"You are like a girl with her first doll," he said, as he opened the door for her to pass, and Helen, though she felt the truth of the remark, knew there was no necessity for him to throw so much of lordly displeasure into his manner, and make poor Katy look so distressed and worried as they drove rapidly along the streets to Mrs. Banker's.

The party was not so large as that at Sybil Grandon's, but it was more select, and Helen enjoyed it better, meeting people like Morris, who readily appreciated the peculiarities of her mind, and who would have made her forget all else around her if she had not been a guest at Mark Ray's house. It was the first time she had met him away from home since the night of Mrs. Grandon's, and as if forgetful of her reserve, he paid her numberless attentions, which, coming from the master of the house, were the more to be valued.

With a quiet dignity Helen received them all, the thought once creeping into her heart that she was preferred, notwithstanding that engagement. But she soon repudiated this idea as unworthy of her. She could not be wholly happy with one who, to win her hand, had trampled upon the affections of another, even if that other were Juno Cameron.

And so she kept out of his way as much as possible, watching her sister admiringly as she moved about with an easy, assured grace, or floated like a snow flake through the dance in which Wilford persuaded her to join, looking after her with a proud, all-absorbing feeling, which left no room for Sybil Grandon's coquettish advances.

As if the reappearance of Katy had awakened all that was weak and silly in Sybil's nature, she now put forth her full powers of attraction, but met only with defeat. Katy, and even Helen, was preferred before her—both belles of a different type; but both winning golden laurels from those who hardly knew which to admire most—Katy, with her pure, delicate beauty and charming simplicity, or Helen, with her attractive face and sober, quiet manner. But Katy grew tired early. She could not endure what she once did; and when she came to Wilford with a weary look upon her face and asked him to go home, he did not refuse, though Mark, who was near, protested against their leaving so soon.

"Surely Miss Lennox might remain; the carriage could be sent back for her; and he had hardly seen her at all."

But Miss Lennox chose to go; and after her white cloak and hood passed down the stairs and through the door into the street, there was nothing attractive for Mark in his crowded parlors, and he was glad when the last guest had departed and he was left alone with his mother.

Operas, parties, receptions, dinners, matinees, morning calls, drives, visits and shopping; how fast one crowded upon the other, leaving scarcely an hour of leisure to the devotee of fashion who attended to them all. How astonished Helen was to find what high life in New York implied, ceasing to wonder that so many of the young girls grew haggard and old before their time, or that the dowagers grew selfish and hard and scheming. She would die outright, she thought, and she pitied poor little Katy, who, having once returned to the world, seemed destined to remain there, in spite of her entreaties and the excuses she made for declining the invitations which poured in so fast.

"Baby was not well—baby needed her," was the plea with which she met Wilford's arguments, until the mention of his child was sure to bring a scowl upon his face, and it became a question in Helen's mind whether he would not be happier if baby had never come between him and his ambition.

To hear Katy's charms extolled, and know that she was admired, and he was envied the possession of so rare a gem, feeling all the while sure of her faith, was Wilford's great delight, and it is not strange that, without any very strong fatherly feeling or principle of right in that respect, he should be irritated by the little life so constantly interfering with his pleasure and so surely undermining Katy's health. For Katy did not improve, as Wilford hoped she might; and with his two hands he could almost span her slender waist, while the beautiful neck and shoulders, once his chiefest pride, were no longer worn uncovered, for Katy would not display her bones, whatever the fashion might be. In this dilemma Wilford sought his mother, and the result of that consultation brought a more satisfied look to his face than it had worn for many a day.

"Strange he had never thought of it, when it was what so many people did," he said to himself as he hurried home. "It was the very best thing both for Katy and the child, and would obviate every difficulty."

Next morning, as she sometimes did when more than usually fatigued, Katy breakfasted in bed; while Wilford's face, as he sat opposite Helen at the table, had on it a look of quiet determination, such as she had rarely seen there before. In a measure accustomed to his moods, she felt that something was wrong, and never dreaming that he intended honoring her with his confidence, she was wishing he would finish the coffee and leave, when, motioning the servant from the room, he said abruptly, and in a tone which roused Helen's antagonistic powers at once, it was so cool, so decided: "I believe you have more influence over your sister than I have; at least, she has latterly shown a willfulness in disregarding me and a willingness to listen to you, which confirms me in this conclusion—"

"Well," and Helen twisted her napkin ring nervously, waiting for him to say more; but her manner, so different from Katy's, disconcerted him, making him a little uncertain what might be hidden behind that rigid face, confronting him so steadily, a little doubtful as to the expression it would put on when he had said all he meant to say.

He did not expect it to wear a look as frightened and hopeless as Katy's did when he last saw it upon the pillow, for he knew how different the two sisters were, and much as he had affected to despise Helen Lennox, he was afraid of her now. It had never occurred to him before that he was somewhat uncomfortable in her presence, that her searching brown eyes held him often in check; but it came to him now that his wife's sister was in his way, for what could he do with a will almost as firm as his own, and she was sure to take Katy's part. He saw it in her face, even though she had no idea of what he meant to say.

"Well;" that was the last sound heard in the quiet room; but since its utterance the relative positions of the two individuals sitting opposite each other had changed. Wilford regarding Helen as an obstacle in his path, and Helen regarding him as a tyrant contemplating some direful harm against her sister.

He must explain some time, and so at last he continued: "You must have seen how opposed Katy is to complying with my wishes, setting them at naught, when she knows how much pleasure she would give me by yielding as she used to do."

"I don't know what you mean," Helen replied, "unless it is her aversion to going out, as that I think is the only point where her obedience has not been absolute."

Wilford did not like the words "obedience" and "absolute;" that is, he did not like the sound. Their definition suited him, but Helen's enunciation was at fault, and he answered quickly: "I do not require absolute obedience from Katy. I never did; but in the matter to which you refer, I think she might consult my wishes as well as her own. There is no reason for her secluding herself in the nursery as she does. Do you think there is?"

He put the question direct, and Helen answered it.

"I do not believe Katy means to displease you, but she has conceived a strong aversion for festive scenes, and besides baby is not healthy, you know, and like all young mothers she may be over-anxious, while I fancy she has not the fullest confidence in the nurse, and this may account for her unwillingness to leave the child with her."

Kirby was all that was desirable, Wilford replied. His mother had taken her from a genteel, respectable house in Bond Street, and he paid her an enormous price, consequently she must be right; and then there came out the story how his mother had decided that neither Katy nor baby would improve so long as they remained together—that for both a separation was desirable—that she had recommended sending the child into the country, where it would be better cared for than it could be at home with Katy constantly undoing all Mrs. Kirby had done, disregarding her orders, waking it from sleep whenever the fancy took her, and in short treating it much as she probably did her doll when she was a little girl. With the child away there would be nothing to prevent Katy's going out as she used to do, and getting back her good looks, which were somewhat impaired.

"Why, she looks older than you do," Wilford said, thinking thus to conciliate Helen, who quietly replied:

"There is not two years difference between us, and I have always been well, keeping regular hours until I came here."

Wilford's compliment had failed, and more annoyed than before, he asked, not what Helen thought of the arrangement, but if she would influence Katy to act and think rationally upon it; "at least you will not make it worse," he said, and this time there was something quite deferential and pleading in his manner.

Helen knew the matter was fixed, that neither Katy's tears nor entreaties would avail to revoke the decision, and so, though her whole soul rose in indignation against a man who would deliberately send his nursing baby from his roof because it was in his way, and was robbing his bride's cheek of its girlish bloom, she answered composedly:

"I will do what I can, but I must confess it seems to me an unnatural thing. I had supposed parents less selfish than that."

Wilford did not care what Helen had supposed, and her opposition only made him more resolved. Still he did not say so, and he even tried to smile as he quitted the table and remarked to her:

"I hope to find Katy reconciled when I come home. I think I had better not go up to her again, so tell her I send a good-by kiss by you. I leave her case in your hands."

It was a far more difficult case than either he or Helen imagined, and the latter started back in alarm from the white face which greeted her view as she entered Katy's room, and then with a moan hid itself in the pillow.

"Wilford thought he had better not come up, but he sent a kiss by me," Helen said, softly touching the bright, disordered hair, all she could see of her sister.

"It does not matter," Katy gasped. "Kisses cannot help me if they take my baby away. Did he tell you?" and she turned now partly toward Helen, who nodded affirmatively while Katy continued: "Had he taken a knife and cut a cruel gash it would not have hurt me half so badly. I could bear that, but my baby—oh, Helen, do you think they will take her away?"

She was looking straight at Helen, who shivered as she met an expression so unlike Katy, and so like to that a hunted deer might wear if its offspring were in danger.

"Say, do you think they will?" she continued, shedding back with her thin hand the mass of tangled curls which had fallen about her eyes.

"Whom do you mean by 'they'?" Helen asked, coming near to her, and sitting down upon the bed.

