morris, I think, did not mention your name. He has grown very silent and reserved," and Marian's eyes were fixed inquiringly upon Katy, as if to ascertain how much she knew of the cause for Morris' reserve.

But Katy had no suspicion, and only replied: "Perhaps he is vexed that I do not write to him oftener, but I can't. I think of him a great deal, and sometimes have so wished I could sit in his public library, and forget that there are such things as dinner parties, where you are in constant terror lest you should do something wrong—evening parties, where your dress and style are criticised—receptions or calls, and all the things which make me so confused. Morris could always quiet me. It rested me just to hear him talk, and I respect him more than any living man, except, of course, Wilford; but when I try to write, something comes in between me and what I wish to say, for I want to convince him that I am not as frivolous as I fear he thinks I am. I have not forgotten the Sunday school, nor the church service, which I so loved to hear, especially when Morris read it, as he did in Mr. Browning's absence; but in the city it is so hard to be good, particularly when one is not, you know—that is, good like you and Helen and Morris—and the service and music seem all for show, and I feel so hateful when I see Juno and Wilford's mother making believe, and putting their heads down on velvet cushions, knowing as I do that they both are thinking either of their own bonnets or those just in front."

"Are you not a little uncharitable?" Marian asked, laughing in spite of herself at the picture Katy drew of fashion trying to imitate religion in its humility.

"Perhaps so," Katy answered. "I grow bad from looking behind the scenes, and the worst is that I do not care. But tell me, do you think Morris likes me less than formerly?"

Marian did not, and assured on that point, Katy went back to the farmhouse, asking numberless questions about its inmates, and at last coming to the business which had brought her to Marian's room.

There were perceptible spots on Marian's neck, and her lips were very white, while her hands grasped the bundles tossed into her lap—the yards and yards of lace and embroidery, linen, and cambric, which she was expected to make for the wife of Wilford Cameron; and her voice was husky as she asked directions or made suggestions of her own.

"It's because she has no such joy in expectation. I should feel so, too, if I were thirty and unmarried," Katy thought, as she noticed Marian's agitation, and tried to divert her mind by telling her as delicately as possible that she had brought with her sundry stores of which she had such an abundance.

"I knew you were not an object of charity," she said, as she saw the flush on Marian's brow, "but when I have so much I like to share it with others, and you seem like our folks."

"Did Wilf—did Mr. Cameron know?" Marian asked, and Katy answered "No; but it does not matter. He lets me do as I like in these matters, and the greatest pleasure I have is giving. You are not offended?" she continued, as she saw a tear drop from Marian's eyelids.

"No—oh, no," and Marian quietly laid aside the packages which would find their way to many an humble garret or cellar, where biting poverty had its abode.

It would choke her to eat whatever came from Wilford Cameron, but she could not tell Katy so, though she did say: "I will keep these because you brought them, but do not do so again. There are many far more needy. I saved something in Silverton. I shall not suffer so long as my health is spared."

Then after a few more inquiries concerning the work, about which she could now talk calmly, she asked where Katy went when she was abroad, her blue eyes growing almost black as Katy talked of Rome, of Venice, of Paris, and then of Alnwick, where they had stopped so long.

"By the way, you were born in England? Were you ever at Alnwick?" Katy asked, and Marian replied: "Once, yes. I've seen the castle and the church. Did you go there—to St. Mary's, I mean?"

"Oh, yes, and I was never tired of that old churchyard, Wilford liked it, too, and we wandered by the hour among the sunken graves and quaint headstones."

"Do you remember any of the names upon the stones? Perhaps I may know them?" Marian asked; but Katy did not remember any, or if she did, it was not "Genevra Lambert, aged twenty-two." And so Marian asked her no more questions concerning St. Mary's, at Alnwick, but talked instead of London and other places, until three hours went by, and down in the street the coachman chafed and fretted at the long delay, wandering what kept his mistress in that neighborhood so long. Had she friends, or had she come on some errand of mercy? The latter most likely, he concluded, and so his face was not quite so cross when Katy at last appeared, looking at her watch and exclaiming at the lateness of the hour. But when, as they turned into the avenue, Katy called to him to stop, bidding him drive back, as she had forgotten something, he showed unmistakable signs of irritation, but nevertheless obeyed, and Katy was soon mounting a second time to the fourth story of No. ——, where Marian Hazelton knelt upon the floor, her head resting upon the costly fabrics and her frame quivering with the anguish of the sobs which reached Katy's ear even before she opened the unbolted door.

