"They might find him, and they might not," Mark Ray said, when the message came down to the office. "They could try, at all events," and in a few moments the telegraphic wires were carrying the news of Katy's illness, both to the West, where Wilford had gone, and to the East, where Helen read with a blanched cheek that Katy perhaps was dying, and she was needed again.

This was Mrs. Cameron's suggestion, wrung out by the knowing that some woman besides herself was needed in the sickroom, and by the feeling that Helen could be trusted with the story of the first marriage, which Katy talked of constantly, telling it so accurately that only a fool would fail of being convinced that there was much of truth in those delirious ravings.



CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE FEVER AND ITS RESULTS.

On every business paper Wilford wrote or signed, and in every object he met in his journey, one face had been prominent, and that the face of Katy as it looked in the gray dawn when it lifted itself up to kiss him, while the white lips tried to speak his pardon. Sometimes Wilford was very sorry and full of remorse, knowing how Katy was suffering for his sin; and then, when he remembered her long refusal to pardon him, notwithstanding that he sued for it so earnestly, his self-importance was touched, and he felt she had no right to be so obstinate. He did not deserve it. He was a very kind, indulgent husband, who had raised her from the humblest position to the very highest, and she ought not to feel so indignant because he had kept from her an act which, after all, did not affect her materially. If Genevra was living, and on this side of the water, he could understand how it might be unpleasant for Katy and for him, too, knowing, as they both did, that she was innocent of the charges alleged against her.

"I should not myself like to run the risk of meeting a divorced wife at any time," he thought; "but Genevra is dead, and Katy ought to be more reasonable. I did not suppose there was so much spirit in her."

But reason as he might, Wilford could not forget Katy's face, so full of reproach. It followed him continually, and was the magnet which turned his steps homeward before his business was quite done, and before the telegram found him. Thus it was with no knowledge of existing circumstances that he reached New York just at the close of the day after Katy's return, and ordering a carriage, was driven rapidly toward home. All the shutters in the front part of the house were closed and not a ray of light was to be seen in the parlors as he entered the hall, where the gas was burning dimly.

"Katy is at home," he said, as he went into the library, where a shawl was thrown across a chair, as if some one had lately been there.

It was his mother's shawl, and Wilford was wondering if she was there, when down the stairs came a man's rapid step, and the next moment Dr. Grant stepped into the room, starting when he saw Wilford, who felt intuitively that something was wrong.

"Is Katy sick?" was his first question, which Morris answered in the affirmative, holding him back as he was starting for her room, and saying to him: "Let me send your mother to you first." What passed between Wilford and his mother was never known exactly, but at the close of the interview Mrs. Cameron was very pale, while Wilford's face looked dark and anxious, as he said: "You think he understands it, then?"

"Yes, in part. Of course he cannot make a very connected story out of her ravings; but that he believes you had a wife before Katy, I am sure, just as I am that the world will be none the wiser for his knowledge. I knew Dr. Grant before you did, and there are few men living whom I respect as much, and no one whom I would trust as soon."

Mrs. Cameron had paid a high compliment to Morris Grant, and Wilford bowed in assent, asking next how she managed Dr. Craig.

"That was easy, inasmuch as he believed it an insane freak of Katy's to have no other physician than her cousin. It was quite natural, he said, adding that she was as safe with Dr. Grant as any one. So that is settled, and I was glad, for I could not have a stranger know of that affair. If I thought it would save her life to retain him, I should feel differently, of course."

"Yes, certainly," Wilford rejoined, while at his heart there was the germ of a feeling which, if in the slightest degree encouraged, would almost have given Katy's life to save his darling self-love and honor in the eyes of the world.

Few men are as thoroughly selfish as Wilford Cameron, and though he was very much concerned for Katy, he thought more of preserving a secret which, if known at this late day, would subject him to much censure and reproach, than he did of her. So when his mother told him next that Helen had been sent for, his morbid fears took alarm.

"Why was it necessary to bring another here?" he asked, so indignantly that tears sprang to his mother's eyes as she pleaded her own weariness and inability to remain always in the sickroom, and charged him with ingratitude for all she had done in his behalf.

Wilford could not afford to quarrel with his mother, and he quieted her as soon as possible, admitting that if she must have an assistant he would rather it were Helen than Bell or Juno, or even Esther, who, in spite of the alarm about malignant fever, would willingly have administered to her young mistress, had she been allowed to do so.

"You will go up now," Mrs. Cameron said to her son, when peace was fully restored, and a moment after Wilford stood in the dimly-lighted room, where Katy was talking of going to the hospitals, and of Marian Hazelton, and was only kept upon her pillow by the strong arm of Morris, who stood over her when Wilford entered, telling her to "wait until to-morrow—it would be better then, and she had not seen her husband yet."

"I have no husband," she replied, her lip curling with scorn, and her eyes just then falling upon Wilford, who stood appalled at the fearful change which had passed over her since he left her three days before.

She knew him, and writhing herself away from Morris' arms, she raised up in bed and said to him:

"I've been at the bottom of things, and Genevra is not in that grave at St. Mary's. Nobody is there; consequently, she is living, and you are not my husband. So if you please you can leave the house at once. Morris will do very well. He will settle the estate, and no bill shall be sent in for your board and lodging."

In some moods Wilford would have smiled at being thus summarily dismissed from his own house and assured that no bill should be sent after him for board and lodging; but he was too sore now, too sensitive to smile, and his voice was rather severe as he laid his hand on Katy's, and said:

"Don't be foolish, Katy. Don't you know me? I am Wilford, your husband."

"That was, you mean," Katy rejoined, drawing her hand quickly away. "Go find your first love, where bullets fall like hail, and where there is pain, and blood, and carnage. Genevra is there."

She would not let Wilford come near her, and grew so excited by his presence that he was forced either to leave the room or sit where she could not see him. He chose the latter, and from his seat by the door watched with a half-jealous, half-angry heart, Morris Grant doing for his wife what he should have done.

With Morris Katy was gentle as a little child, talking still of Genevra, but talking quietly, and in a way which did not wear her out as fast as her excitement did.

"What God hath joined together let not man put asunder," was the text from which she preached several short sermons as the night wore on, but just as the morning dawned she fell into the first quiet sleep she had had during the last twenty-four hours. And while she slept Wilford ventured near enough to see the sunken cheeks and hollow eyes which wrung a groan from him as he turned to Morris, asking what he supposed was the immediate cause of her sudden illness?

"A terrible shock, the nature of which I understand, but you have nothing to fear from me," Morris replied. "I accuse you to no man, but leave you to settle it with your conscience whether you did right to deceive her so long."

Morris spoke as one having authority, and Wilford simply bowed his head, feeling then no resentment toward one who had ventured to reprove him. Afterward he might remember it differently, but now he was too anxious to keep Morris there to quarrel with him, and so he made no reply, but sat watching Katy as she slept, wondering if she would die, and feeling how terrible life would be without her. Suddenly Genevra's warning words rang in his ear:

"God will not forgive you for the wrong you have done me."

Was Genevra right? Had God remembered all this time, and overtaken him at last? It might be, and with a groan Wilford hid his face in his hands, believing that he repented of his sin, and not knowing that his fancied repentance arose merely from the fact that he had been detected. Could the last few days be blotted out, and Katy stand just where she did, with no suspicion of him, he would have cast his remorse to the winds, and as it is not such repentance God accepts, Wilford had only begun to sip the cup of retribution presented to his lips.

Worn out with watching and waiting, Mrs. Cameron, who would suffer neither Juno nor Bell to come near the house, waited uneasily for the arrival of the New Haven train, which she hoped would bring Helen to her aid. Under ordinary circumstances she would rather not have met her, for her presence would keep the letter so constantly in her mind, but now anybody who could be trusted was welcome, and when at last there came a cautious ring she went herself to the hall, starting back with undisguised vexation when she saw the timid-looking woman following close behind Helen, and whom the latter presented as "My mother, Mrs. Lennox."

Convinced that Morris' sudden journey to New York had something to do with Katy's illness, and almost distracted with fears for her daughter's life, Mrs. Lennox could not remain at home and wait for the tardy mail or careless telegraph. She must go to her child, and casting off her dread of Wilford's displeasure, she had come with Helen, and was bowing meekly to Mrs. Cameron, who neither offered her hand nor gave any token of greeting except a distant bow and a simple "Good-morning, madam."

But Mrs. Lennox was too timid, too bewildered, and too anxious to notice the lady's haughty manner as she led them to the library and then went for her son. Wilford was not glad to see his mother-in-law, but he tried to be polite, answering her questions civilly, and when she asked if it was true that he had sent for Morris, assuring her that it was not—"Dr. Grant happened here very providentially, and I hope to keep him until the crisis is past, although he has just told me he must go back to-morrow," Wilford said, mentally hoping Mrs. Lennox might think it best to go with him, or if she did not, wondering how long she did intend to stay. It hurt his pride that she, whom he considered greatly his inferior, should learn his secret; but it could not now be helped, and within an hour after her arrival she was looking curiously at him for an explanation of the strange things she heard from Katy's lips.

"Was you a widower when you married my daughter?" she said to him, when at last Helen left the room, and she was alone with him.

"Yes, madam," he replied, "some would call me so, though I was divorced from my wife. As this was a matter which did not in any way concern your daughter, I deemed it best not to tell her. Latterly she has found it out, and it is having a very extraordinary effect upon her."

Mrs. Lennox was too much afraid of the man addressing her so haughtily to make him any reply, and so she only wept softly as she bent to kiss her child, still talking of Genevra and the empty grave at St. Mary's, where she once sat down.