There was a resentful gleam in the blue eyes usually so gentle, as Katy answered:

"Whom do I mean? His folks of course! They have been the instigators of every sorrow I have known since I left Silverton. Oh, Helen, never, never marry anybody who has folks, if you wish to be happy."

Helen could not repress a smile, though she pitied her sister, who continued:

"I don't mean Father Cameron, nor Bell, nor Jamie, for I love them all, and I believe that they love me. Father does, I know, and Jamie, while Bell has helped me so often; but Mrs. Cameron and Juno—oh, Helen, you will never know what they have been to me."

"I notice you always say 'father' and 'Mrs. Cameron.' Why is that?" Helen asked, hoping thus to divert Katy's mind from her present trouble, and feeling a little anxious to hear Katy's real sentiments with regard to her husband's family.

Since Helen came to New York there has been so much to talk about that, though Katy had told her of her fashionable life, she had said comparatively little of the Camerons. Now, however, there was no holding back on Katy's part, and beginning with the first night of her arrival in New York she told what is already known to the reader, and more, exonerating Wilford in word, but dealing out full justice to his mother and Juno, the former of whom controlled him so completely.

"I tried so hard to love her," Katy said, "and if she had given me ever so little in return I would have been satisfied, but she never did—that is, when I hungered for it most, missing you at home, and the loving care which sheltered me in childhood. After the world took me into favor she too began to caress me, but I was wicked enough to think it all came of selfishness. I know I am hard and bad, for when I was sick Mrs. Cameron was really very kind, and I began to like her; but if she takes baby away, I shall surely die."

Katy had come back to the starting point, and in her eye there was the same fierce look which Helen had at first observed.

"Where is baby to be sent?" Helen asked, and Katy answered:

"Up the river, to a house which Father Cameron owns, and which is kept by a farmer's family. I can't trust Kirby. I do not like her. She keeps baby asleep too long, and acts so cross if I try to wake her, or hint that she looks unnatural. I cannot give baby to her care, with no one to look after her, though Wilford says I must."

"Why then do you try to resist, when you know how useless it is?" Helen asked, and something in her manner brought a sudden flush of shame to Katy's cheek, as she said:

"What do you mean? Of what are you thinking?"

Helen did not stop to consider the propriety of her remarks, but replied:

"I was thinking that you reminded me of a bird beatings wings against the bars of its cage, vainly hoping to escape into the freedom which it feels is outside its prison house, but falling back bruised and bleeding with its efforts, and no nearer escape."

For a moment Katy regarded her sister intently, while she seemed trying to digest the meaning of her words; then, as it vaguely flashed upon her, tears gathered on her eyelashes and rolled down her cheeks, while with a quivering lip she asked:

"If you were that bird, what would you do?"

"I? What would I do? I should beat my wings until I died; but your nature is different. You are more yielding, more loving, more submissive. You can bear it better."

This was not the first time since she came to New York and saw how firm, how unbending was the will which held Katy in its grasp, that Helen had thought how surely she, with her high, imperious spirit, should die, from the very resistance she should offer to that will. But as she had truly expressed it, Katy's gentle, submissive nature saved her, for never had she offered so violent opposition to any plan as she did now to that of sending her child away.

"I can't, I can't," she repeated constantly, and Mrs. Cameron's call, made that afternoon with a view to reconcile the matter, only made it worse, so that Wilford, on his return at night, felt a pang of self-reproach as he saw the drooping figure holding his child upon its lap and singing it a lullaby in a plaintive voice, which told how sore was its heart.

Wilford did not mean to be either a savage or a brute. On the contrary he had made himself believe that he was acting only for the good of both mother and child; but the sight of Katy touched him, and he might have given up the contest had not Helen unfortunately taken up the cudgels in Katy's defense, neglecting to conceal the weapons, and so defeating her purpose. It was at the dinner from which Katy was absent that she ventured to speak, not asking that the plan be given up, but speaking of it as an unnatural one which seemed to her not only useless but cruel.

Wilford did not tell her that her opinion was not desired, but his manner implied as much, and Helen felt the angry blood prickling through her veins as she listened to his reply, that it was neither unnatural nor cruel, that many people did it, and his would not be an isolated case.

"Then if it must be," Helen said, "pray let it go to Silverton, and I will be its nurse. Katy will not object to that."

In a very ironical tone Wilford thanked her for her offer, which he begged leave to decline, intimating a preference for settling his own matters according to his own ideas. Helen knew that further argument was useless, and but for Katy, wished herself at home, where there were no wills like this with which she had unwittingly come in contact, and which, ignoring Katy's tears and Katy's pleading face, would not retract one iota, or even stoop to reason with the suffering mother, except to reiterate, "It is only for your good, and every one with common sense will say so."

Next morning Helen was surprised at Katy's proposition to drive around to Fourth Street, and call on Marian, whom they had not seen for several days.

"I am always better after talking with her," Katy said, "And I have a strong presentiment that she can do me good."

"Shall you tell her?" Helen asked in some surprise; and Katy replied, "perhaps I may. I'll see."

An hour later, and Katy, up in Marian's room, sat with her hands clasped together upon the table, listening intently while Marian spoke of a letter received a few days since from an old friend who had worked with her at Madam ——'s, and to whom she had been strongly attached, keeping up a correspondence with her after her marriage and removal to New London, in Connecticut; and whose little child, born two months before Katy's, was dead, and the mother, finding her home so desolate, had written, beseeching Marian to come to her for the remainder of the winter, adding in conclusion: "If you know of any little homeless baby, bring it to me in place of mine, which God has taken. I shall thus be doing good, and in part forget my sorrow."

Instantly Helen and Katy glanced at each other, the same thought flashing upon both, and finding form in Katy's vehement outburst, "If Mrs. Hubbell would take baby, and Marian would go, too, I should be so happy."

In a few moments Marian had heard Katy's trouble—struggling hard to fight back the giddy faintness she felt stealing over her, as she thought of nursing Wilford Cameron's child.

"Write to her, Marian—write to-day—now, before I go," Katy continued, clasping Marian's hand, with an expression which, more than aught else won Marian Hazelton's consent to a plan which seemed so strange.

"Yes, I will write," she answered; "I will tell Amelia what you desire."

"But, Marian, you, too, must go. I'll trust baby with you. Say, Marian, will you take care of my darling?"

It was hard to refuse, with those great, wistful, pleading eyes looking so earnestly into hers; but Marian must have time to consider. She had thought of going to New London to open a shop, and if she did she should board with Mrs. Hubbell, and so be with the child. She would decide when the answer came to the letter.

This was all the encouragement she would give; but it was enough to change the whole nature of Katy's feelings, and her face looked bright and cheerful as she tripped down the stairway, talking to Helen of what seemed to both like a direct interposition of Providence, and what she was sure would please Wilford quite as well as the farmhouse up the river.

"Surely he will yield to me in this," she said. Nor was she wrong; for glad of an opportunity to make some concessions, and still in the main have his own way, Wilford raised no objection to the plan as communicated to him by Katy, when, at an earlier hour than usual, he came home to dinner, drawn thither by a remembrance of the face which had haunted him the entire day, and bringing as a peace offering to both wife and sister—a new book for the one, and for the other a set of handsome coral, which he had heard her admire only the week before.

These he presented with that graceful, winning manner he knew so well how to assume, and with the harmony of his household once more restored, felt himself a model husband as he listened to Katy's plan of sending baby to New London. On the whole, it might be better even than the farmhouse up the river, he thought, for it was farther away, and Katy could not be tiring herself with driving out every few days, and keeping herself constantly uneasy and excited. The distance between New York and New London was the best feature of the whole; and he wondered Katy had not thought of it as an objection. But she had not, and but for the pain when she remembered the coming separation, she would have been very happy that evening, listening with Wilford and Helen to the opera of "Norma," and sympathizing so keenly with the poor distracted mother.

Very differently from this was Marian's evening passed, and on her face there was a look such as Katy's had never worn, as on her knees she asked for guidance to choose the right, to lay all self aside, and if it were her duty and care for the child which had stirred the pulsations of her heart and made the old wound bleed and throb with bitter anguish as she remembered what she once hoped would be, and what but for a cruel wrong might still have been. And as she prayed there crept into her face another look which told that self was sacrificed at last, and Katy Cameron was safe with her.

* * * * *

Mrs. Hubbell was willing—aye, more than that—was glad to take the child, and the generous remuneration offered would make them so comfortable in their little cottage, she wrote to Marian, who hastened to confer by note with Katy, adding in a postscript, "Is it still your wish that I should go? if so, I am at your disposal."

It was Katy's wish, and she hastened to reply, going next to the nursery to confer with Mrs. Kirby. Dark were the frowns and dire the displeasure of that lady when told that her services would soon be no longer needed on Madison Square—that instead of going up the river as she had hoped, she was free to return to the "genteel and highly respectable home on Bond Street," where Mrs. Cameron had found her.