"What is it, Marian?" she asked, in great distress, while Marian, struggling to her feet, remained for a moment speechless.

She had not expected Katy to return, else she had never given way as she did, calling on her God to help her bear what she now knew she was not prepared to bear. She had thought the heart struggle conquered, and that she could calmly look upon Wilford Cameron's wife; but the sight of Katy, together with the errand on which she came, had unnerved her, and she wept bitterly in her desolation, until Katy's reappearance startled her from her position on the floor, making her stammer out some excuse about "homesickness and the seeing Katy bringing back the past."

Very lovingly Katy tried to comfort her, putting into her manner just enough of pretty patronage to amuse without annoying Marian, who soon grew calm, and then listened while Katy told why she returned. She feared she had talked too much of her own affairs—too much of his folks, who, after all, were nice, kind people, and she came to take it back, asking Marian never to speak of it, as it might get to them indirectly, and Wilford would be angry.

With a smile, as she thought how improbable it was that anything said to her up in that humble room should reach to No. —— Fifth Avenue, Marian promised silence; and with a good-by kiss, given to convince Marian that she was not proud, Katy again departed, and was soon driving toward Madison Square. She was very happy that morning, for seeing Marian had brought Silverton near to her, and airy as a bird she ran up the steps of her own dwelling, where the door opened as by magic, and Wilford himself confronted her, asking, with the tone which always made her heart beat, where she had been, and he waiting for her two whole hours. Surely it was not necessary to stop so long with a seamstress, he continued when she tried to explain. Ten minutes would suffice for directions, and he could not imagine what attractions there were in Miss Hazelton to keep her there three hours, and then the real cause of his vexation came out. He had come expressly for the carriage to take her and Sybil Grandon to a picnic up the river, whither his mother, Juno and Bell had already gone. Mrs. Grandon must wonder why he stayed so long, and perhaps give up going. Could Katy be ready soon; and Wilford walked rapidly up and down the parlor as he talked, with a restless motion of his hands which always betokened impatience. Poor Katy, how the brightness of the morning faded, and how averse she felt to joining that picnic, which she knew had been in prospect for some time, and had fancied she should enjoy. But not to-day, not with that cold, proud look on Wilford's face, and the feeling that he was vexed. Still she could think of no reasonable excuse, and so an hour later found her driving into the country with Sybil Grandon, who received her apologies with as much good-natured grace as if she had not worked herself into a passion at the delay, for Sybil had been very cross and impatient; but all this vanished when she met Wilford and saw that he, too, was disturbed and irritated. Soft and sweet and smooth was she both in word and manner, so that by the time the pleasant grove was reached Wilford's ruffled spirits had been soothed, and he was himself again, ready to enjoy the pleasures of the day as keenly as if no harsh word had been said to Katy, who, silent and unhappy, listened to the graceful badinage between Sybil and her husband, thinking how differently his voice had sounded when addressing her only a little while before.

"Pray put some animation into your face, or Mrs. Grandon will certainly think we have been quarreling," Wilford whispered, as he lifted his wife from the carriage, and with a great effort Katy tried to be gay and natural.

But all the while was she fighting back her tears and wishing she were away. Even Marian's room, looking into the dingy court, was preferable to that place, and she was glad when the long day came to an end, and she with a fearful headache was riding back to the city.

The next morning was dark and rainy; but in spite of the weather Katy found her way to Marian's room, this time taking the —— avenue cars, which left her independent as regarded the length of her stay. About Marian there was something more congenial than about her city friends, and day after day found her there, watching while Marian fashioned into shape the beautiful little garments, the sight of which had over Katy a strangely quieting influence, sobering her down and maturing her more than all the years of her life had done. Those were happy hours spent with Marian Hazelton, the happiest of the entire day, and Katy felt it keenly when Wilford at last interfered, telling her she was growing quite too familiar with that sewing woman, and her calls had best be discontinued, except, indeed, such as were necessary to the work in progress.

There was a grieved look on Katy's face, but she uttered no word of remonstrance; while her husband went on to say, that of course he did not wish to be unreasonable, nor interfere between her and her acquaintances as a general thing, but when the acquaintance chosen was a sewing woman, whose antecedents no one knew, and whose society could not be improving, the case was different.