And this was all Mrs. Lennox knew until alone with Helen, who had heard from Morris all he knew of the sad story except the part relating to Marian Hazelton. His sudden journey to New York was thus accounted for, and Helen explained it to her mother as well as she could, advising her to say nothing of it either to Wilford or Mrs. Cameron, as it was quite as well for them not to know it yet. Many messages Helen brought to her cousin from his patients, and Morris felt it was his duty to go to them for a day or so at least.

"You have other physicians here," he said to Wilford, who objected to his leaving. "Dr. Craig will do as well as I."

Wilford admitted that he might; but it was with a sinking heart that he saw Morris depart, and then went to Katy, who began to grow very restless and uneasy, bidding him go away and send Dr. Morris back. It was in vain that they administered the medicine just as Morris had directed. Katy grew constantly worse, until Mrs. Lennox asked that another doctor be called. But to this Wilford did not listen. Fear of exposure and censure were stronger than his fear for Katy's life, which seemed balancing upon a thread as that long night and the next day went by. Three times Wilford telegraphed for Morris, and it was with unfeigned joy that he welcomed him back at last, and heard that he had so arranged his business now as to stay with Katy while the danger lasted.

With a monotonous sameness the days now came and went, people still shunning the house as if the plague was there. Once Bell Cameron came around to call on Helen, holding her breath as she passed through the hall, and never asking to go near Katy's room. Two or three times, too, Mrs. Banker's carriage stood at the door, and Mrs. Banker herself came in, seeming surprised when she met Helen and appearing so cool and distant that the latter could scarcely keep back her tears as she guessed the cause. Mark never came, but from the window Helen saw him riding by with Juno, who kept her face turned toward him, as if in close and confidential chat.

"They were engaged," Esther said, adding that "he was about joining the army as first lieutenant in a company composed of the finest young men in the city."

Helen doubted if this were true, until one day, when driving with her mother, she met him arrayed in his new uniform, looking so handsome and proud. He, too, was driving with a brother officer, and as he passed he lifted his cap in token of recognition; but the olden look which Helen remembered so well, and which had been wont to make her pulses thrill with a most exquisite delight, was gone, and Helen felt more than ever the wide gulf some hand had built between them. The next she heard was from Mrs. Banker, whose face looked pale and worn as she incidentally remarked: "I shall be very lonely now that Mark is gone. He left me to-day for Washington."

There were tears on the mother's face, and her lip quivered as she tried to keep them back, looking from the window into the street instead of at her companion, who, overcome with the rush of feeling which swept over her, laid her face on the sofa arm and sobbed aloud.

"Why, Helen! Miss Lennox, I am surprised! I had supposed—I was not aware—I did not think you would care," Mrs. Banker exclaimed, coming closer to Helen, who stammered out: "I beg you will excuse me, I cannot help it. I care for all our soldiers. It seems so terrible."

At the words "I care for all the soldiers," a shadow of disappointment flitted over Mrs. Banker's face. She knew her son had offered himself and been refused, as she supposed, and she believed, too, that Helen had given publicity to the affair, feeling justly indignant at this breach of confidence and lack of delicacy in one whom she had liked so much and whom she still liked in spite of the wounded pride which had prompted her to seem so cold and distant.

"Perhaps it is all a mistake," she thought, as she continued standing by Helen, whose tears did not cease, "or it may be she has relented," and for a moment she felt tempted to ask why her boy had been refused.

But Mark would not be pleased with her interference, she knew, and so the golden moment fled, and when she left the house the misunderstanding between herself and Helen was just as wide as ever. Wearily after that the days passed with Helen until all thoughts of herself were forgotten in the terrible fear that death was really brooding over the pillow where Katy lay, insensible to all that was passing around her. The lips were silent now, and Wilford had nothing to fear from the tongue hitherto so busy. Juno, Bell and Father Cameron all came to see her, dropping tears upon the face looking so old and worn with suffering, but yet so sweet and pure, and treading softly as they left the room and went out into the sunshine where Katy might never go again. In the kitchen there was mourning, too; Phillips weeping for her mistress, while Esther, with her apron over her head, sobbed passionately, wishing she, too, might die if Katy did. Mrs. Cameron also was very sorry, very sad, but managed to find some consolation in mentally arranging a grand funeral, which would do honor to her son, and wondering if "those Barlows in Silverton would think they must attend." And while she thus arranged, the mother who had given birth to Katy wrestled in earnest prayer that God would spare her child, or at least grant some space in which she might be told of the world to which she was hastening. What Wilford suffered none could guess. His face was very white and his expression almost stern as he sat watching the young wife who had been his for little more than two brief years, and who but for his sin might not have been lying there unconscious of the love and grief around her. Like some marble statue Morris seemed as with lip compressed and brows firmly knit together he, too, sat watching Katy, feeling for the pulse and bending his ear to catch the faintest breath which came from her parted lips, while in his heart there was an earnest prayer for the safety of the soul hovering so evenly between this world and the next. He did not ask that she might live, for if all were well hereafter he knew it was far better for her to die in her young womanhood than to live till the heart now so sad and bleeding had grown calloused with sorrow. And yet it was terrible to think of Katy dead; to know that never again would her little feet dance on the grass, or her bird-like voice break the silence of his home; terrible to think of that face and form laid away beneath the turf of Greenwood, where those who loved her best could seldom go to weep.

And as they sat thus the night shadows stole into the room and the hours crept on till from a city tower a clock struck ten, and Morris, motioning Helen to his side, bade her go with her mother to rest. "We do not need you here," he said, "your presence can do no good. Should a change occur you shall be told at once."

Thus importuned Helen and her mother withdrew and only Morris and Wilford remained to watch that heavy slumber so nearly resembling death.



CHAPTER XL.

MORRIS' CONFESSION.

Gradually the noise in the streets died away; the tread of feet, the rumbling wheels and the tinkle of the car bells ceased, and not a sound was heard, save as the distant fire bells pealed forth their warning voices, or some watchman went hurrying by. The great city was asleep, and to Morris the silence brooding over the countless throng was deeper, more solemn than the silence of the country where nature gives out her own mysterious notes and lullabies for her sleeping children. Slowly the minutes went by, and Morris became at last aware that Wilford's eyes, instead of resting on the pallid face which seemed to grow each moment more pallid and ghastly, were fixed on him with an expression which made him drop the pale hand he held between his own, pooring it occasionally as a mother might poor and pity the hand of her dying baby.

Before his marriage a jealous thought of Morris Grant had found a lodgment in Wilford's breast; but remembering the past he had tried to drive it out, and fancied that he had succeeded, experiencing a sudden shock when he felt it lifting its green head, and poisoning his mind against the man doing for Katy only what a brother might do, or rather, against the motives which prompted this man's devotion. He forgot that it was his own entreaties which had kept Morris there, refusing to let him go even for a day to the other patients missing him so much, and complaining of his absence. Jealous men never reason clearly, and in this case Wilford did not reason at all, but jumped readily at his conclusion, calling to his aid as proof all that he had ever seen pass between Katy and her cousin. That Morris Grant loved Katy was, after a few moment's reflection, as fixed a fact in his mind as that she lay there between them, her eyelids quivering, and her lips moaning feebly as if about to speak. Years before, when Genevra was the wife, jealousy had made Wilford almost a madman, and it now held him again in its powerful grasp, whispering suggestions he would have spurned in a calm frame of mind. There was a clinching of his fist, a knitting of his brows, and a gathering blackness in his eyes as he listened while Katy, rousing partially from her lethargy, talked of the days when she was a little girl, and Morris had built the playhouse for her by the brook, where the thorn apples grew and the waters fell over the smooth, white rocks.

"Take me back there," she said, "and let me lie on the grass again. It is so long since I was there, and I've suffered so much since then. Wilford meant to be kind, but he did not try to understand or know how I loved the country with its birds and flowers and springing grass by the well, where the shadows come and go. I used to wonder where they were going, and one day when I watched them I was waiting for Wilford, and wishing he would come. Would it have been better if he had never come?"

Wilford's body shook with strong emotion as he bent forward to hear Katy's answer to her question.

"Were there no Genevra," she said, "no verse 'what God hath joined together let no man put asunder,' I should not think so; but there is such a verse, and now I don't know what I think, only I must go. Come, Morris, we will go together, you and I."

She turned partly toward Morris, who made her no reply. He could not, with those fiery eyes fixed upon him, and he sat erect in his chair, while Katy talked of Silverton, and the days gone by until her voice grew very faint, ceasing at last as she fell into a second sleep, heavier, more death-like, than the first. Something in her face alarmed Morris, and in spite of the eyes watching him he bent every energy to retain the feeble pulse, and the breath which grew shorter with each respiration.

"Do you think her dying?" Wilford asked, and Morris replied: "Not yet; but the look about the mouth and nose is like the look which so often precedes death."

And that was all they said until another hour went by, when Morris' hand was laid upon the forehead and moved up under the golden hair where there were drops of perspiration.

"She is saved, thank God, Mr. Cameron, Katy is saved," was his joyful exclamation, and burying his head in his hands, he wept for a moment like a child, for Katy was restored again.

On Wilford's face there was no trace of tears. On the contrary, he seemed hardening into stone, and in his heart fierce passions were contending for the mastery, and urging him on to an act from which, in his right mind, he would have shrunk. Rising slowly at last, he came around to Morris' side, and grasping his shoulder, said:

"Morris Grant, you love Katy Cameron."