"Wait till the madam comes and then we'll see," she thought, referring to Mrs. Cameron, and feeling delighted when that very day she heard that lady's voice in the parlor.

But Mrs. Cameron, though a little anxious with regard to both Mrs. Hubbell's and Marian's antecedents, and a little doubtful as to the effect a common dressmaker's nursing might have upon the child, saw at once that Wilford was in favor of New London and so voted accordingly, only asking that she might see and talk with Marian Hazelton herself.

"One can judge so much better from hearing one converse. If her manner should be very bad and her grammar execrable, I should consider it my duty to withdraw my consent," she said, with as much deliberation as if the matter were wholly at her disposal. "Would Katy drive around with her to Marian Hazelton's to-morrow?"

Katy would be delighted; and so next day Mrs. Cameron, the elder, was holding high her aristocratic skirts and glancing ruefully around as she followed Mrs. Cameron, the younger, up the three flights of stairs to Marian's door, which did not open to the assured knock, nor yet yield to the gentle pressure. Marian was out, and there was no alternative but for Katy to scribble a few lines upon the card she left upon the knob, telling Marian who had been there, and requesting her to call that evening at No. —— Fifth Avenue, as the elder Mrs. Cameron was particularly anxious to see her before committing her grandchild to her care. "Please go, Marian, for my sake," Katy added, but in reading to Wilford's mother what she had written, she omitted that, and so escaped a lecture from that lady upon undue familiarity with inferiors.



CHAPTER XXVI.

HOW IT ENDED.

"Will Marian go to No. —— Fifth Avenue?" Marian asked herself that question many times, as with Katy's card in her hand she stood pondering the subject and feeling glad of the good fortune which had sent her from home when Wilford's mother called.

Yes, Marian would; and at the hour between the daylight and the dark, just as the lamps are lighted in the street, and before they are usually lighted in the parlors there was a ring at the door, whose massive plate bore the name of Cameron, and the colored man who answered that ring stared at the figure he ushered in, seating it in the dim hall and asking for the name.

"Miss Hazelton wishes to see Mrs. Cameron," was the reply, and at the sound of that musical, well-bred voice, the servant half opened the parlor door, but closed it again as he went for his mistress, who expressed her surprise that Marian Hazelton should presume to enter where she did.

"Maybe she is a lady, mother; Katy raves about her continually," Bell said; but with an air of incredulity at the lady part, Mrs. Cameron swept haughtily down the broad staircase, the rustle of her heavy silk sending a chill of fear through Marian's frame, but not affecting her so much as did the voice; the cold, proud, metallic voice, which said to her as she half arose to her feet, "Miss Hazelton, I believe?"

At that sound there crept over her the same sensation she had felt years ago, whenever the tones of that voice fell on her ear, for this was not the first meeting of Mrs. Cameron and Marian Hazelton. But for all the former guessed or knew, it was the first, and she looked curiously at the graceful figure, but dimly seen in the shadowy twilight, noticing the thick green veil which so nearly concealed the face, and wondering why it was worn, or being worn, why it was kept so nearly down.

"Miss Hazelton, I believe?" was all that had passed between them as yet, for at these words a great fear had come upon Marian lest her own voice should seem as natural as did the one which had just spoken to her.

But she could not stand there long without answering, and so she ventured at last to say:

"Yes, I found Mrs. Wilford Cameron's note, and came around as she requested."

There was nothing objectionable in that remark, while the voice was very, very sweet and musical, so musical, indeed, so like a voice heard before, that Mrs. Cameron involuntarily went a step nearer to the stranger, and even thought of calling up a servant to light the gas. But that would perhaps be too great a civility, or at least betoken too great a curiosity, and so she forebore, while she began to question Marian of her own and Mrs. Hubbell's antecedents. Both were English, both had worked upon the Isle of Wight, and later in New York, at Madam ——'s; one had married, living now in New London, and the other Stood there as Marian Hazelton, puzzling and bewildering Mrs. Cameron, who tried to recall the person of whom she was reminded by that voice and that manner, so wholly ladylike and refined.

Marian Hazelton pleased her, as was apparent from her expressing a wish that "as far as practicable Miss Hazelton should take charge of the child. We cannot tell how early life-long impression may be made, and it is desirable that they be of the right nature, and wholly in accordance with refinement and good-breeding."

There was a curl on Marian's lip as she remembered another meeting with the proud lady whose words were not as complimentary as now, but she merely bent her head in supposed acquiescence to the belief that Baby Cameron was, or soon would be, capable of discriminating between a nurse refined and one the opposite. There was a moment's silence and then Marian asked if baby had been christened?

"Not yet, we cannot decide upon a name," was the reply, while Marian continued:

"I understood your daughter that it was to be Genevra."

Marian Hazelton was growing too familiar, and so the lady deigned no answer, but stepped a little to one side, as if she would thus indicate that the conference was ended.

Dropping her veil entirely over her face, for the servant was now lighting the parlor lamps, Marian turned toward the door which Mrs. Cameron opened, and she passed out just as up the steps came Wilford, Marian's skirts brushing him as she passed, and her heart beating painfully as she thought of her escape and began to realize the danger she incurred when she accepted the office of partial nurse to his child.

"Dark, mother? How is that? Why is the hall not lighted?" she heard him say, and the old, familiar tones, so little changed, vibrated sadly in her ear, as she dashed away a tear, and then hurried on through the darkened streets toward her humble home, so different from the Cameron's.

"Who was that, mother?" Wilford said, expressing regret that he had not happened in a little earlier, so as to have seen her himself, and asking what his mother thought of her.

"I liked her. She seemed a well-bred person, and her voice is much like Genevra's."

Wilford turned his eyes quickly upon his mother, who continued:

"I did not think of her, it is true, until Miss Hazelton inquired about baby's name, and said she understood from Katy that it was to be Genevra. Then it came to me whose her voice was like. Genevra's, you know, was very musical."

"Yes," Wilford answered, and in his eyes there was a look of pain, such as thoughts of Genevra always brought.

She was in his mind when he ran up his father's steps, not Genevra living, but Genevra dead—she who slept in that lone corner of the churchyard across the sea. "Genevra Lambert, aged twenty-two," and not Genevra, aged nearly thirty-two, if she had been still living. Kindly, regretfully, he always spoke of her now, separating her entirely from the little fairy who was mistress of his house and love—Katy, who was preferred before Genevra, and to whom no wrong was done, he thought, by his sad memories of the beautiful English girl, whose grave was at St. Mary's, and whose picture was so securely hidden from every eye save his own. He never liked to talk of her now, and he changed the subject at once, asking when it would be best to send his child away.

"Miss Hazelton is ready any time, and so I decided upon the day after to-morrow—that will be Saturday—thus giving Katy the benefit of Sunday in which to get over it and recover her usual spirits."

"You are sure it is right?" Wilford asked, for now that the time drew near when the little crib at home would be empty, the nursery desolate, with no fretful, plaintive wail to annoy and worry him, he began to feel that after all that cry was not so very vexing as he had imagined it to be; that he might miss it when it was gone, and wish back the little creature which had been so greatly in his way.

Besides this, there was a sense of injustice to Katy. Perhaps he had not been considerate enough of her feelings; at all events, his mother's arranging the time of baby's departure looked like ignoring Katy altogether, and he ventured a remonstrance. But his mother soon convinced him of her infallible judgment; not only in that matter, but in all others pertaining to his household; and so with his good opinion of himself restored, he went home to where Katy waited for him, with her baby in her lap, both tastefully attired, and making a most lovely picture. Wilford kissed them both, and took his daughter in his arms, an act he had not often been guilty of, for baby tending was not altogether to his taste.

In the dark hours of agony which came to him afterward, he remembered that night, feeling again the touch of the velvet cheek and the warmth of the faint breath which floated across his face as he held his little girl for a moment to it, laughing at Katy's distress because "his whiskers scratched it."

It was strange how much confidence Katy had in Marian Hazelton, and how the fact that she was going to New London reconciled her to the plan, making her even cheerful during the last day of baby's stay at home. But as the daylight waned and the night came on, a shadow began to steal across her sunny face, and her step was slower as it went up the stairs to the nursery, while only herself that night could disrobe the little creature and hush it into sleep.

"'Tis the last time, you know," she said to Kirby, who readily yielded her post and went out, leaving the young mother and child alone.