After this there were no more mornings spent in Marian's room, no more talks of Silverton and Morris Grant; talks which did Katy a world of good, and kept her heart open to better influences, which might otherwise have been wholly choked and destroyed by the life she saw around her. With one great gush of tears, when there was no one to see her, Katy gave Marian up, writing her a note, in which were sundry directions for the work, which would go on even after she had left for the Mountain House, as she intended doing the last of June. And Marian, reading this note, guessed at more than Katy meant she should, and with a bitter sigh laid it in her basket, and then resumed the work, which seemed doubly monotonous now that there was no more listening for the little feet tripping up the stairs, or for the bird-like voice which had brought so much of music and sunshine to her lonely room.



CHAPTER XIX.

SARATOGA AND NEWPORT.

For three weeks Katy had been at the Mountain House, growing stronger every day, until now she was much like the Katy of one year ago, and Wilford was very proud of her, as he saw how greatly she was admired by those whose admiration he deemed worth having. But their stay among the Catskills was ended, and on the morrow they were going to Saratoga, where Mrs. Cameron and her daughter were, and where, too, was Sybil Grandon, the reigning belle of the United States. So Bell had written to her brother, bidding him hasten on with Katy, as she wished to see "that chit of a widow in her proper place." And Katy had been weak enough for a moment to feel a throb of satisfaction in knowing how effectually Sybil's claims to belleship would be put aside when she was once in the field; even glancing at herself in the mirror as she leaned on Wilford's shoulder, and feeling glad that mountain air and mountain exercise had brought the roses back to her white cheeks and the brightness to her eyes. But Katy wept passionate tears of repentance for that weakness, when an hour later she read the letter which Dr. Grant had sent in answer to one she had written from the Mountain House, and in which she had told him much of her life in New York, confessing her shortcomings, and lamenting that the evils and excesses which shocked her once did not startle her now. To this letter Morris had replied as a brother might write to an only sister, first expressing his joy at her happiness, and then coming to the subject which lay nearest his heart, warning her against temptation, reminding her of that other life to which this is only a preparation, and beseeching her so to use the good things of this world, given her in such profusion, as not to lose the life eternal.

This was the substance of Morris' letter, which Katy read with streaming eyes, forgetting Saratoga as Morris' solemn words of warning and admonition rang in her ears, and shuddering as she thought of losing the life eternal of going where Morris would never come, nor any of those she loved the best, unless it were Wilford, who might reproach her with having dragged him there when she could have saved him.

"Keep yourself unspotted from the world," Morris had said, and she repeated it to herself, asking: "How shall I do that? How can one be good and fashionable, too?"

Then laying her hand upon the rock where she was sitting, Katy tried to pray as she had not prayed in months, asking that God would teach her what she ought to know, and keep her unspotted from the world. But at the Mountain House it is easier to pray that one be kept from temptation than it is at Saratoga, which this summer was crowded to overflowing, its streets presenting a fitting picture of Vanity Fair, so full were they of show and gala dress. At the United States, where Mrs. Cameron stopped, two rooms, for which an enormous price was paid, had been reserved for Mr. and Mrs. Wilford Cameron, and this of itself would have given them a certain eclat, even if there had not been present many who remembered the proud, fastidious bachelor, and were proportionately anxious to see his wife. She came, she saw, she conquered; and within three days after her arrival Katy Cameron was the acknowledged belle of Saratoga, from the United States to the Clarendon. And Katy, alas! was not quite the same who on the mountain ridge had sat with Morris' letter in her hand, praying that its teachings might not be all forgotten. Nor were they, but she did not heed them here where all was so bright and gay, and where the people thought her so perfect. Saratoga seemed different to her from New York, and she plunged into its gayeties, never pausing, never tiring, and seldom giving herself time to think, much less to pray, as Morris had bidden her do. And Wilford, though hardly able to recognize the usually timid Katy in the brilliant woman who led rather than followed, was sure of her faith to him, and so was only proud and gratified to see her bear off the palm from every competitor, while even Juno, though she quarreled with the shadow into which she was so completely thrown, enjoyed the eclat cast upon their party by the presence of Mrs. Wilford, who had passed beyond her criticism. Sybil Grandon, too, stood back in wonder that a simple country girl should win and wear the laurels she had so long claimed as her own; but as there was no help for it she contented herself as best she could with the admiration she did receive, and whenever opportunity occurred, said bitter things of Mrs. Wilford, whose parentage and low estate were through her pretty generally known. But it did not matter there what Katy had been; the people took her for what she was now, and Sybil's glory faded like the early dawn in the coming of the full day.