Like the peal of a bell on the frosty air the words rang through the room, starting Morris from his bowed attitude, and for an instant curdling his blood in his veins, for he understood now the meaning of the look which had so puzzled him. In Morris' heart there was a moment's hesitancy to know just what to answer, an ejaculatory prayer for guidance, and then lifting up his head, his calm blue eyes met the eyes of black unflinchingly, as he replied:

"I have loved her always."

A blaze like sheet lightning shot from beneath Wilford's eyelashes, and a taunting sneer curled his lip, as he said:

"You, a saint, confess to this?"

It was quite natural, and in keeping with human nature for Wilford to thrust Morris' religion in his face, forgetting that never on this side the eternal world can man cease wholly to sin, that so long as flesh and blood remain, there will be temptation, error and wrong, even among God's children. Morris felt the sneer keenly; but the consciousness of peace with his Maker sustained him in the shock and, with the same tone he had at first assumed, he said:

"Should my being what you call a saint prevent my confessing what I did?"

"No, not the confession, but the fact," Wilford answered, savagely. "How do you reconcile your acknowledged love for Katy with the injunctions of the Bible whose doctrines you indorse?"

"A man cannot always control his feelings, but he can strive to overcome them and put the temptation aside. One does not sin in being tempted, but in listening to the temptation."

"Then according to your own reasoning you have sinned, for you not only have teen tempted, but have yielded to the temptation," Wilford retorted, with a sinister look of exultation in his black eyes.

For a moment Morris was silent, while a struggle of some kind seemed going on in his mind, and then he said:

"I never thought to lay open to you a secret which, after myself, is, I believe, known to only one living being."

"And that one—is—you will not tell me that is Katy?" Wilford exclaimed, his voice hoarse with passion, and his eyes flashing with fire.

"No, not Katy. She has no suspicion of the pain which, since I saw her made another's, has eaten into my heart, making me grow old so fast, and blighting my early manhood."

Something in Morris' tone and manner inspired Wilford with awe, making him relax his grasp upon the arm, and sending him back to his chair while Morris continued:

"Most men would shrink from talking to a husband of the love they bore his wife, and an hour ago I should have shrunk from it, too, but you have forced me to it, and now you must listen while I tell you of my love for Katy. It began longer ago than she can remember—began when she was my baby sister, and I hushed her in my arms to sleep, kneeling by her cradle and watching her with a feeling I have never been able to define. She was in all my thoughts, her face upon the printed page of every book I studied, and her voice in every strain of music I ever heard. Then, when she grew older, I used to watch the frolicsome child by the hour, building castles even then of the future, when she would be a woman and I a man, with a man's right to win her. I know that she shielded me from many a snare into which young men are apt to fall, for when the temptation was greatest, and I was at its verge, a thought of her was sufficient to lead me back to virtue. I carried her in my heart across the sea, and said when I go back I will ask her to be mine. I went back, but at my first meeting with Katy after her return from Canandaigua she told me of you, and I knew then that hope for me was gone, praying for strength to bear my loss and hide my love from her. God grant that you nor she may never experience what I experienced on that day which made her your wife, and I saw her go away. It seemed almost as if God had forgotten me as the night after the bridal I sat alone at home, and met that dark hour of sorrow. In the midst of it Helen came, discovering my secret, and sympathizing with me until the pain at my heart grew less, and I could pray that God would grant me a feeling for Katy which should not be sinful. And He did at last, so I could think of her without a wish that she was mine. Times there were when the old love would burst forth with fearful power, and then I wished that I might die. These were my moments of temptation which I struggled to overcome. Sometimes a song, a strain of music, or a ray of moonlight on the floor would bring the past to me so vividly that I would stagger beneath the burden, feeling that it was greater than I could bear. But God was very merciful and sent me work which took up all my time, leaving little leisure for regrets, and driving me away from my own pain to soothe the pain of others. When Katy came to us last summer there was an hour of trial, when faith in God grew weak, and I was tempted to question the justice of His dealing with me. But that, too, passed, and in my love for your child I forgot the mother in part, looking upon her as a sister rather than the Katy I had loved so well. I would have given my life to have saved that child for her, even though it was a bar between us, a something which separated her from me more than the words she spoke at the altar. Though dead, that baby is still a bar, and Katy is not the same to me she was before that little life came into being. It is not wrong to love her as I do now. I feel no pang of conscience save when something unexpected carries me back to the old ground where I have fought so many battles."

Morris paused a moment, thinking of the time when Katy came to him with her story of Genevra, and wondering if it were best to repeat the incidents of that night. It was not, he finally concluded. It would be better for Katy to tell it herself, and so he added at last: "What I have borne has told upon me terribly. My people say I work too hard, but they look only on the surface—they have never seen that inner chamber of my heart, where only you have been fully admitted. Even Helen knows not half what's there, but I felt that it was due to you, and so have told you all, asking that no shadow of censure shall fall on Katy, who would be greatly shocked to know what you know now."

Morris' manner was that of a man who spoke with perfect sincerity, and it carried conviction to Wilford's heart, disarming him for a time of the fierce anger and resentment he had felt while listening to Morris' story. Acting upon the good impulse of the moment, he arose, and offering his hand to Morris, he said:

"You have done nobly, Dr. Grant, I believe in your religion now. Forgive me that I ever doubted it. I exonerate you from blame."

And thus they pledged their faith, Wilford meaning then all he said, and feeling only respect for the man who had confessed his love for Katy. After what had passed, Morris felt that it would be pleasanter for Wilford if he were gone, and after a time he suggested returning to Silverton at once, inasmuch as the crisis was past and Katy out of danger. There was a struggle in Wilford's mind as to the answer he should make to this suggestion. It would not be pleasant to see Morris there now, for though he had said he forgave him, there was a feeling of disquiet at his heart, and he at last signified his willingness for him to leave when he thought best.

It was broad day when Katy awoke, so weak as to be unable to turn her head upon the pillow, but in her eyes the light of reason was shining, and she glanced wonderingly, first at Helen, at her mother, and then at Wilford, as if trying to comprehend what had happened.

"Have I been sick?" she asked in a whisper, and Wilford, bending over her, replied: "Yes, darling, very sick for nearly two whole weeks—ever since I left home that morning, you know."

"Yes," and Katy shivered a little. "Yes, I know. But where is Morris? He was here the last I can remember."

Wilford's face grew dark at once, and stepping back as Morris came in, he said: "She asks for you." Then with a rising feeling of resentment he watched them, while Morris spoke to Katy, telling her she was better, but must keep very quiet, and not allow herself in any way to be excited.

"Have I been crazy? Have I talked much?" she asked, and when Morris replied in the affirmative there came a startled look into her eye, as she said: "Of what or whom have I talked most?"

"Of Genevra," was the answer, and Katy continued: "Did I mention no one else?"

Morris guessed of whom she was thinking, and answered, indifferently: "You spoke of Miss Hazelton in connection with baby, but that was all."

Katy was satisfied, and closing her eyes fell away to sleep again, while Morris made his preparations for leaving. It hardly seemed right for him to go just then, but the only one who could have kept him maintained a frigid silence with regard to a longer stay, and so the first train which left New York for Springfield carried Dr. Grant, and Katy was without a physician.

Wilford had hoped that Mrs. Lennox, too, would see the propriety of accompanying Morris; but she would not leave Katy, and Wilford was fain to submit to what he could not help. No explanation whatever had he given to Mrs. Lennox or Helen with regard to Genevra. He was too proud for that, but his mother had deemed it wise to smooth the matter over as much as possible, enjoining upon them both the necessity of secrecy.

"When I tell you that neither my husband or daughters know it, you will understand that I am greatly in earnest in wishing it kept," she said. "It was a most unfortunate affair, and though the divorce is, of course, to be lamented, it is better that she died. We never could have received her as our equal."

"Was anything the matter, except that she was poor?" Mrs. Lennox asked, with as much dignity as was in her nature to assume.

"Well, no. She had a good education, I believe, and was very pretty; but it makes trouble always where there is a great inequality between a husband's family and that of his wife."

Poor Mrs. Lennox understood this perfectly, but she was too much afraid of the great lady to venture a reply, and a tear rolled down her burning cheek as she wet the napkin for Katy's head, wishing that she had back again the daughter, whose family she knew the Camerons despised. The atmosphere of Madison Square did not suit Mrs. Lennox, especially when, as the days went by and Katy began to mend, troops of gay ladies called, mistaking her for the nurse, and all staring a little curiously when told that she was Mrs. Cameron's mother. Of course, Wilford chafed and fretted at what he could not help, seldom addressing his mother-in-law on any subject, and making himself so generally disagreeable that Helen at last suggested returning home, inasmuch as Katy was so much better. There was then a faint remonstrance on his part, but Helen did not waver in her decision, though she pitied Katy, who, when the day of her departure came and they were for a few moments alone, took her hand between her own and kissing it fondly, said: "You don't know how I dread your going or how wretched I shall be without you. Everything which once made me happy has been removed or changed. Baby is dead, and Wilford—oh, Helen, I sometimes wish I had not heard of Genevra, for I am afraid it can never be with us as it was once; that is, I have not quite the same trust in him, and he seems so changed. Have you noticed how silent and moody he has grown?"