Mournfully sad and sweet was the lullaby Katy sang, and Helen, in the hall, listening to the low, sad moaning, half prayer, half benediction, likened it to a farewell between the living and the dead. Half an hour later, when she glanced into the room, lighted only by the moonbeams, baby was sleeping in her crib, which Katy knelt beside, her face buried in her hands, and her form quivering with the sobs she tried to smother as she softly prayed that her darling might come back again; that God would keep the little child and forgive the erring mother who had sinned so deeply since the time she used to pray in the home among the hills of Massachusetts. She was very white next morning, and to Helen she seemed to be expanding into something more womanly, more mature, as she disciplined herself to bear the pain welling up so constantly from her heart, and at last overflowing in a flood of tears when Marian was announced as in the parlor below waiting for her charge. Fortunately there was but little time for parting kisses and fond good-byes, for Marian had purposely waited as long as possible ere coming, and expedition was necessary if she reached the train.

It was Katy who made her baby ready, trusting her to no one else, and repelling with a kind of fierce decision all offers of assistance made either by Helen, Mrs. Cameron, Bell, or the nurse, who were present. While Katy's hands drew on the little bright, soft socks of wool, tied the hood of satin and lace, and fastened the scarlet cloak, her tears falling like rain as she met the loving, knowing look the baby was just learning to give her, half smiling, half cooing, as she bent her face down to it.

"Please all of you go out," she said, when baby was ready—"Wilford and all. I had rather be alone."

They granted her request, but Wilford stood beside the open door, listening while the mother bade farewell to her baby.

"Darling," she murmured, "what will poor Katy do when you are gone, or what will comfort her as you have done? Precious baby, my heart is breaking to give you up; but will the Father in Heaven who knows how much you are to me, keep you from harm and bring you back again? Some time I'd give the world to keep you, but I cannot do it, for Wilford says that you must go, and Wilford is your father."

At that moment Wilford Cameron would have given half his fortune to have kept his child for Katy's sake, but it was now too late; the carriage was at the door, and Marian, whom no one had seen but Helen, was waiting in the hall, her thick green veil dropped before her face, and a muffler about her mouth as if suffering from the toothache. Helen had asked if it were so, but Marian's answer was prevented by the little procession filing down the stairs—Mrs. Cameron and Bell, Wilford and Katy, who carried the baby herself, her face bent over it and her tears still dropping like rain. But it was Wilford who put his child into Marian's extended arms, forgetting in his excitement to notice aught in the new nurse except the long, green veil which was not raised at all, even when Katy said, pleadingly, "You will care for her, Marian, as if she were your own."

"Yes, I will, I will," was the response, spoken huskily and having in it no tone like Genevra's. "I will as if it were my own," were the last words Marian said as she went down the steps, followed by Wilford, to whom the thought had just occurred that he ought to see her off.

Marian had not expected this, and the tension of her nerves was hardly equal to the task of sitting there with Wilford Cameron opposite, his baby in her lap, his voice in her ear, and his eyes turned upon her as if curious to know what manner of woman she was. But the thick veil did its duty well, while the muffler answered the purpose intended; it changed the voice which was only natural once, and that when it addressed the baby, which began to grow restless as they drew near the depot. Then Wilford was reminded of Genevra, and the thought carried him across the sea, so that he forgot all else until the station was reached and he was busy, procuring checks and ticket. He saw her into the car, procuring for her a double seat, and speaking a word for her to the conductor, whom he knew. And this he did partly for Katy's sake, and partly because in spite of the plain attire he recognized the lady and felt that Marian Hazelton was no ordinary person. He offered her his hand, wondering why hers trembled so in his grasp, wondering why it was so cold, and wondering, too, why, if she had never been a wife, she wore that plain gold circlet which glittered upon her third finger.

"They certainly call her Miss Hazelton," he thought, as he bade her good-by and then left her alone, going back to the house which even to him seemed lonely, with all the paraphernalia of babyhood removed. Still, now that the worst was over, he rather enjoyed it, for Katy was free from care; there was nothing to hinder her gratifying his every wish, and with his spirits greatly enlivened as he reflected how satisfactory everything had been managed at the last, he proposed taking both Helen and Katy to the theatre that night. But Katy answered: "No, Wilford, not to-night; it seems too much like baby's funeral. I'll go next week, but not to-night."

So Katy had her way, but among the worshipers who next day knelt in Grace Church with words of prayer upon their lips, there was not one more in earnest than she whose only theme was, "My child, my darling child."

She did not get over it by Monday, as Mrs. Cameron had predicted. She did not get over it at all, though she went without a word where Wilford willed that she should go, and even Helen, with her sounder health and stronger constitution, grew tired of that endless round, which gave her scarcely a quiet hour at home. And Katy was a belle again, her name on every lip, her praise in every heart, for none could feel jealous, she bore her honors so meekly, wondering why people liked her so much and loving them because they did. And none admired her more than Helen, who, scarcely less a belle herself, yielded everything to her young sister whom she pitied while she admired, for nothing had power to draw one look from her blue eyes, the look which many observed, and which Helen knew sprang from the mother love, hungering for its child. Only once before had Helen seen a look like this, and that came to Morris' face on the sad night when she said to him, "It might have been." It had been there ever since, and Helen, though revering him before, felt that by the pangs with which that look was born he was a better man, just as Katy was growing better for that hunger in her heart. God was taking his own way to purify them both, but the process was going on and Helen watched it intently, wondering what the end would be.



CHAPTER XXVII.

AUNT BETSY GOES ON A JOURNEY.

Just through the woods, where Uncle Ephraim was wont to exercise old Whitey, was a narrow strip of land, extending from the highway to the pond, and fertile in nothing except the huckleberry bushes, where the large, dark fruit grew so abundantly, and the rocky ledges over which a few sheep roamed, seeking for the short grass and stunted herbs, which gave them a meager sustenance. As a whole it was comparatively valueless, but to Aunt Betsy Barlow it was of great importance, as it was her own—her property—her share—set off from the old estate—the land on which she paid taxes willingly—the real estate the deed of which was lying undisturbed in her hair trunk, where it had lain for years. Several dispositions the good old lady had mentally made of this property, sometimes dividing it equally between Helen and Katy, sometimes willing it all to the former, and again, when she thought of Mark Ray, leaving the interest of it to some missionary society in which she was greatly interested.

How then was the poor woman amazed and confounded when suddenly there appeared a claimant to her property; not the whole, but a part, and that part taking in the big sweet apple tree and the very best of the berry bushes, leaving her nothing but rocks and bogs, a pucker cherry tree, a patch of tansy, and one small tree, whose gnarly apples were not fit, she said, to feed the pigs.

Of course she was indignant, and all the more so because the claimant was prepared to prove that the line fence was not where it should be, but ran into his own dominions for the width of two or three rods, a fact he had just discovered by looking over a bundle of deeds, in which the boundaries of his own farm were clearly defined.

In her distress Aunt Betsy's first thoughts were turned to Wilford as the man who could redress her wrongs if any one, and a long letter was written to him in which her grievances were told in detail and his advice solicited. Commencing with "My dear Wilford," closing with "Your respected ant," sealed with a wafer, stamped with her thimble, and directed bottom side up, it nevertheless found its way to No. —— Broadway, and into Wilford's hands. But with a frown and pish of contempt he tossed it into the grate, and vain were all Aunt Betsy's inquiries as to whether there was any letter for her when Uncle Ephraim came home from the office. Letters there were from Helen, and sometimes one from Katy, but none from Wilford, none for her, and her days were passed in great perplexity and distress, until another idea took possession of her mind. She would go to New York herself! She had never traveled over half a dozen miles in the cars, it was true, but it was time she had, and now that she had a new bonnet and shawl, as good as anybody's, she could go to York as well as not!

Wholly useless were the expostulations of the family, for she would not listen to them, nor believe that she would not be welcome at that house on Madison Square, to which even Mrs. Lennox had never been invited since Katy was fairly settled in it. Much at first had been said of her coming, and of the room she was to occupy; but all that had ceased, and in the mother's heart there had been a painful doubt as to the reason of the silence, until Helen's letters enlightened her, telling her it was not Katy, for she was still unchanged—was still the loving, impulsive creature who, if she could, would take all Silverton to her arms. It was Wilford who had built so high a wall between Katy and her friends; Wilford who at first had endured Helen because he must, but who now kept her with him from choice, even though she was sometimes greatly in his way, especially when her will clashed with his and her stronger arguments for the right swept his own aside. Far better than she used, did Mrs. Lennox understand her son-in-law, and she shrank in horror from suffering her aunt to go where she would be so serious an annoyance, frankly telling her the reason for her objections, and asking if she wished to mortify the girls.

At this Aunt Betsy took umbrage at once.

"She'd like to know what there was about her to mortify anybody? Wasn't her black silk dress made long and full, and the old pongee fixed into a Balmoral, and hadn't she a bran-new cap with purple ribbon, and couldn't she travel in her delaine, and didn't she wear hoops always now, except at cleanin' house times? Didn't she nuss both the girls, especially Catherine, carrying her in her arms one whole night when she had the canker-rash, and everybody thought she'd die; and when she swallered that tin whistle didn't she spat her on the back and swing her in the air till she came to and blew the whistle clear across the room? Tell her that Catherine would be ashamed? she knew better!"