As it had been at Saratoga, so it was at Newport. Urged on by Mrs. Cameron and Bell, who greatly enjoyed her notoriety, Katy plunged into the mad excitement of dancing and driving and coquetting, until Wilford himself became uneasy, locking her once in her room, where she was sleeping after dinner, and conveniently forgetting to release her until after the departure at evening of some young men from Cambridge, whose attentions to the Ocean House belle had been more strongly marked than was altogether agreeable to him. Of course it was a mistake—the locking of the door—and a great oversight in him not to have remembered it sooner, he said to Katy, by way of apology; and Katy, with no suspicion of the truth, laughed merrily at the joke, repeating it downstairs to the old dowagers, who shrugged their shoulders meaningly and whispered to each other that it might be well if more young, handsome wives were locked into their rooms and thus kept out of mischief.

Though flattered, caressed and admired, Katy was not doing herself much credit at Newport, but after Wilford there was no one to raise a warning voice, until Mark Ray came down for a few days' respite from the heated city, where he spent the entire summer, taking charge of the business which belonged as much to Wilford as to himself. But Wilford had a wife; it was more necessary that he should leave, Mark had argued; his time would come by and by. And so he had remained at home until the last of August, when he appeared suddenly at the Ocean House one night when Katy, in her airy robes and childlike simplicity, was breaking hearts by the score. Like others, Mark was charmed, and not a little proud, for Katy's sake, to see her thus appreciated; but when one day's experience had shown him more and given him a look behind the scenes, he trembled for her, knowing how hard it would be for her to come out of that sea of dissipation as pure and spotless as she went in.

"If I were her brother I would warn her that her present career, though very delightful now, is not one upon which she will look back with pleasure when the excitement is over," he said to himself; "but if Wilford is satisfied it is not for me to interfere. It is surely nothing to me what Katy Cameron does," he kept repeating to himself; but as often as he said it there came up before him a pale, anxious face, shaded with Helen Lennox's bands of hair, and Helen Lennox's voice whispered to him: "Save Katy, for my sake;" and so next day, when Mark found himself alone with Katy, while most of the guests were at the beach, he questioned her of her life at Saratoga and Newport, and gradually, as he talked, there crept into Katy's heart a suspicion that he was not altogether pleased with her account, or with what he had seen of her since his arrival.

For a moment Katy was indignant, but when he said to her kindly: "Would Helen he pleased?" her tears started at once, and she attempted an excuse for her weak folly, accusing Sybil Grandon as the first cause of the ambition for which she hated herself.

"She had been held up as my pattern," she said, half bitterly, and forgetting to whom she was talking—"she the one whom I was to imitate; and when I found that if I would I could go beyond her, I yielded to the temptation, and exulted to see how far she was left behind. Besides that," she continued, "is it no gratification, think you, to let Wilford's proud mother and sister see the poor country girl, whom ordinarily they would despise, stand where they cannot come, and even dictate to them if she chooses so to do? I know it is wrong—I know it is wicked—but I rather like the excitement, and so long as I am with these people I shall never be any better. Mark Ray, you don't know what it is to be surrounded by a set who care for nothing but fashion and display, and how they may outdo each other. I hate New York society. There is nothing there but husks."

Katy's tears had ceased, and on her white face there was a new look of womanhood, as if in that outburst she had changed, and would never again be just what she was before.

"Say," she continued, "do you like New York society?"

"Not always—not wholly," Mark answered; "and still you misjudge it greatly, for all are not like the people you describe. Your husband's family represent one extreme, while there are others equally high in the social scale who do not make fashion the rule of their lives—sensible, cultivated, intellectual people, of whose acquaintance one might be glad—people whom I fancy your Sister Helen would enjoy. I have only met her twice, it is true, but my impression is that she would not find New York utterly distasteful."

Mark did not know why he had dragged Helen into that conversation, unless it were that she seemed very near to him as he talked with Katy, who replied:

"Yes, Helen finds some good in all. She sees differently from what I do, and I wish so much that she was here."

"Why not send for her?" Mark asked, casting about in his mind whether in case Helen came, he, too, could tarry for a week and leave that business in Southbridge, which he must attend to ere returning to the city.