Helen had noticed it, but she would not say so, and she tried to comfort her sister, telling her she would be very happy yet; "but, Katy darling," she continued, "you have a duty to perform as well as Wilford. Your heart is very sore now because of the deception, but you must not let that soreness appear in your manner. You must be to Wilford just what you always were, unless you wish to wean him from you. He, too, has had a terrible shock; his pride and self-love have been wounded, and men like him do not like being humbled as he has been. You must soothe him, Katy, and smooth his ruffled feathers, proving to him that you can and do forgive the past. And, Katy, remember you have a Friend always near to whom you can carry your burdens, sure that He will listen and heal the smarting pain. Go to Him often and make Him yours indeed. He has come very near to you within the last year, and such visitations have a meaning in them. Listen, then, lest He should come again and visit you with greater sufferings."

"Purified by Suffering." The words came floating back to Katy, just as Uncle Ephraim had spoken them in the pleasant meadowland, and just as they had sometimes haunted her since, but never having so deep a meaning as now, when Helen's words suggested them again. She was suffering, oh, so terribly, but was she purifying, too? She feared not, and after the sad parting with her mother and sister was over she turned her face to her pillow, trying so hard to pray that God would make her His own, and by the suffering He sent purify her for heaven.



CHAPTER XLI.

DOMESTIC TROUBLES.

From the bathroom, which adjoined Katy's sickroom, Wilford had heard all that passed between the sisters, and his face grew dark as he thought of having his "ruffled feathers smoothed" even by the little thin white hand, which, the first time it had a chance laid itself upon his face with a caressing motion, from which he involuntarily drew back, thinking the affection thus timidly expressed was all put on with a view to being good, as he termed it.

Wilford was in a most unhappy frame of mind. He was not pleased that Katy had heard of Genevra, and imparted his secret to others. He did not like being humbled as he had been, even Mrs. Lennox taking it upon herself to lecture him for his misdemeanors, sobbing as she lectured, and asking "how he could treat Katy so?" He did not like, either, to lose Helen's good opinion, as he was sure he had, while, worse than all the rest, was the galling fact that Morris Grant loved his wife, and was undoubtedly more worthy of her than himself. He had said that he forgave Morris, and at the time he said it he fancied he did, but as the days went by, and thought was all the busier from the moody silence he maintained, there gradually came to life a feeling of dislike, if not of hatred, for the man, whose name he could not hear without a frown, telling Katy very sharply once that he wished she would not talk so much of Cousin Morris, as if there were no other physician in the world! Dr. Craig would have done quite as well, and for his part he wished they had employed him.

Wilford knew he did not mean what he said, but he was in a very unamiable frame of mind, and watched Katy close, to detect, if possible, some sign by which he should know that Morris' love was reciprocated. But Katy was innocence itself, and as the weeks of convalescence went by she tried so hard to do her duty as a wife, going often to the Friend of whom Helen had told her, and finding there the grace which helped her bear what otherwise she could not have borne and lived. The entire history of her life during that wretched winter was never told save as it was written on her face, which was a volume in itself of meek and patient suffering.

Wilford had never mentioned Genevra to her since the day of his return, and Katy sometimes felt that it would be well to talk that matter over. It might lead to a more perfect understanding than existed between them now, and dissipate the cloud which hung so darkly on their domestic horizon. But Wilford repulsed all her advances upon that subject, and Genevra was a dead name in their household, save as it was on Katy's lips when she prayed, asking that she might feel only perfect kindness toward the Genevra who had so darkened her life.

Wilford's home was not pleasant to him now, but the fault was with himself. Katy did well her part, meeting him always with a smile, and trying to win him from the dark mood she could not fathom. Times there were when for an entire day he would appear like his former self, caressing her with unwonted tenderness, calling her his "poor crushed dove," but never asking her forgiveness for all he had made her endure. He was too proud to do that now, and his tenderness always passed away when he remembered Morris Grant and Katy's remark to Helen: "I am afraid it can never be with us as it was once. I have not the same trust in him."

"She had no right to complain of me to Helen," he thought, forgetting the time when he had been guilty of a similar offense in a more aggravated form.

He could not reason upon anything naturally, and matters grew daily worse, while Katy's face grew whiter and her voice sadder in its tone.

Sometimes Wilford would spend the entire evening away from home, tarrying till the clock struck twelve before he came, and Katy would afterward hear that he had been at the house of some friend, or with Sybil Grandon, whose influence over him increased in proportion as her own was lessened.

When the Lenten days came on, oh, how Katy longed to be in Silverton, to kneel again in its quiet church, and offer up her penitential prayers with the loved ones at home. At last she ventured to ask Wilford if she might go, her spirits rising when he did not refuse her request at once, but asked:

"Whom do you wish to see the most?"

His black eyes seemed reading her through, and something in their expression brought to her face the blush which he construed according to his jealousy, and when she answered:

"I wish to see them all," he retorted:

"Say, rather, you wish to see that doctor, who has loved you so long, and who but for me would have asked you to be his wife!"

"What doctor, Wilford? Whom do you mean?" and Wilford replied:

"Dr. Grant, of course. Did you never suspect it?"

"Never," and Katy's face grew very white, as she asked how Wilford knew what he had asserted.

"I had it from his own lips; he sitting on one side of you and I upon the other. I so far forgot myself as to charge him with loving you, and he did not deny it, but confessed as pretty a piece of romance as I ever read, except that, according to his story, it was a one-sided affair, confined wholly to himself. You never dreamed of it, he said."

"Never, no, never," Katy said, panting for her breath, and remembering suddenly many things which confirmed what she had heard.

"Poor Morris, how my thoughtlessness must have wounded him," she murmured, and then all the pent up passion in Wilford's heart burst out in an impetuous storm.

He did not charge his wife directly with returning Morris' love, but he said he was sorry she had not known it earlier; asking her pointedly if it were not so, and pressing her for an answer until the bewildered creature cried out:

"Oh, I don't know. I never thought of it before."

"But you can think of it now," Wilford continued, his cold, icy tone making Katy shiver, as more to herself than him she said:

"A life at Linwood would be perfect rest, compared to this."

Wilford had wrung from her all he cared to know, and believing himself the most injured man in existence, he left the house, and Katy heard his step as it went furiously down the walk. For a time she seemed stunned with what she had heard, and then there came stealing into her heart a glad feeling that Morris deemed her worthy of his love when she had so often feared the contrary. It was not a wicked emotion, nor one faithless to Wilford. She could pray with just as pure a heart as before, and she did pray, thanking God for the love of this good man, and asking that long ere this he might have learned to be content without her. Never once did the thought "It might have been," intrude itself upon her, nor did she picture to herself the life which she had missed. She seemed to rise above all that, and Wilford, had he read her heart, would have found no evil there.

"Poor Morris," she kept repeating, while little throbs of pleasure went dancing through her veins, and the world was not one-half so dreary for knowing he had loved her. Toward Wilford, too, her heart went out in a fresh gush of tenderness, for she knew how one of his jealous nature must have suffered.

"I'll drive down to the office for him this afternoon," she said. "That will surely please him; and to prove still further that I never dreamed of Morris' love, I'll tell him coming home how in the great sorrow about Genevra I went to him for counsel, and how he sent, or rather, brought me back."

But this confession would necessitate her telling that Genevra was not dead, and it was better for them both, she thought, that he should not know this until the relations between herself and him were more as they used to be; so she decided finally to withhold the fact for a time at least. But she would go for him, as she had at first intended, and she counted the hours impatiently, thinking once her watch had stopped, and seeming brighter and happier than she had been since her illness, when at last she stepped into her carriage, and was driven down Broadway.

Business had gone wrong with Wilford that day, and Tom Tubbs had mentally pronounced his master "crosser than a bear," and sighing secretly for the always cheerful Mark, he had taken up his book, and was quietly reading by the office window when Katy came in, her white face seeming whiter from contrast with her black dress, and her eyes looking unnaturally large and bright as she darted across the room to Wilford, who, surprised to see her there, and a good deal displeased withal, inasmuch as he had often said that the office was no place for his wife, never smiled or spoke, but with pent up brows waited for her to open the conversation. Katy saw she was not welcome, and with a tremulous voice she began:

"The day is so fine I thought I would come in the carriage for you. It is early yet, and if you like, we can have a little drive. It might do you good. You look tired," she continued, and unmindful of Tom, trying to smooth his hair.

With an impatient gesture, Wilford drew his hand away from the pale fingers which sought their fellows in a nervous clasp as Katy tried not to think Wilford cross, even after he replied:

"You need not have come for me, as I always prefer a stage; besides that, I can't go home just yet, I am not ready."

Katy stood a moment in silence, a flush on her cheek and a pallor about her lips, which Tom Tubbs saw, secretly shaking his fist and thinking how he would like to knock down the man who could speak so to a wife as beautiful and sweet as Katy seemed.

"I have not been here before since my illness, and I wanted to come once more," she said at last, apologetically, while Wilford, still looking over papers, replied: "A sweet place to come to. I sometimes hate it myself. By the way, I have something to tell you," and his face began to brighten. "Mrs. Mills, from Yonkers, was in town to-day, and as she had not time to see you, she found me and insisted upon your keeping the promise you made last summer of spending some days with her. The Beverleys are there and the Lincolns—quite a nice party—so I ventured to say that you should go out to-morrow and I would come out Saturday afternoon to spend Sunday."

"Oh, Wilford, I can't," and Katy's lip began to quiver at the very thought of meeting people like the Beverleys and Lincolns in her present state of mind.

"You can't! Why not?" Wilford asked, and Katy replied: "I've never been in so much company as I shall meet there since baby died, and then—did you forget that it was Lent?"

"You are getting very good to think a few days' visit in the country will harm you," Wilford replied; "besides that, neither Mrs. Mills, nor the Beverleys, nor Lincolns, are church people, and cannot, of course, sympathize in this superstitious fancy."