Then as a doubt began to cross her own mind as to Wilford's readiness to entertain her at his house, she continued:

"At any rate, the Tubbses, who moved from Silverton last fall, and who were living in such style on the Bowery, wouldn't be ashamed, and I can stop with them at first, till I see how the land lies. They have invited me to come, both Miss Tubbs and 'Tilda, and they are nice folks, who belong to the Orthodox Church. Tom is in town now, and if I see him I shall talk with him about it, even if I never go."

Most devoutly did Mrs. Lennox and Aunt Hannah hope that Tom would return to New York without honoring the farmhouse with a call; but unfortunately for them he came that very afternoon, and instead of throwing obstacles in Aunt Betsy's way, urged her warmly to make the proposed visit.

"Mother would be so glad to see an old neighbor," the honest youth said, "for she did not know many folks in the city. 'Till had made some flashy acquaintances, of whom he did not think much, and they kept a few boarders, but nobody had called, and mother was real lonesome. He wished Miss Barlow would come; she would have no difficulty in finding them," and on a bit of paper he marked out the route of the Fourth Avenue cars, which passed their door, and which Aunt Betsy would take after arriving at the New Haven depot. "If he knew when she was coming he would meet her," he said, but Aunt Betsy could not tell; she was not quite certain whether she should go at all, she was so violently opposed.

Still she did not give it up entirely, and when, a few days after Tom's return to New York, there came a pressing invitation from the daughter Matilda, or Mattie, as she signed herself, the fever again ran high, and this time with but little hope of its abating.

"We shall be delighted, both mother and me," Mattie wrote. "I will show you all the lions of the city, and when you get tired of us you can go up to Mrs. Cameron's. I know exactly where they live, and have seen her at the opera in full dress, looking like a queen."

Over the last part of this letter Aunt Betsy pondered for some time. That as good an orthodox as Miss Tubbs should let her girl go to the opera, passed her. She had wondered at Helen's going, but then she was a 'Piscopal, and them 'Piscopals had queer notions about usin' the world and not abusin' it. Still, as Helen did not attend the theatre and did attend the opera, there must be a difference in the two places, and into the old lady's heart there slowly crept the thought that possibly she might try the opera too, if 'Tilda Tubbs would go, and promise never to tell the folks at Silverton! She should like to see what it was, and also what full dress meant, though she s'posed it was pilin' on all the clothes you had so as to make a show; but if she wore her black silk gown with her best bunnet and shawl, she guessed that would be dress enough for her.

This settled, Aunt Betsy began to devise the best means of getting off with the least opposition. Both Morris and her brother would be absent from town during the next week, and she finally resolved to take that opportunity for starting on her visit to New York, wisely concluding to keep her own counsel until she was quite ready. Accordingly, on the very day Morris and the deacon left Silverton, she announced her intention so quietly and decidedly that further opposition was useless, and Mrs. Lennox did what she could to make her aunt presentable. And Aunt Betsy did look very respectable in her dark delaine, with her hat and shawl, both Morris' gift, and both in very good taste. As for the black silk and the new cap, they were carefully folded away, one in a box and the other in a satchel she carried on her arm, and in one compartment of which were sundry papers of fennel, caraway, and catnip, intended for Katy's baby, and which could be sent to it from New York. There was also a package of dried plums and peaches for Katy herself, and a few cakes of yeast of her own make, better than any they had in the city! Thus equipped she one morning took her seat in the Boston and New York train, which carried her swiftly on toward Springfield.

"If anybody can find their way in New York, it is Betsy," Aunt Hannah said to Mrs. Lennox, as the day wore on and their thoughts went after the lone woman, who with satchel, umbrella and capbox, was felicitating in the luxury of a whole seat, and the near neighborhood of a very nice young man, who listened with well-bred interest while she told of her troubles concerning the sheep pasture, and how she was going to New York to consult a first-rate lawyer.

Once she thought to tell who the lawyer was, and perhaps enhance her own merits in the eyes of her auditors by announcing herself as aunt to Mrs. Wilford Cameron, of whom she had no doubt he had heard—nay, more, whom he possibly knew, inasmuch as his home was in New York, though he spent much of his time at West Point, where he had been educated. But certain disagreeable remembrances of Aunt Hannah's parting injunction, "not to tell everybody in the cars that she was Katy's aunt," kept her silent on that point, and so Lieutenant Bob Reynolds failed to be enlightened with regard to the relationship existing between the fastidious Wilford Cameron of Madison Square, and the quaint old lady whose very first act on entering the car amused him vastly. At a glance he saw that she was unused to traveling, and as the car was crowded, he had kindly offered his seat near the door, taking the side one under the window, and so close to her that she gave him her capbox to hold while she adjusted her other bundles. This done and herself comfortably settled, she was just remarking that she liked being close to the door in case of a fire, when the conductor appeared, extending his hand officially toward her as the first one convenient. For an instant Aunt Betsy scanned him closely, thinking she surely had never seen him before, but as he seemed to claim acquaintance she could not find it in her kind heart to ignore him altogether, and so she grasped the offered hand, which she tried to shake, saying apologetically:

"Pretty well, thank you, but you've got the better of me, as I don't justly recall your name."

Instantly the eyes of the young man under the window met those of the conductor with a look which changed the frown gathering in the face of the latter into a comical smile as he withdrew his hand and shouted:

"Ticket, madam, your ticket!"

"For the land's sake, have I got to give that up so quick, when it's at the bottom of my satchel," Aunt Betsy replied, somewhat crestfallen at her mistake, and fumbling in her pocket for the key, which was finally produced, and one by one the paper parcels of fennel, caraway, and catnip, dried plums, peaches and yeast cakes, were taken out, until at the very bottom, as she had said, the ticket was found, the conductor waiting patiently, and advising her, by way of avoiding future trouble, to pin the card to her shawl, where it could be seen.

"A right nice man," was Aunt Betsy's mental comment, but for a long time there was a red spot on her cheeks as she felt that she had made herself ridiculous, and hoped the girls would never hear of it.

The young man, however, helped to reassure her, and in telling him her troubles she forgot her chagrin, feeling very sorry that he was going on to Albany, and so down the river to West Point. West Point was associated in Aunt Betsy's mind with that handful of noble men who within the walls of Sumter were then the center of so much interest, and at parting with her companion she said to him:

"Young man, you are a soldier, I take it, from your havin' been to school at West Point. Maybe you'll never have to use your learning, but if you do, stick to the old flag. Don't you go against that, and if an old woman's prayers for your safety can do any good, be sure you'll have mine."

She raised her hand reverently, and Lieutenant Bob felt a kind of awe steal over him as if he might one day need that benediction, the first perhaps given in the cause now so terribly agitating all hearts both North and South.

"I'll remember what you say," he answered, and then as a new idea was presented he took out a card, and writing a few lines upon it, bade her hand it to the conductor just as she was getting into the city.

Without her glasses Aunt Betsy could not read, and thinking it did not matter now, she thrust the card into her pocket, and bidding her companion good-by, took her seat in the other train. Lonely and a very little homesick she began to feel; for her new neighbors were not one-half as willing to talk as Bob had been, and she finally relapsed into silence, which resulted in a quiet sleep, from which she awoke just as they were entering the long, dark tunnel, which she would have likened to Purgatory had she believed in such a place.

"I didn't know we ran into cellars," she said, faintly; but nobody heeded her, or cared for the anxious and now timid-looking woman, who grew more and more anxious, until suddenly remembering the card, she drew it from her pocket, and the next time the conductor appeared handed it to him, watching him while he read that "Lieutenant Robert Reynolds would consider it as a personal favor if he would see the bearer into the Fourth Avenue cars."

Surely there is a Providence which watches over all; and Lieutenant Reynolds' thoughtfulness was not a mere chance, but the answer to the simple trust Aunt Betsy had that God would take her safely to New York, never doubting until she reached it that she had been heard. And even then she did not doubt it long, for the conductor knew Lieutenant Bob, and attended as faithfully to his wishes as if it had been a born princess instead of Aunt Betsy Barlow whom he led to a street car, ascertaining the number on the Bowery where she wished to stop, and reporting to that conductor, who bowed in acquiescence, after glancing at the woman, and knowing intuitively that she was from the country. Could she have divested herself wholly of the fear that the conductor would forget to put her off at the right place, Aunt Betsy would have enjoyed that ride very much; and as it was, she looked around with interest, thinking New York a mightily cluttered-up place, and wondering if all the folks were in the streets. "They must be a gadding set," she thought; and then, as a lady in flaunting robes took a seat beside her, crowding her into a narrow space, the good old dame thought to show that she did not resent it, by an attempt at sociability, asking if she knew "Mrs. Peter Tubbs, whose husband kept a store on the Bowery?"