It would be a study to watch Helen Lennox there at Newport, and in imagination Mark was already her sworn knight, shielding her from criticism, and commanding her respect from those who respected him, when Katy tore his castle down by answering impulsively:

"I doubt if Wilford would let me send for her here, nor does it matter, as I shall not remain much longer. I do not need her now, since you have showed me how foolish I have been. I was angry at first, but now I thank you for it, and so would Helen. I shall tell her when I am in Silverton. I am going there from here, and oh, I so wish it was to-day."

The guests were beginning to return from the beach by this time, and as Mark had said all he had intended saying, and even more, he left Katy with Wilford, who had just come in and joined a merry party of Bostonians only that day arrived. That night at the Ocean House the guests missed something from their festivities; the dance was not so exhilarating or the small-talk between them so lively, while more than one white-kidded dandy swore mentally at the innocent Wilford, whose wife declined to join in the gayeties, and in a plain white muslin, with only a pond lily in her hair, kept by her husband's side, notwithstanding that he more than once bade her leave him and accept some of her numerous invitations to join the giddy dance. This sober phase of Katy did not on the whole please Wilford as much as her gayer ones had done. Perfectly sure of her devotion to himself, he liked to watch her as she glided amid the throng which paid her so much homage. All he had ever dreamed of the sensation his bride would create was more than verified. Katy had fulfilled his highest expectations, reaching a point from which, as she had said to Mark, she could even dictate to his mother, if she chose, and he did not care to see her relinquish it.

But Katy remained true to herself. Dropping her girlish playfulness she assumed a quiet, gentle dignity, which became her even better than her gayer mood had done, making her ten times more popular and more sought after, until she begged to go away, persuading Wilford at last to name the day for their departure, and then, never doubting for a moment that her destination was Silverton, she wrote to Helen that she was coming on such a day, and as they would come by way of Providence and Worcester, they would probably reach West Silverton at ten o'clock, A.M.

"Wilford," she added, in a postscript, "has gone down to bathe, and as the mail is just closing, I shall send this letter without his seeing it. Of course it can make no difference, for I have talked all summer of coming, and he understands it."



CHAPTER XX.

MARK RAY AT SILVERTON.

The last day of summer was dying out in a fierce storm of rain which swept in sheets across the Silverton hills, hiding the pond from view, and beating the windows of the farmhouse, whose inmates were nevertheless unmindful of the storm save as they hoped the morrow would prove bright and fair, such as the day should be which brought them back their Katy. Nearly worn out with constant reference was her letter, the mother catching it up from time to time to read the part referring to herself, the place where Katy had told how blessed it would be "to rest again on mother's bed," just as she had often wished to do, "and hear mother's voice;" the deacon spelling out by his spluttering tallow candle, with its long, smoky wick, what she had said of "darling old Uncle Eph," and the rides into the fields which she should have with him; Aunt Betsy, too, reading mostly from memory the words: "Good old Aunt Betsy, with her skirts so limp and short, tell her she will look handsomer to me than the fairest belle at Newport;" and as often as Aunt Betsy read it she would ejaculate: "The land! what kind of company must the child have kept?" wondering next if Helen had never written of the hoop, for which she had paid a dollar, and which was carefully hung in her closet, waiting for the event of to-morrow, while the hem of her pongee had been let down and one breadth added to accommodate the hoop. On the whole, Aunt Betsy expected to make a stylish appearance before the little lady of whom she stood slightly in awe, always speaking of her to the neighbors as "My niece, Miss Cameron, from New York," and taking good care to report what she had heard of "Miss Cameron's" costly dress and the grandeur of her house, where the furniture of the best chamber cost over fifteen hundred dollars.

"What could it be—gold?" Aunt Betsy had asked in her simplicity, feeling an increased respect for Katy, and consenting the more readily to the change in her pongee, as suggested to her by Helen.

But that was for to-morrow when Katy came; to-night she only wore a dotted brown, whose hem just reached the top of her "bootees," as she stood by the window, wondering, first, if the rain would ever stop, and wondering, secondly, where all them fish worms, squirming on the grass by the back door, did come from. Needn't tell her they crawled out of the ground; she knew better—they rained from the clouds, though she should s'pose that somebody would sometime have catched one on their bunnet or umberill. Dammed if she didn't mean to stand out o' doors some day till she was wet to the skin, and see what would come, and having thus settled a way by which to decide the only question, except that of the "'Piscopal Church and its quirks," on which she was still obstinate, Aunt Betsy went to strain the milk just brought by Uncle Ephraim, while Helen took her position near the window, looking drearily out upon the leaden clouds, and hoping it would brighten before the morrow. Like the others, Helen had read Katy's letter many times, dwelling longest upon the part which said: "I have been so bad, so frivolous and wicked here at Newport, that it will be a relief to make you my confessor, depending, as I do, upon your love to grant me absolution."