Katy looked up in astonishment, for never before had she heard Wilford speak thus of the Fast which his whole family honored. But Wilford was growing hard, and with a sigh Katy turned away, knowing how useless it was to reason with him then. Driving home alone, she gave vent to a passionate flood of tears as she wondered how it all would end. For some reason Wilford had set his heart upon the visit to Mrs. Mills, a pleasant, fascinating woman, who liked Katy very much and had anticipated the promised visit with a great deal of pleasure, making all her plans with a direct reference to Mrs. Cameron, whose absence would have been a great disappointment. Wilford knew this and resolved that Katy should go, and as opposition to his will was always useless, the close of the next day found Katy at Mrs. Mills' handsome dwelling overlooking the broad river and the blue mountains beyond. Wilford was with her; he had come out to spend the night, returning to the city in the morning. Now that he had accomplished his purpose he was in the best of spirits, treating Katy with unwonted kindness and wondering why he hated so to leave her, while she, too, clung to him, wishing he could stay. Their parting was only for two days, for this was Thursday, and he was to return on Saturday, but in the hearts of both there was that dark foreboding which is so often a sure precursor of evil. Twice Wilford turned back to kiss his wife, feeling tempted once to tell her he was sorry for his jealousy and distrust, but such confession was hard for him and so he left it unsaid, looking back to the window against which Katy's face was pressed as she watched him going from her, but little guessing what would be ere she looked on him again.

* * * * *

Tom Tubbs sat reading Chitty as usual when Mr. Cameron came in from his trip up the river. Since Katy's last call at the office Tom had been haunted with her face as it looked when Wilford's cold greeting fell on her ear, and after a private conference with Mattie, who listened eagerly to every item of information with regard to Katy, he had come to the conclusion that his employer was a brute, and that his wife was not as happy as it was his duty to make her.

"It's mean in him to speak so hateful to her," he was thinking just as Wilford came in, appearing so very amiable and good-humored that the boy ventured to inquire for Mrs. Cameron. "She looked so pale and sick, the other day," he said, "almost as bad in fact as she did that night in the cars with Dr. Grant, just before she was so dangerously ill."

"What's that? What did you say?" Wilford asked quickly, and Tom, thinking he had not been understood, repeated his words, while in a voice which Tom scarcely knew, it was so low and husky, Wilford asked: "What night was Mrs. Cameron in the cars with Dr. Grant? When was it, and where?"

As suspicion is an intense magnifier, so the absence of it will blind one completely, and Tom was thus blindfolded as he stated in detail how two months or more ago, while Mr. Cameron was absent, he had been sent by Mr. Ray to Hartford, returning in the early train, that just before him, in the car, a gentleman sat with a lady who seemed to be sick, at all events her head lay on his shoulder and he occasionally bent over her to see if she wanted anything.

"I did not mind much about them," Tom said, "till it got to broad daylight, when I saw the man was Dr. Grant, and when we reached New York the lady threw back her veil and I saw it was Mrs. Cameron."

"Are you sure?" and Wilford grasped Tom's arm with an energy which made the boy wince, while there came over him a suspicion that he had talked too much.

But it could not now be helped, and to Wilford's question he answered:

"Yes, for she bowed to me and smiled."

"Where did they go?" was the next question, put in thunder tones, for Wilford was remembering things Katy said in her delirium, and which were now explained, if Tom's statement was true.

"They went off in a carriage toward your house, and that night I heard she was sick," Tom said, going back to his book, while Wilford seized his hat and started up Broadway. It was not his intention when he left the office to question the servants with regard to his wife, for every feeling and principle of his nature shrank from such an act, but by the time his home could be reached it could scarcely be said that he was in his right mind, and meeting Phillips in the hall, he demanded of her "if she remembered the day when Mrs. Cameron was first taken ill."

Yes. Phillips remembered how sick Esther said she looked when she came home from his father's, where she spent the night.

"Oh, yes; she stayed at my father's then. It was very proper she should," Wilford replied, recollecting himself, and trying to appear natural, so that Phillips would not suspect him of any special purpose in questioning her.

If Katy spent the night at his father's then Tom's statement was not true, and dismissing Phillips he hastened to his mother, to whom he put the question:

"Did Katy stay here a night while I was gone, the night but one after that dinner when she heard of Genevra, I mean?"

"Why, no," Mrs. Cameron replied, in some surprise. "Katy has not stayed here since last October, just after she came from Silverton, and you were in Detroit. Why do you ask? What is the matter? What do you fear?"

Wilford would not tell his mother what he feared, but waived her question by bidding her repeat what she could remember of the day when she was first summoned to Katy, and to tell him also who was there.

"Dr. Grant was there, and Dr. Craig," she said. "The former, as I understood from Esther, had just come to the city and called on Katy, finding her so ill that he sent for me immediately."

"And you do not know that Katy was away from home at all?" was Wilford's next inquiry, to which his mother replied:

"Esther spoke of her looking very sick when she came in, from which I inferred she had been driving or shopping, but she was not here, sure."

Esther, it would seem, was the only one who could throw light upon the mystery, and as by this time the jealous man did not care whom he questioned, he left his mother without a word of explanation, and hurried home, where he found Esther, and in a voice which made her tremble, bade her answer his questions truthfully, without the slightest attempt at evasion.

"Yes, sir," Esther replied, and Wilford continued:

"Where was your mistress the night before Dr. Grant came here, and she was so very sick?"

"I don't know, sir. I had the impression that she at your mother's. Wasn't she there?" and Esther looked very innocent, while Wilford replied:

"It is your business to answer questions, not to ask them. Tell me then the particulars of her going away, and what she said."

As nearly as she could remember Esther repeated what had passed between herself and Katy that morning, but her manner was such as to convince Wilford she was keeping back something, and in a paroxysm of excitement he seized her arm, exclaiming:

"You know more than you admit. Tell me then the truth. Who came home with Mrs. Cameron, and when?"

Esther was afraid of Wilford, and at last between tears and sobs confessed that Mrs. Wilford said she had been out of town, but asked her not to tell, that she guessed it was Silverton where she had been, and also that when she opened the door to her, Dr. Morris was going down the steps; "not in a hurry—not like making off as if there was something wrong," she added, in her eagerness to exonerate her mistress.

"Who hinted there was anything wrong?" Wilford exclaimed, in tones which made poor Esther tremble, for now that he had heard all he cared to hear, he began to be ashamed of having gained his information in the way he had.

"Nobody hinted," Esther sobbed, with her face hidden in her apron; "and if they did it's false. There never was a truer, sweeter lady."

"See that you stick to that whatever may occur, and, mind you, let there be no repeating this conversation in the kitchen or elsewhere," Wilford hurled at her savagely, going next to a telegraph office, and sending over the wires the following:

"NEW YORK, March —, 1862.

"To MR. EPHRAIM BARLOW, Silverton, Mass.

"Has Mrs. Wilford Cameron been in Silverton since last September? W. CAMERON."

To this he was prompted by Esther's having suggested Silverton, as the place where her mistress had possibly been, and taking warning by his past experience with Genevra, he resolved to give Katy the benefit of every doubt, to investigate closely, before taking the decisive step, which even while Tom Tubbs was talking to him had flashed into his mind. Perhaps Katy had been to Silverton in her excited state, and if so the case was not so bad, though he blamed her much for concealing it from him. At first he thought of telegraphing to Morris, but pride kept him from that, and Uncle Ephraim was made the recipient of the telegram, which startled him greatly, being the first of the kind sent directly to him.

As it chanced the deacon was in town that day, and at the store just across the street from the telegraph office. This the agent knew by old Whitey, who was standing meekly at the hitching-post, covered with his blanket, a faded woolen bedspread, which years before Aunt Betsy had spun and woven herself.

"A letter for me!" Uncle Ephraim said, when the message was put into his hands. "Who writ it?" and he turned it to the light trying to recognize the handwriting.

"I think it wants an answer," the boy said, as Uncle Ephraim thrust it into his pocket, and taking up his molasses jug and codfish started for the door.

"May be it does. I'll look again," and depositing his fish and jug safely under the wagon box, the old man adjusted his spectacles, and with the aid of the boy deciphered the dispatch.

"What does it mean?" he asked, but the boy volunteered no ideas, and the simple-hearted deacon asked next: "What shall I tell him?"

"Why, tell him whether she has been here or not since last September. Write on the envelope what you want sent, so I can take it back; and come, hurry up your cakes, I can't wait all day," and young America, having thus asserted its superiority over old, began to kick the melting snow, while Uncle Ephraim, greatly bewildered and perplexed, bent himself to the tremendous task of writing the four words:

"Not to my knowledge." To this he appended: "Yours, with regret, Ephraim Barlow," and handing it to the waiting boy, unhitched old Whitey, and stepping into his wagon, drove home as rapidly as the half-frozen March mud would allow.

"I wonder what he sent me that word for?" he kept repeating to himself. "We had a letter from Katy yesterday, and there can't be nothing wrong. I won't tell the folks yet a while anyway till I see what comes of it, Lucy is so fidgety."

It was this resolution, whether wise or unwise, which kept from Morris and the deacon's family a knowledge of the telegram, the answer to which was read by Wilford within half an hour after the deacon's arrival home.

"She has not been to Silverton," Wilford said. "The case then is very clear."