"I have not that honor," was the haughty reply, the lady drawing up her costly shawl and moving a little away from her interlocutor, who continued: "I thought like enough you might have seen 'Tilda, or Mattie she calls herself now. She is a right nice girl, and Tom is a very forrard boy."

To this there was no reply; and as the lady soon left the car, Aunt Betsy did not make another attempt at conversation, except to ask once how far they were from the Bowery, adding, as she received a civil answer, "You don't know Mr. Peter Tubbs?"

The worthy man was evidently a stranger to the occupants of that car, and so Aunt Betsy employed her time in wondering if they kept up a sight of style. She presumed they did from what 'Tilda had written to one of Captain Perry's girls about their front parlor, and back parlor, and library; but she did so hope their boarders were not the stuck up kind. In Mrs. Peter Tubbs herself she had the utmost confidence, knowing her to be a kind, friendly woman; and so her heart did not beat quite as fast as it would otherwise have done when the car stopped at last upon a crossing, and the conductor pointed back a few doors to the right, telling her that was her number.

"I should s'pose he might have driv right up, instead of leaving me here," she said, looking wistfully at the retreating car, which now seemed almost like home. "Coats, and trousers, and jackets! I wonder if there is nothing else to be seen here," she continued, as her eye caught the long line of clothing so conspicuously displayed in that part of the Bowery. "'Tain't no great shakes," was the feeling struggling into Aunt Betsy's mind, as with Tom's outline map in hand she peered at the numbers of the doors, finding the right one at last, and ringing the bell with a force which brought Mattie at once to the rescue.

If Mattie was not glad to see her guest, she seemed to be, which answered every purpose for the tired woman, who followed her into the dark, narrow hall, filled with the sickly odor of the kitchen, and up the narrow stairs, through a still darker hall, and into the front parlor, which looked out upon the Bowery. This was comparatively comfortable, for there was a fire in the stove, and the carpet the same which Aunt Betsy remembered to have seen in Mrs. Tubbs' best room at Silverton. But the diminutive dimensions of the apartment struck her at once, and she mentally decided that it must be the "libry." But, alas! the so-called "library" was a large-sized closet, or single room, at the other end of the hall, and now used as an omnium gatherum for the various articles Mrs. Tubbs found necessary for her "back parlor," or dining-room, where the table was set cornerwise, its soiled linen and dingy napkins presenting a striking contrast to the snowy cloth which always covered the table at the farmhouse, while the dry, baker's bread, and the frowsy butter were almost more than Aunt Betsy could swallow, hungry as she was.

But all this was half an hour after the time when Mrs. Tubbs came in to meet her, expressing genuine pleasure at seeing her there, and feeling what she said; for Mrs. Tubbs did not take kindly to city life, and the sight of a familiar face, which brought the country with it, was very welcome to her. Mattie, on the contrary, liked New York, and there was scarcely a street where she had not been, with Tom for a protector; while she was perfectly conversant with all the respectable places of amusement—with their different prices and different grades of patrons. She knew where Wilford Cameron's office was, and also his house, for she had walked by the latter many times, admiring the elegant curtains and feasting her eyes upon the glimpses of inside grandeur, which she occasionally obtained as some one came out or went in. Once she had seen Helen and Katy enter their carriage, which the colored coachman drove away, but she had never ventured to accost them. Katy would not have known her if she had, for the family had come to Silverton while she was at Canandaigua, and as, after her return to Silverton, until her marriage, Mattie had been in one of the Lawrence factories, they had never met. With Helen, however, she had a speaking acquaintance; but she had never presumed upon it in New York, though to some of her young friends she had told how she once sat in the same pew with Mrs. Wilford Cameron's sister when she went to the "Episcopal meeting," and the consideration which this fact procured for her from those who had heard of Mrs. Wilford Cameron, of Madison Square, awoke in her the ambition to know more of that lady, and, if possible, gain an entrance to her dwelling. To this end she favored Aunt Betsy's visit, hoping thus to accomplish her object, for, of course, when Miss Barlow went to Mrs. Cameron's, she was the proper person to go with her and point the way. This was the secret of Mattie's letter to Aunt Betsy, and the warmth with which she welcomed her to that tenement on the Bowery, over a clothing store, and so small that it is not strange Aunt Betsy wondered where they all slept, never dreaming of the many devices known to city housekeepers, who can change a handsome parlor into a kitchen or sleeping-room, and vice versa, with little or no trouble. But she found it out at last, lifting her hands in speechless amazement, when, as the hour for retiring came, what she imagined the parlor bookcase was converted into a comfortable bed, on which her first night in New York was passed in comfort if not in perfect quiet.

The next day had been set apart by Mattie for showing their guest the city and possibly calling on Mrs. Wilford; but the poor old lady, unused to travel and excitement, was too tired to venture out, seeing from the window more than she had seen in all her life before, and coming to the conclusion that New York must contain "a sight of folks," judging from the crowds who passed that way and the glimpses she caught of other crowds in the streets beyond. Still in some things she was disappointed. New York was not so grand as she had imagined it to be—not as grand as Helen's letters would imply; and she "didn't suppose everybody lived upstairs and kept men's clothes to sell." The boarders, too, troubled her. They were well enough, it is true, but they were neither fine ladies nor gentlemen, such as Wilford and Katy; and Aunt Betsy, while receiving every attention which Mrs. Tubbs could give her, was guilty of wishing herself back in the clean, bright kitchen at home, where the windows looked out upon woods and fields instead of that never-ceasing rush which made her dizzy and faint. On the whole she was as nearly homesick as she well could be, and so when Mattie asked if she would like to go out that evening, she caught eagerly at the idea, as it involved a change, and again the opera came before her mind, in spite of her attempts to thrust it away.

"Did 'Tilda know if Katy went to the opera now? Did she s'pose she would be there to-night? Was it far to the show house? What was the price—and was it a very wicked place?"

To all these queries Mattie answered readily. She presumed Katy would be there, as it was a new opera. It was not so very far. Distance in the city was nothing, and it was not a wicked place, but over the price Mattie faltered. Tickets for Aunt Betsy, herself and Tom, who of course must go with them, would cost more than her father had to give. The theatre was preferable, as that came within their means, and she suggested Laura Keene's; but from that Aunt Betsy recoiled as from Pandemonium itself.

Catch her at a theatre—her, a deacon's sister, looked up to for a sample, and who run once for vice-president of the Sewing Society in Silverton! It was too terrible to think of. But the opera seemed different. Helen went there; it could not be very wrong, particularly as the tickets were so high that bad folks could not go, and taking out her purse Aunt Betsy counted its contents carefully, holding the bills thoughtfully for a moment, while she seemed to be balancing between what she knew was safe and what she feared might be wrong, at least in the eyes of Silverton.

"But Silverton will never know it," the tempter whispered, "and it is worth something to see the girls in full dress."

This decided it, and Aunt Betsy generously offered "to pay the fiddler," as she termed it, "provided 'Tilda would never let it get to Silverton that Betsy Barlow was seen inside a playhouse!" To Mrs. Tubbs it seemed impossible that Aunt Betsy could be in earnest, but when she was, she put no impediments in her way; and so, conspicuous among the crowd of transient visitors who that night entered the Academy of Music was Aunt Betsy Barlow, chaperoned by Miss Mattie Tubbs and protected by Tom, a shrewd, well-grown youth of seventeen, who passed for some years older, and consequently was a sufficient escort for the ladies under his charge. It was not his first visit there and he managed to procure a seat which commanded a good view of several private boxes, and among them that of Wilford Cameron. This Mattie, who remembered where she had seen both Helen and Katy, pointed out to the excited woman gazing about her in a maze of bewilderment, and half doubting her own identity with the Betsy Barlow who, six weeks before, if charged with such a sin as she was now committing, would have exclaimed, "Is thy servant a dog to do this thing?" Yet here she was, a deacon's sister, a candidate for the vice-presidency of the Silverton Sewing Society, a woman who, for sixty-three years and a-half, had led a blameless life, frowning upon all worldly amusements and setting herself for a burning light to others—here she was in her black silk dress, her best shawl pinned across her chest, and her bonnet tied in a square bow which reached nearly to her ears, which Mattie Tubbs, who tied it, had said was all the style. Here she was, in that huge building, where the lights were so blinding and the crowd so great that she shut her eyes involuntarily, while she tried to realize what she could be doing.

"I'm in for it now anyhow, and if it is wrong may the good Father forgive me," she said softly to herself, just as the orchestra struck up, thrilling her with its ravishing strains, and making her forget all else in her rapturous delight.

She was very fond of music and listened eagerly, beating time with both her feet, and making her bonnet go up and down until the play commenced and she saw stage dress and stage effect for the first time in her life. This part she did not like: "they mumbled their words so nobody could understand more than if they spoke a heathenish tongue," she thought, and she was beginning to yawn when a nudge from Mattie and a whisper, "There they come," roused her from her stupor, and looking up she saw both Helen and Katy entering their box, and with them Mark Ray and Wilford Cameron.