From a family at Silverton, who had spent a few days at a private house in Newport, Helen had heard something of her sister's life; the lady had seen her once driving a tandem team, or as Aunt Betsy had it, "driving tanterum," down the avenue, with Wilford at her side giving her instructions. Since then there had been some anxiety felt for her at the farmhouse, and more than Dr. Grant had prayed that she might be kept unspotted from the world; but when her letter came, so full of love and self-reproaches, the burden was lifted, and there was nothing to mar the anticipations of the events for which they had made so many preparations, Uncle Ephraim going to the expense of buying at auction a half-worn, covered buggy, which he fancied would suit Katy better than the corn-colored wagon in which Katy used to ride. To pay for this the deacon had parted with the money set aside for the "greatcoat" he so much needed for the coming winter, his old gray one having done him service for fifteen years. But his comfort was nothing compared with Katy's happiness, and so, with his wrinkled face beaming with delight, he had brought home his buggy, which he designated a carriage, putting it carefully in the barn, and saying no one should ride in it till Katy came, the corn-color was good enough for them, but Katy was different—Katy was Mrs. Cameron, and used to something better. With untiring patience the old man mended up his harness, for what he had heard of Katy's driving had impressed him strongly with her powers of horsemanship, and, truth to tell, raised her somewhat in his respect. Could he have afforded it Uncle Ephraim in his younger days would have been a horse jockey, and even now he liked nothing better than to make Old Whitey run when alone in the strip of woods between the house and the head of the pond.

"Katy inherits her love of horses from me," he said, complacently, and with a view of improving Whitey's style and metal, he took to feeding him on corn and oats, talking to him at times, and telling him who was coming.

Dear, simple-hearted Uncle Ephraim, the days which he must wait seemed long to him as they did to the female portion of his family, to Mrs. Lennox, Aunt Hannah and Aunt Betsy, who each did what she could to make the house attractive. They were ready for Katy at last, or could be early on the morrow, and with the shutting in of night the candles were lighted in the sitting-room, and Helen sat down to her work, wishing it was to-night that Katy was coming. As if in answer to her wish there was the sound of wheels, which stopped before the house, and dropping her work, Helen ran quickly to the door, just as from under the dripping umbrella held by a driver boy, a tall young man, sprang upon the step, nearly upsetting her, but passing an arm around her shoulders in time to keep her from falling.

"I beg pardon for this assault upon you," the stranger said; and then, turning to the boy, he continued: "It's all right, you need not wait."

With a chirrup and a blow the horse started forward, and the mud-bespattered vehicle was rapidly moving down the road ere Helen had recovered her surprise at recognizing Mark Ray, who shook the raindrops from his hair, and offering her his hand said in reply to her involuntary exclamation: "I thought it was Katy." "Shall I infer, then, that I am the less welcome?" and his bright, saucy eyes looked laughingly into hers. "Business had brought him to Southbridge," he said, "and it was his intention to take the cars that afternoon for New York, but having been detained longer than he expected, and not liking the looks of the hotel arrangements, he had decided to presume upon his acquaintance with Dr. Grant and spend the night at Linwood. But," and again his eyes looked straight at Helen, "it rained so hard and the light from your window was so inviting that I ventured to stop, so here I am, claiming your hospitality until morning, if convenient; if not, I will find my way to Linwood."

There was something in this pleasant familiarity which won Uncle Ephraim at once, and he bade the young man stay, as did Aunt Hannah and Mrs. Lennox, who now for the first time were presented to Mark Ray. Always capable of adapting himself to the circumstances around him, Mark did so now with so much ease and courteousness as to astonish Helen, and partly thaw the reserve she had assumed when she found the visitor was from the hated city.

"Are you expecting Mrs. Cameron?" he asked, adding as Helen explained that she was coming to-morrow: "That is strange. Wilford wrote decidedly that he should be in New York to-morrow. Possibly, though, he does not intend himself to stop."

"I presume not," Helen replied, a weight suddenly lifting from her heart at the prospect of not having to entertain the formidable brother-in-law who, if he stayed long, would spoil all her pleasure.