Indeed, it had been growing clear to the suspicious man ever since Tom Tubbs' unfortunate remark. There are no glasses as perfect as those which jealousy wears, no magnifying lens as powerful, and Wilford was "fully convinced." Had he been asked of what he was convinced he could hardly have told unless it were that in some way he had been deceived, that Morris had spoken falsely when he said his love for Katy was not returned or even suspected, that Katy had acted the hypocrite, and that both had been guilty of a great indiscretion, at least, by being seen as they were in the New Haven train, and then keeping the occurrences of that night a secret from him. Wilford did not believe Katy had fallen, but she had surely stepped upon forbidden ground, and it was not in his nature to forgive the error—at least, not then, when he was so sore with past remembrances which had come so fast upon him. First, the baby's death, just when he was learning to love it so much, then the Genevra affair about which Katy had acted so foolishly, then the talk with Dr. Grant, and then his last offense, so much worse than all the rest.

It was a sad catalogue of grievances, and Wilford made it sadder by brooding over and magnifying it until he reached a point from which he would not swerve.

"I shall do it," he said, and his lips were pressed firmly together, as before his lonely fire he sat that chill March night, revolving the past and then turning to the future opening so darkly before him, and making him shudder as he thought of what it might bring. "I will spare Katy as much as possible," he said, "for hers is a different nature from Genevra's. She cannot bear as well," and a bitter groan broke the silence of the room as Katy came up before him just as she had looked that very morning standing by the window, with tears in her eyes, and a wistful, sorry look on her white face.

Could she be false to him and wear that look? The question staggered Wilford for a moment, but when he remembered the proof, he steeled his heart against her and prepared to act.



CHAPTER XLII.

DISAPPEARED.

All the next day Wilford was very busy arranging his affairs, and a casual looker-on would have seen nothing unusual in the face always so grave and cold. But to Tom Tubbs, casting furtive glances over his book and wondering at his employer's sudden activity, it was terrible in its dark, hard, unrelenting expression, while even his mother, upon whom he called that evening, looked at him anxiously, asking what was the matter, but not mentioning the conversation held with her the previous day respecting Katy.

She was still at Yonkers, Wilford said, and his voice was very natural as he added: "I am expected to go out there to-morrow night with Beverley and Lincoln, whose wives are also at Mrs. Mills'; quite a gay party we shall make," and he tried to smile, but it was a sickly effort and made his face look still more ghastly and strange.

"What ails you, Wilford?" his mother asked, but he answered pettishly: "Nothing, so pray don't look at me so curiously as if I was hiding some terrible secret."

He was hiding a secret, and it almost betrayed itself, when at last he said good-by to his mother, who followed him to the door and stood looking after him in the darkness until the sound of his footsteps died away upon the pavement. There was a fire in his room and Wilford sat down to write the brief note he would leave, for when the night shut down again he would not be there. He could not feel that the parting from Katy would be final, because he did not believe she had sinned as he counted sin, but she certainly preferred another to himself; she had deceived him and played the successful hypocrite. This was Wilford's accusation against his wife; this for what she must be punished, until such time as his royal clemency saw fit to forgive and take her back as he meant to. He had no fear of her going to Morris, or to the farmhouse either, for much as she was attached to her family, he believed she would shrink from a return to poverty, choosing rather the luxuries of her city home. And he would put no impediment in the way of her staying there as long as she liked; he would arrange that for her, feeling himself very magnanimous as he thought of giving her permission to invite her mother to New York as a kind of protection against scandalous remarks. Mrs. Lennox and Helen too should come. That certainly was generous, and lest his goodness should abate he seized his pen and wrote:

"DEAR KATY: Your own conscience will tell you whether you are worthy of being addressed as 'Dear,' but I have called you thus so often that I cannot bring myself to any other form. Do my words startle you, and will you be sorry when you read this and find that I am gone, that you are free from the husband you do not love, the husband whom perhaps you never loved, though I thought you did? I trusted you once, and now I do not blame you as much as I ought, for you are young. You are easily influenced. You are very susceptible to flattery, as was proven by your career at Saratoga and Newport. I had no suspicion of you then, but now that I know you better, I see that it was not all childish simplicity which made you smile so graciously upon those who sought your favor. You are a coquette, Katy, and the greater one because of that semblance of artlessness which is the perfection of art. This, however, I might forgive, were it not for one flagrant act, which, if it is not a proof of faithlessness, certainly borders upon it. You know to what I refer, or if you do not, ask your smooth-tongued saint, your companion in the New Haven train; he will enlighten you; he will not wonder at my going, and perhaps he will offer you comfort, both religious and otherwise; but if you ever wish me to return, avoid him as you would shun a deadly poison. Until I countermand the order I wish you to remain here in this house, which I bought for you. Helen and your mother both may live with you, while father will have a general oversight of your affairs; I shall send him a line to that effect. And now, good-by. I am very calm as I write this, because I know you have deceived me. Not as I did you with regard to Genevra, but in a deeper sense, which touches a tenderer point and makes me willing to brave the talk my sudden departure will create. No one knows I am going, no one will know until you have waited and looked in vain for me with the gay young men who to-morrow night-will join their wives as I hoped yesterday morning to join mine. But that is over now. I cannot come to you. I am going away, where—it matters not to you. So farewell.

"Your deceived and disappointed husband."

Had Wilford read this letter over, he might not have left it, but he did not read it, and in recalling its contents he gave himself great credit for his forbearance when speaking of Morris, whom he hated so cordially. Sealing the letter, and laying it in Katy's drawer just above where she had left his, he tried to sleep; but the morning found him haggard and tired, and Esther, as she poured his coffee, asked if he was sick.

"No," he answered, and then as he pushed back his chair, he said: "I shall not be home again to-day, as Mrs. Cameron expects me to spend Sunday at Yonkers."

And so all that day and the next, the doors were locked, the shutters closed, the curtains dropped, while an ominous silence reigned throughout the house; but when Monday came, and was halfway gone there were inquiries made for Mr. Cameron by young Beverley and Lincoln, whose faces looked anxious and disturbed at Esther's answer:

"He went to Yonkers, Saturday. I have not seen him since."

* * * * *

Out at Yonkers on Saturday night, three young wives had waited for their husbands, and none more eagerly than Katy, who, fair as a lily, in her dark dress, with her soft hair curling about her face, sat by the window watching for the carriage from the station, hers the first ear to catch the sound of wheels, and here the first form upon the piazza.

"Where's Wilford?" she asked, as only two alighted, and neither of them her husband.

But no one could answer that question. The gentlemen had looked for him at Chambers Street, expecting him every moment to join them. Perhaps he was detained, he might come yet at twelve, they said, trying to comfort Katy, who, with a sad foreboding, went back into the parlor, and tried to join in the laugh and jest which seemed almost like mockery. Something had happened to Wilford she was sure when the night train did not bring him; and all the next day, while the Sunday bells pealed their music in her ears, and the sounds of thoughtless mirth came up from the room below, where the elaborate dinner was in progress, she lay upon her pillow, her head almost bursting with pain, and her heart aching so sadly as she tried to pray that no harm had befallen her husband. She never dreamed of his desertion, even when about noon of the next day a telegram came from Father Cameron, bidding her hasten to the city. Wilford was sick or dead, probably the latter, was the feeling uppermost in her mind, as she was borne rapidly to New York, where Mr. Cameron met her, his face confirming her fears, but not preparing her for the great shock awaiting her.

"Wilford is not dead," he said, when at last she was in the carriage. "It is worse than that, I fear. We have traced him to the Philadelphia train, which he took on Saturday. His manner all that day and the previous one was very strange, while from some words he dropped my wife is led to suppose there was trouble between you two. Was there?" and Father Cameron's gray eyes rested earnestly on the white, frightened face which looked up so quickly as Katy gasped:

"No, oh, no; he never was kinder to me than when we parted last Friday morning at Mrs. Mills'. There is some mistake. He would not leave me, though he has not been quite the same since—"

Katy was interrupted by the carriage stopping before her home; but when they had been admitted to the parlor where a fire was lighted, Father Cameron said:

"Go on now. Wilford has not been the same since when?"

Thus importuned Katy continued:

"Since baby died. I think he blamed me as the cause of its death."

"Don't babies die every day?" Father Cameron growled, kicking at the hearth rug, while Katy, without considering that he had never heard of Genevra, continued:

"And then it was worse after I found out about Genevra, his first wife."

"Genevra! Genevra, Wilford's first wife! Thunder and lightning! what are you talking about?" and Father Cameron bent down to look in Katy's face, thinking she was going mad.

But Katy was not mad, and knowing it was now too late to retract, she told the story of Genevra Lambert to the old man, who, utterly confounded, stalked up and down the room, kicking away chairs and footstools, and whatever came in his way, and swearing promiscuously at his wife and Wilford, whom he pronounced a precious pair of fools, with a dreadful adjective appended to the fools, and an emphasis in his voice which showed he meant what he said.

"It's all accounted for now," he said, "the piles of money that boy had abroad, his privacy with his mother, and all the other tomfoolery I could not understand. Katy," and pausing in his walk, Mr. Cameron came close to his daughter-in-law, who was lying with her face upon the sofa. "Katy, be glad your baby died. Had it lived it might have proved a curse just as mine have done—not all, for Bell, though fiery as a pepper-pod, has some heart, some sense—and there was Jack, my oldest boy, a little fast, it's true; but when he died over the sea, I forgave all that, forgetting the chair he broke over a tutor's head, and the scrapes for which I paid as high as a thousand at one time. He sowed his wild oats, and died before he could reap them, died a good man, I believe, and went to heaven. Juno you know, and you can judge whether she is such as would delight a parent's heart; while Wilford, my only boy, to deceive me so; though I knew he was a fool in some things, I did trust Wilford."