Very rapidly Katy's eyes swept the house, running over the sea of heads below but failing to see the figure which, half arising from its seat, stood with clasped hands, gazing upon her, the tears running like rain over the upturned face, and the lips murmuring: "Darling Katy! blessed child! She's thinner than when I see her last, but oh! so beautiful and grand! Precious lambkin! It isn't wicked now for me to be coming here, where I can see her face again."

It was all in vain that Mattie pulled her dress, bidding her sit down as people were staring at her. Aunt Betsy did not hear, and if she had she would scarcely have cared for those who did look at her, and who, following her eyes, saw the beautiful young ladies, behind whom Wilford and Mark were standing, but never dreamed of associating them with the "crazy thing" who sank back at last into her seat, keeping her eyes still upon the box where Helen and Katy sat, their heads uncovered and their rich cloaks falling off just enough to show the astonished woman that both their necks were uncovered, too, while Helen's arms, raised to adjust her glass, were discovered to be in the same condition.

"Ain't they splendid in full dress?" Mattie whispered, while Aunt Betsy replied:

"Call that full dress? I'd sooner say it was no dress at all! They'll catch their death of cold. What would their mother say?"

Then as the enormity of the act grew upon her, she continued more to herself than to Mattie:

"I mistrusted Catherine, but that Helen should come to this passes me."

Still as she became more accustomed to it, and glanced at other full-dressed ladies, the first shock passed away, and she could calmly contemplate Katy's dress, wondering what it cost, and then letting her eyes pass on to Helen, to whom Mark Ray seemed so loverlike that Aunt Betsy remembered her impressions when he stopped at Silverton, her heart swelling with pride as she thought of both the girls making out so well.

"Who is that young man talking to Helen?" Mattie asked, between the acts, and when told that it was "Mr. Ray, Wilford's partner," she drew her breath eagerly, and turned again to watch him, envying the young girl who did not seem as much gratified with the attentions as Mattie fancied she should do were she in Helen's place.

How could she, with Juno Cameron just opposite, watching her jealously, while Madam Cameron fanned herself in dignity, refusing to look upon what she so greatly disapproved.

But Mark did not care who was watching him, and continued his attentions until Helen wished herself away, and though a good deal surprised, was not sorry when Wilford abruptly declared the opera a bore, and suggested going home.

They would order an ice, he said, and have a much pleasanter time in their own private parlor.

"Please don't go; I rather like the play to-night," Katy said; but on Wilford's face there was that look which never consulted Katy's wishes, and so the two ladies tied on their cloaks, and just as the curtain rose in the last act, left their box, Juno wondering at the movement, and hoping Mark would now come around to her, while Aunt Betsy looked wistfully after them, but did not suspect she was the cause of their exit, and of Wilford's evident perturbation.

Running his eye over the house below, it had fallen upon the trio, Aunt Betsy, Mattie and Tom, the first of whom was at that moment partly standing, while she adjusted her heavy shawl, which the heat of the building had compelled her to unfasten.

There was a start, a rush of blood to the head and face, and then he reflected how impossible it was that she should be there, in New York, and at the opera, too.

The shawl arranged, Aunt Betsy took her seat and turned her face fully toward him, while Wilford seized Katy's glass and leveled it at her. He was not mistaken. It was Aunt Betsy Barlow, and Wilford felt the perspiration oozing out beneath his hair and about his lips, as he remembered the letter he had burned, wishing now that he had answered it, and so, perhaps, have kept her from his door. For she was coming there, nay, possibly had come, since his departure from home, and learning his whereabouts, had followed on to the Academy of Music, leaving her baggage where he should stumble over it on entering the hall.

Such was the fearful picture conjured up by Wilford's imagination, as he stood watching poor Aunt Betsy, a dark cloud on his brow and fierce anger at his heart, that she should thus presume to worry and annoy him.

"If she spies us she will be finding her way up here; there's no piece of effrontery of which that class is not capable," he thought, wondering next who the vulgar-looking girl and gauche youth were who were with her.

"Country cousins, of whom I have never heard, no doubt," and he ground his teeth together as with his next breath he suggested going home, carrying out his suggestion and hurrying both Helen and Katy to the carriage as if some horrible dragon had been on their track.

There was no baggage in the hall, there had been no woman there, and Wilford's fears for a time subsided, but growing strong again about the time he knew the opera was out, while the sound of wheels coming toward his door was sufficient to make his heart stop beating and every hair prickle at its roots.

But Aunt Betsy did not come except in Wilford's dreams, which she haunted the entire night, so that the morning found him tired, moody, and cross. That day they entertained a select dinner party, and as this was something in which Katy rather excelled, while Helen's presence, instead of detracting from, would add greatly to the eclat of the affair, Wilford had anticipated it with no small degree of complacency. But now, alas! there was a phantom at his side—a skeleton of horror, wearing Aunt Betsy's guise; and if it had been possible he would have given the dinner up. But it was too late for that; the guests were bidden, the arrangements made, and there was nothing now for him but to abide the consequences.

"She shall at least stay in her room, if I have to lock her in," he thought, as he went down to his office without even kissing Katy or bidding her good-by.

But business that day had no interest for him, and in a listless, absent way he sat watching the passers-by and glancing at his door as if he expected the first assault to be made there. Then as the day wore on, and he felt sure that what he so much dreaded had really come to pass, that the baggage expected last night had certainly arrived by this time and spread itself over his house, he could endure the suspense no longer, and startled Mark with the announcement that he was going home, and should not return again that day.

"Going home, when Leavitt is to call at three!" Mark said, in much surprise, and feeling that it would be a relief to unburden himself to some one, the story came out how Wilford had seen Aunt Betsy at the opera, and expected to find her at Madison Square.

"I wish I had answered her letter about that confounded sheep pasture," he said, "for I would rather give a thousand dollars—yes, ten thousand—than have her with us to-day. I did not marry my wife's relations," he continued, excitedly, adding, as Mark looked quickly up, "Of course I don't mean Helen. She is right; and though she rasps me a little, I'd rather have her than not. Neither do I mean that doctor, for he is a gentleman. But this Barlow woman—oh! Mark, I am all of dripping sweat just to think of it."

He did not say what he intended doing, but with Mark Ray's ringing laugh in his ears, passed into the street, and hailing a stage was driven toward home, just as a downtown stage deposited on the walk in front of his office "that Barlow woman" and Mattie Tubbs!



CHAPTER XXVIII.

AUNT BETSY CONSULTS A LAWYER.

Aunt Betsy did not rest well after her return from the opera. Novelty and excitement always kept her awake, while her mind was not wholly at ease with regard to what she had done. Not that she really felt she had committed a sin, except so far as the example might be bad, but she feared the result, should it ever reach the orthodox church at Silverton.

"There's no telling what Deacon Bannister would do—send a subpoena after me, for what I know," she thought, as she laid her tired head upon her pillow and went off into that weary state halfway between sleep and wakefulness, a state in which operas, play actors, Katy in full dress, Helen and Mark Ray, choruses, music by the orchestra, to which she had been guilty of beating her foot, Deacon Bannister and the whole offended brotherhood, with constable and subpoenas, were pretty equally blended together—the music which she liked, and the subpoena which she feared taking the precedence of the others.

But with the daylight her fears subsided, and at the breakfast table she was hardly less enthusiastic over the opera than Mattie herself, averring, however; that "once would do her and she had no wish to go again."

The sight of Katy looking so frail and delicate, but so beautiful withal, had awakened all the olden intense love she had felt for her darling, and she could not wait much longer without seeing her "in her own home and hearing her blessed voice."

"Hannah, and Lucy amongst 'em, advised me not to come," she said to Mrs. Tubbs, "hinting that I might not be wanted up there; but now I'm here I shall go if I don't stay more than an hour."

"Of course I should," Mattie answered, herself anxious to stand beneath Wilford Cameron's roof and see Mrs. Wilford at home. "She don't look as proud as Helen, and you are her aunt, her blood kin, so why shouldn't you go there if you like?"

"I shall—I am going," Aunt Betsy replied, feeling that to take Mattie with her was not quite the thing, and not exactly knowing how to manage, for the girl must of course pilot the way. "I'll risk it and trust to Providence," was her final decision, and so after an early lunch she started out with Mattie as her escort, suggesting that they visit Wilford's office first and get that affair out of her mind.

At this point Aunt Betsy began to look upon herself as a most hardened wretch, wondering at the depths of iniquity to which she had fallen. The opera was the least of her offenses, for she was not harboring pride and contriving how to be rid of 'Tilda Tubbs, as clever a girl as ever lived, hoping that if she found Wilford he would see her home, and so save 'Tilda the trouble? Playhouses, pride, vanity, subterfuge and deceit—it was a long catalogue she would have to confess to Deacon Bannister, if confess she did, and with a groan the conscience-smitten woman followed her conductor along the street, and at last into the stage which took them to Wilford's office.

Broadway was literally jammed that day, and the aid of two policemen was required to extricate the bewildered countrywoman from the mass of vehicles and horses' heads, which took all her sense away. Trembling like a leaf when Mattie explained that the "two nice men" who had dragged her to the walk were police officers, and thinking again of the subpoena, the frightened woman who had escaped such peril, followed up the two flights of stairs and into Wilford's office, where she sank breathless into a chair, while Mark, not in the least surprised, greeted her cordially, and very soon succeeded in getting her quiet, bowing so graciously to Mattie when introduced that the poor girl dreamed of him for many a night, and by day built castles of what might have been had she been rich, instead of only 'Tilda Tubbs, whose home was on the Bowery. Why need Aunt Betsy in her introduction have mentioned that fact? Mattie thought, her cheeks burning scarlet; or why need she afterward speak of her as 'Tilda, who was kind enough to come with her to the office where she hoped to find Wilford? Poor Mattie, she knew some things very well, but she had never yet conceived of the immeasurable distance between herself and Mark Ray, who cared but little whether her home were on the Bowery or on Murray Hill, after the first sight which told him what she was. He was very polite to her, however, for it was not in his nature to be otherwise, while the fact that she came with Helen's aunt gave her some claim upon him.

"Mr. Cameron had just left the office and would not return that day," he said to Aunt Betsy, asking if he could assist her in any way, and assuring her of his willingness to do so.

Aunt Betsy could talk with him better than with Wilford, and was about to give him the story of the sheep pasture in detail, when, motioning to a side door, he said, "Walk in here, please. You will not be liable to so many interruptions."

"Come, 'Tilda, it's no privacy," Aunt Betsy said; but Tilda felt intuitively that she was not wanted, and rather haughtily declined, amusing herself by the window, while Aunt Betsy in the private office told her troubles to Mark Ray; and received in return the advice to let the claimant go to law if he chose, he probably would make nothing by it, and even if he did, she would not sustain a heavy loss, according to her own statement of the value of the land.

"If I could keep the sweet apple-tree, I wouldn't care," Aunt Betsy said, "for, the rest ain't worth a lawsuit; though it's my property, and I have thought of willing it to Helen, if she ever marries."

Here was a temptation which Mark Ray could not resist. Ever since Mrs. General Reynolds' party Helen's manner had puzzled him; but her shyness only made him more in love than ever, while the rumor of her engagement with Dr. Morris tormented him continually. Sometimes he believed it, and sometimes he did not, wishing always that he knew for certain. Here then was a chance for confirming his fears or for putting them at rest, and blessing 'Tilda Tubbs for declining to enter his back office, he said in reply to Aunt Betsy's "If she ever marries," "And of course she will. She is engaged, I believe?"

"Engaged? Who to? When? Strange she never writ, nor Katy neither," Aunt Betsy exclaimed, while Mark, raised to an ecstatic state, replied, "I refer to Dr. Grant. Haven't they been engaged for a long time past?"

"Why—no—indeed," was the response, and Mark could have hugged the good old lady, who continued in a confidential tone: "I used to think they'd make a good match; but I've gin that up, and now I sometimes mistrust 'twas Katy, Morris wanted. Anyhow, he's mighty changed since she was married, and he never speaks her name. I never heard anybody say so, and maybe it's all a fancy, so you won't mention it."

"Certainly not," Mark replied, drawing nearer to her, and continuing in a low tone, "Isn't it possible that after all Helen is engaged to her cousin, and you do not know it?"

"No," and Aunt Betsy grew very positive. "I am sure she ain't, for only t'other day I said to Morris that I wouldn't wonder if Helen and another chap had a hankerin' for one another; and he said he wished it might be so, for you—no, that other chap, I mean—would make a splendid husband," and Aunt Betsy turned very red at the blunder, which made Mark Ray feel as if he walked on air, with no obstacle whatever in his path.

Still he could not be satisfied without probing her a little deeper, and so he said: "And that other chap? Does he live in Silverton?"

Aunt Betsy's look was a sufficient answer; for the old lady knew he was quizzing her, just as she felt that in some way she had removed a stumbling block from his path. She had—a very large stumbling block, and in the first flush of his joy and gratitude he could do most anything. So when she spoke of going up to Katy's, he set himself industriously at work to prevent it for that day at least. "They were to have a large dinner party," he said, "and both Mrs. Cameron and Miss Lennox would be wholly occupied. Would it not be better to wait until to-morrow? Did she contemplate a long stay in New York?"

"No, she might go back to-morrow—certainly the day after," Aunt Betsy replied, her voice trembling at this fresh impediment thrown in the way of her seeing Katy.

The quaver in her voice touched Mark's sympathy. "She was old and simple-hearted. She was Helen's aunt," and this, more than aught else, helped him to a decision. "She must be homesick in the Bowery; he should die if compelled to stay there long; he would take her to his mother's and keep her until the morrow, and perhaps until she left for home; telling Helen that night, of course, and then suffering her to act accordingly."

This he proposed to his client; assuring her of his mother's entire willingness to receive her, and urging so many reasons why she should go there, instead of "up to Katy's," where they were in such confusion that Aunt Betsy was at last persuaded, and was soon riding uptown in a Twenty-third Street stage, with Mark Ray her vis-a-vis and Mattie at her right. Why Mattie was there Mark could not conjecture; and perhaps she did not know herself, unless it were that, disappointed in her call on Mrs. Cameron, she vaguely hoped for some redress by calling on Mrs. Banker. How then was she chagrined, when, as the stage left them at a handsome brownstone front, near Fifth Avenue Hotel, Mark said to her, as if she were not of course expected to go in, "Please tell your mother that Miss Barlow is stopping with Mrs. Banker to-day. Has she baggage at your house?—If so, we will send around for it at once. Your number, please?"

His manner was so offhand and yet so polite that Mattie could neither resist him, nor yet be angry, though there was a sad feeling of disappointment at her heart as she gave the required number, and then shook Aunt Betsy's hand, whispering in a choked voice:

"You'll come to us again before you go home?"

"Of course I shall," Aunt Betsy answered, feeling that something was wrong, and wondering if she herself were in fault.

With a good-by to Mark, whose bow atoned for a great deal, Mattie walked slowly away, leaving Mark greatly relieved. Aunt Betsy was as much as he cared to have on his hands at once, and as he led her up the steps, he began to wonder more and more what his mother would say to his bringing that stranger into her house, unbidden and unsought.

"I'll tell her just the truth," was his rapid decision, and assuming a manner which warned the servant who answered his ring neither to be curious nor impertinent, he conducted his charge into the parlor, and bringing her a chair before the grate, went in quest of his mother, who he found was out.

"Kindle a fire then in the front guest chamber," he said, "and see that it is made comfortable as soon as possible."

The servant bowed in acquiescence, wondering who had come, and feeling not a little surprised at the description given by John of the woman he had let into the house, and who now in the parlor was looking around her in astonishment and delight, thinking she had found New York at last, and condemning herself for the feeling of homesickness with which she remembered the Bowery, contrasting her "cluttered quarters" there with the elegance around her. "Was Katy's house as fine as this?" she asked herself, feeling intuitively that such as she might be out of place in it, just as she began to fear she was out of her place here, bemoaning the fact that she had forgotten her capbox, with its contents, and so could not remove her bonnet, as she had nothing with which to cover her gray head.

"What shall I do?" she was asking herself, when Mark appeared, explaining that his mother was absent, but would be at home in a short time.

"Your room will soon be ready," he continued, "and meantime you might lay aside your wrappings here if you find them too warm."

There was something about Mark Ray which inspired confidence, and in her extremity Aunt Betsy gasped, "I can't take off my bunnet till I get my caps down to Mrs. Tubbs'. Oh, what a trouble I be."

Not exactly comprehending the nature of the difficulty, Mark suggested that she go without a cap until he could send for them; but Aunt Betsy's assertion that "she was grayer than a rat," enlightened him with regard to her dilemma, and full permission was given for her "to sit in her bonnet" until such time as a messenger could go to the Bowery and back. In this condition she had better be in her own room, and as it was in readiness, Mark himself conducted her to it, the stern gravity of his face putting down the laugh which sprang to the waiting maid's eyes at the old lady's ejaculations of surprise and amazement that anything could be so fine as the house where she so unexpectedly found herself a guest.

"She is unaccustomed to the city, but a particular friend of mine; so see that you treat her with respect," was all the explanation he vouchsafed to the curious girl.

But that was enough. A friend of Mr. Ray's must be somebody, even if she sat with two bonnets on instead of one, and appeared ten times more rustic than Aunt Betsy, who breathed freer when she found herself alone upstairs, and knew her baggage would soon be there.