The old man's voice shook now, and Katy felt his tears dropping on her hair as he stooped down over her. Checking them, however, he said:

"And he was cross because you found him out. Was there no other reason?"

Katy thought of Dr. Morris, but she could not tell of that, and so she answered:

"There was—but please don't ask me now. I can't tell, only I was not to blame. Believe me, father, I was not to blame."

"I'll swear to that," was the reply, as Father Cameron commenced his walking again. "He may have left some word, some line," he said. "Suppose you look. It would probably be upstairs."

Katy had not thought of this, but it seemed reasonable that it should be so, and going to her room, followed by Father Cameron, she went, as by some instinct, to the very drawer where the letter lay.

There was perfect silence while she read it through, Mr. Cameron never taking his eyes from the face which turned first white, then red, then spotted, and finally took a leaden hue as Katy ran over the lines, comprehending the truth as she read, and when the letter was finished, lifting her dry, tearless eyes to Father Cameron, and whispering to herself:

"Deserted!"

She let him read the letter, and when he had finished explained the parts he did not understand, telling him now what Morris had confessed, telling him too that in her first sorrow, when life and sense seemed reeling, she had gone to Dr. Grant, who had brought her back, as a brother might have done, and this was the result.

"Why did you say you went to him—that is, what was the special reason?" Mr. Cameron asked, and after a moment's hesitancy, Katy told him her belief that Genevra was living—that it was she who made the bridal trousseau for Wilford's second wife, who nursed his child until it died, giving to it her own name, arraying it for the grave, and then leaving, as she always did, before the father came.

"I never told Wilford," Katy said. "I felt as if I would rather he should not know it yet. Perhaps I was wrong, but if so, I have been terribly punished."

Mr. Cameron could not look upon the woman who stood before him, so helpless and stricken in her desolation, and believe her wrong in anything. The guilt lay in another direction, and when as the terrible reality that she was indeed a deserted wife came rushing over Katy, she tottered toward him for help, he stretched his arms out for her, and taking the sinking figure in them, laid it upon the sofa as gently, as kindly as Wilford had ever touched it in his most loving days.

Katy did not faint nor weep. She was past all that, but her face was like a piece of marble, and her eyes were like those of the hunted fawn when the chase is at its height and escape impossible.

"Wilford would come back if he knew just how it was," the father said, "but the trouble is where to find him. He speaks of writing to me, as I presume he will in a day or so, and perhaps it will be as well to wait till then. What the plague—who is ringing that bell enough to break the wire?" he added, as a sharp, rapid ring echoed through the house and was answered by Esther. "It's my wife," he continued, as he caught the sound of her voice asking if Mrs. Cameron had returned. "You stay here while I meet her first alone. I'll give it to her for cheating me so long and raising thunder generally!"

Katy tried to protest, but he was halfway down the stairs, and in a moment more was with his wife, who had come around armed and equipped to censure Katy as the cause of Wilford's disappearance, and to demand of her where she was the night she pretended to spend at No. —— Fifth Avenue. But the lady who came in so haughty and indignant was a very different personage from the lady who, after listening for fifteen minutes to a fearful storm of oaths and reproaches, mingled with startling truths and bitter denunciations against herself and her boy, sank into a chair, pale and trembling, and overwhelmed with the harvest she was reaping.

But her husband was not through with her yet. He had reserved the bitterest drop for the last, and coming close to her he said:

"And who think you the woman is—this Genevra, Wilford's and your divorced wife? You were too proud to acknowledge an apothecary's daughter! See if you like better a dressmaker, a nurse to Katy's baby, Marian Hazelton!"

He whispered the last name, and with a shriek the lady fainted. Mr. Cameron would not summon a servant, and as there was no water in the room, he walked to the window, and lifting the sash scraped from the sill a handful of the light spring snow which had been falling since noon. With this he brought his wife back to consciousness, and then marked out her future course.

"I know what is in your mind," he said. "You would like to have all the blame rest on Katy; but, madam, hear me—just so sure as through your means one breath of suspicion falls on her. I'll bla at out the whole story of Genevra. Then see who is censured. On the other hand, if you hold your tongue, and make Juno hold hers, and stick to Katy through thick and thin, acting as if you would like to swallow her whole, I'll say nothing of this Genevra. Is it a bargain?"

"Yes," came faintly from the sofa cushions, where Mrs. Cameron had buried her face, sobbing in a confused, frightened way, and after a moment finding voice to say: "What will you do with Phillips and Esther? He must have questioned them."

"The deuce he did! I'll see to that I'll throttle them if they venture to speak!" and summoning both the females to his presence, Mr. Cameron demanded if either had reported what Wilford had said to them.

Except to each other they had not, though Phillips confessed to a great desire to do so when a cousin was in the previous night.

"Hang the cousin, and you, too, if you do!" Mr. Cameron replied, and giving them some very strong advice, couched in very strong language, he dismissed the servants to the kitchen, satisfied that so far Katy was safe. "But who is the villain who first informed? If I had him by the neck!" the enraged man continued, just as there came a second ring—a timid, hesitating ring, as if the new arrival were half afraid to present himself and his errand.

"Speak of angels and you hear the rustle of their wings," is a proverb as true and much pleasanter of thought than its opposite, and whether Tom Tubbs were an angel or not, it was he who stood twirling his cap in the hall, asking for Mrs. Cameron.

"She can't see you, but I'll take the message. Is it about my son?" Father Cameron said, striding up to the boy, who began to wish himself away.

Ever since inquiries had been made at the office for Wilford's whereabouts, Tom had been uneasy, for he could not forget the savage look in Wilford's face when he first told him of Katy and Dr. Grant; and when he heard that instead of going to Yonkers Wilford had taken the cars for Philadelphia, he was certain something was wrong, and longed to confess to Katy what he knew of the matter. He had no idea of meddling, but came with the kindest intentions, thinking he should feel better when the load was off his mind. He was then poorly prepared for his fierce reception from Mr. Cameron, who asked so energetically what he had to say.

"It wasn't much," Tom began. "I only wanted to tell her maybe I was to blame for repeating what I saw."

"What did you see?" and Mr. Cameron laid his hand on Tom's coat collar as if to shake the information out of him.

But there was no need of this, for the frightened youth told quickly what he had come to tell, seeming so sorry and appearing so hurt withal that the elder Cameron grew very gracious, and dismissed him with the conviction that Katy had nothing to fear from Tom Tubbs. Mrs. Cameron was with her now, giving her kisses and words of sympathy, telling her Wilford would come back, and adding that in any event no one could or should blame her.

"I have heard the whole from husband; it was a misunderstanding, that is all. Wilford was wrong to deceive you about Genevra. I was wrong to let him; but we will have no more concealments. You think she is living still—that she is Marian Hazelton?" and Mrs. Cameron smoothed Katy's hair as she talked, trying to be motherly and kind, while her heart beat more painfully at thoughts of a Genevra living than it ever had on thoughts of a Genevra dead.

She did not doubt the story, although it seemed so strange, and it made her faint as she wondered if the world would ever know and what it would say if it did. That her husband would tell if she failed in a single point she was sure, but she should not fail; she would swear Katy was innocent of everything, if necessary, while Juno and Bell should swear too. Of course they must know and she should tell them that very night, she said to herself, and hence it was that in the gossip which followed Wilford's disappearance not a word was breathed against Katy, whose cause the family espoused so warmly. Bell and the father because they really loved and pitied her, and Mrs. Cameron and Juno because it saved them from the disgrace which would have fallen on Wilford had the fashionable world known then of Genevra.

The sudden disappearance of a man like Wilford Cameron could not fail even in New York to cause some excitement, especially in his own immediate circle of acquaintances, and for several days the matter was discussed in all its phases, and every possible opinion and conjecture offered as to the cause of his strange conduct. Insanity! how many sins it is made to cover, and how often is it pleaded for an excuse when no other can be found. This is especially true in the higher walks of life, and so in Wilford's case it was put forward, cautiously at first by Mrs. Cameron herself, who wondered at the avidity with which the suggestion was seized and handed from one to another, some remembering little things which tended to confirm the belief, others slyly shrugging their shoulders as they responded: "Very probable," but all tacitly allowing the understanding to prevail that insanity had made Wilford Cameron a voluntary wanderer from home. They could not believe in domestic troubles when they saw how his family clung to and defended Katy from the least approach of censure, Juno taking up her abode with her "afflicted sister" until such time as Wilford could be heard from or more definite arrangements be made; Mrs. Cameron driving around each day to see her; Bell always speaking of her with genuine affection, while the father clung to her like a hero, the quartet forming a barrier across which the shafts of scandal could not reach.



CHAPTER XLIII.

WHAT FOLLOWED.

And where the while was Wilford? Fortunate, indeed, is it for the disappointed, desperate men of the present day that when their horizon is blackest and life seems not worth preserving, they can leave the past behind and find a refuge in the army. To Wilford it presented itself at once as the place of all others. Anything which could divert his mind was welcome, and ere the close of that first day of Katy's return from Yonkers, his name was enrolled in the service of his country. He had gone directly to Washington, stumbling accidentally upon an old college acquaintance who was getting up a company, and whose first lieutenant had disappointed him. Learning Wilford's wishes he offered him the post, which was readily accepted, and ere four days were gone Lieutenant Wilford Cameron, with no regret as yet for the past, marched away to swell the ranks of men who, led by General McClellan, were pressing on, as they believed, to Richmond and victory. A week of terrible suspense went by and then there came a note to Mr. Cameron from his son, requesting him to care for Katy, but asking no forgiveness for himself.

"I have disgraced you all," he wrote, "and I know just how you feel, but I am not sorry for the step I've taken. When I am I shall probably come back, provided that day finds me alive."

And that was all the proud man wrote. Not one word was there for Katy, whose eyes, which had not wept since she knew she was deserted, moved slowly over the short letter, weighing every word, and then were lifted sadly to her father's face as she said: "I will write and tell him all the truth, and on his answer will depend my future course."

This she said referring to the question she had raised as to whether in case Wilford did not come back she should remain in New York or go to Silverton, where as yet they were ignorant of her affliction, for Uncle Ephraim had not told of the telegram, and Katy would not alarm them until she knew something definite.

And so the days went by, while Katy's letter was sent to Wilford, together with another from his father, who confirmed all Katy had protested of her innocence and ended by calling his son a "confounded fool" and telling him to throw up his shoulder straps, which "only honest men had a right to wear, and come home where he belonged."

To this there came an angry, indignant answer, bidding the father attend to his own business, and allow the son to attend to his. To Katy, however, Wilford wrote in a different strain, showing here and there marks of tenderness and relenting, but saying what he had done could not now be helped—he was in for a soldier's life of two years, and should abide his choice. At the idea of Genevra's being alive he scoffed; he knew better than that, and even if she were why need Katy have gone with it to Morris. Surely she should have had the discretion to keep something to herself.

This was the purport of Wilford's letter to Katy, who when she had finished reading said, sorrowfully:

"Wilford never loved me. It was a mere fancy, a great mistake, and I cannot stay in his home, knowing that I am not trusted and respected as a wife should be. I will go to Silverton. There is room for me there. I shall write to Helen to-day."

Meanwhile at Silverton, Uncle Ephraim, still keeping the telegram a secret, grew more and more anxious as there came no news of Katy. What did the silence mean? Uncle Ephraim pondered the matter all day long, holding conversations with himself upon the subject, and finally making up his mind to the herculean task of going to New York to see what was the matter. To the family, who asked the reason of his sudden journey, he said: He had a notion that something ailed Katy, and he was going to see.

No one ever thought of opposing Uncle Ephraim, and the following day found him ready for the journey Aunt Betsy had taken before him.

Presuming upon her experience as a traveler, that good dame had proffered sundry pieces of advice with reference to what it was best for him to do on the road, telling him which side of the car to sit, where to get out, and above all things not to shake hands with the conductor when asked for his ticket.

Uncle Ephraim heard her good-humoredly, and stuffing into his pocket the paper of ginger-snaps, fried cakes and cheese, which Aunt Hannah had prepared for his lunch, he started for the cars, and was soon on his way to New York.

In his case there was no Bob Reynolds to offer aid and comfort, and the old man was nearly torn in pieces by the burly hackman, who, the moment he appeared to view, pounced upon him as lawful prey, each claiming the honor of taking him wherever he wished to go, and raising such a din about his ears that he finally turned away thoroughly disgusted, telling them:

"He had feet and legs, and common sense, and he guessed he could find his way without 'em. 'Bleeged to you, gentlemen, but I don't need you," and with a profound bow the honest-looking old deacon walked away, asking the first man he met the way to Madison Square, and succeeded in finding the number without difficulty.

"This is it," he said, stopping in front of the tall building, and examining it closely from the roof to the basement.

Now that he was really there, a misgiving as to the propriety of the act assailed him for the first time, and he began to wish he had not come.

"I won't pull that nub," he said, glancing at the silver knob. "I'll go down to the kitchen door, as like enough they've company."

Accordingly Esther, who chanced to be in the basement, was startled by a heavy knock, and was startled still more at the tall, white-haired man who addressed her as "Sis," and asked if "Miss Cameron was to hum."

"A man in the kitchen asking for me!" Katy exclaimed, when Esther reported the message, and with her mind full of possible news from Wilford, she ran hastily down the basement stairs, and with a loud scream of joy threw herself into Uncle Ephraim's arms, an act which so astonished Phillips that she dropped the dish of soup she was preparing for the dinner table, the greasy liquid bespattering Katy's dress, and bringing her to a sense of where she was, and that she should not be there.

"Come upstairs," she said, holding Uncle Ephraim's hand, and leading him to the parlor, while the first tears she had shed since she knew she was deserted rained in torrents over her face.

"What is it, Katy-did? I mistrusted something was wrong. What has happened?" Uncle Ephraim asked, and with his arm thrown protectingly around her, Katy told him what had happened, and then asking what she should do.

"Do?" the old man repeated. "Go home with me to your own folks until he comes from the wars. He is your husband, and I shall say nothing agin' him, but if it was to do over I would forbid the banns. That chap has misused you the wust way. You need not deny it, for it's writ all over your face," he continued, as Katy tried to stop him, for sore as was her heart with the great injustice done her, she would not have Wilford blamed.

He was her husband still, and she had loved him so fondly that, whether worthy or not of her love, she could not turn from him so soon.

"I wrote to Helen yesterday, so they will be prepared for me," she said, anxious to change the conversation, and feeling glad when dinner was announced.

Leading him to the table, she presented him to Juno, whose cold nod and haughty stare were lost on the old man presiding with so much patriarchal dignity at the table, and bowing his white head so reverently as he asked the first blessing which had ever been said at that table, except as Helen or Morris had breathed a prayer of thanks for the bounty provided.

It had not been a house of prayer—no altar had been erected for the morning and evening sacrifice. God had almost been forgotten, and now He was pouring His wrath upon the handsome dwelling, making it so distasteful that Katy was anxious to leave it, and expressed her willingness to accompany Uncle Ephraim to Silverton as soon as the necessary arrangements could be made.

"I don't take it she comes for good," Uncle Ephraim said that evening, when Mr. Cameron, to whom she referred the matter, opposed her going, "for when the two years are gone, and her man wants her back, as he will, she must come, of course. But she grows poor here in the city. It don't agree with her like the scent of the clover and the breeze from the hills. So, shet up the house for a spell, and let the child come with me."

Mr. Cameron knew that Katy would be happier at Silverton, and though he disliked to part with her, he finally consented to her going, and placed at her disposal a sum which seemed to the deacon a little fortune in itself.

In the kitchen there were sad faces when the servants heard of the arrangement which was to deprive them not only of a pleasant home, but of a mistress whom they both respected and loved. Esther pleaded hard to go with Katy, and only the latter's promise that possibly she might come by and by was of any avail to stay the tears which dropped so fast as she put up her mistress' dresses, designed for Silverton, and laid away the gayer, richer ones, which would be so sadly out of place upon her now.

To Mrs. Cameron and Juno it was a relief to have Katy taken from their hands, and though they made a show of opposition, they were easily quieted, and helped her off with alacrity, the mother promising to see that the horse was promptly called for, and Juno offering to send the latest fashion which might be suitable, as soon as it appeared. Bell was heartily sorry to part with the young sister who seemed going from her forever.

"I know you will never come back. Something tells me so," she said as she stood with her arms around Katy's waist, and her lips occasionally touching Katy's forehead. "But I shall see you," she continued; "I am coming to the farmhouse in the summer, to stay ever so long; and you may say to Aunt Betsy that I like her ever so much, and"—here Bell glanced behind her, to see that no one was listening, and then continued—"tell her a certain officer was sick a few days in a hospital last winter, and one of his men brought to him a dish of the most delicious dried peaches he ever ate. That man was from Silverton, and the fruit was sent to him, he said, in a salt bag, by a nice old lady, for whose brother he used to work. Just to think, that the peaches I helped to pare, coloring my hands so that the stain did not come off in a month, should have gone so straight to Bob," and Bell's fine features shone with a light which would have told Bob Reynolds he was beloved, even if the lips did not refuse to confess it.

"I'll tell her," Katy said, and then bidding them all good-by, and putting her hand on Uncle Ephraim's arm she went with him from the home where she had lived but two short years, and those the saddest, most eventful ones of her short life.



CHAPTER XLIV.

MARK AND HELEN.

There was much talk and wonder in Silverton when it was known that Katy had come home to stay until her husband returned from the war, and at first the people were inclined to gossip and hint at some mystery or possible estrangement; but this was brought to an end when the postmaster's wife told of a letter which had come to Mrs. Wilford Cameron from the Army of the Potomac, and of the answer returned within three days to Lieutenant Wilford Cameron, Co., —th Regt., N. Y. V., etc. It must be all right, the gossips said, after that, but they watched Katy curiously as she came among them again, so quiet, so subdued, so unlike the Katy of old that they would hardly have recognized her but for the beauty of her face and the sunny smile she gave to all, but which rested oftenest on the poor and suffering, who blessed her as the angel of their humble homes, praying that God would remember her for all she was to them. The gold was purified at last, the dross removed, and Katy, in her beautiful consistent life, seemed indeed like some bright angel straying among the haunts of men, rather than the weak and ofttimes sorely tempted mortal, which she knew herself to be.

Wilford's letters, though not unkind, were never very satisfactory, and always brought on a racking headache, from which she suffered intently. He had censured her at first for going back to Silverton, when he preferred she should stay in New York, hinting darkly at the reason of her choice, and saying to her once, when she told him how the Sunday before her twenty-first birthday she had knelt before the altar and taken upon herself the vows of confirmation: "Your saintly cousin is, of course, delighted, and that I suppose is sufficient, without my congratulations."