"She said we were to go on," said Jean, "and she would catch us up. Which way, Margaret? I don't know the way."

Margaret led the way through the garden, running as she had never run before. They had not gone a hundred yards when Peggy was at their side. She had a coil of rope slung over her arm.

"It may be wanted," she said. "I remembered where it always hung. Oh, if the boys were only here!"

They ran on in silence, Margaret echoing the cry in her heart. At every step the glare grew brighter, the rolling smoke thicker. Margaret noticed, and wondered at herself for noticing, that the under side of some of the leaves above her head shone red like copper, while others were yellow as gold. Every patch of fern and brake, every leaf of box or holly, stood out, clear as at noonday.

On, down the long cedar alley, the dew dripping from the branches as they closed behind them; over the sunk fence, and across the lower garden to the summer-house, Hugh's summer-house. Once Margaret would have shuddered at the drop into the meadow below, but Grace's climbing lessons had not been given in vain, and, without a moment's hesitation, she followed Peggy down the old willow-tree, landing knee-deep in fern below.

Now they could hear the roar of the flames, the crackling and snapping of burning wood, and, looking up, they saw on the brow of the rise beyond, the flames tossing and beckoning over the dark firs of Silverfield.

Five minutes more, and, breathless with running, they stood on the lawn before the burning house.

The side facing them was already wrapped in flames. Long wavering tongues shot through the open windows, and curled round the woodwork, lapping it; they purred and chuckled like live creatures over their food; they leaped up toward the roof, running along its edge, feeling their way higher and higher, while now and then one sprang aloft, tossing its scarlet crest over the rooftree itself. Evidently the fire had started in the upper story, for in the lower one, though the smoke poured dense and black through the open windows, there were no flames to be seen yet. Furniture, books, and knick-knacks of every description were scattered about the lawn in wild confusion, and two men, half stifled with smoke, were struggling frantically with a grand piano, one hacking at the window-frame with an axe to widen the opening, the other trying desperately to unscrew the legs, as if that would mend matters. Seven people out of ten, at a fire, will leave untouched pictures and books that can never be replaced, and spend their time and energies in trying to save the piano.

The group of frightened women huddled together on the lawn had made their attempt, too, to save some of their mistress's property. Even in her terror and anguish, Margaret could hardly keep back the thought of a smile at their aspect. One clasped a sofa-pillow, one a pair of vases. A stout woman, evidently the cook, had a porcelain kettle on either arm, and another on her head, while her hands clutched a variety of spoons, ladles, cups, and dippers. She evidently had her wits about her more than the others, and she was scolding the parlor-maid, a trembling, weeping creature, who was holding a small china bowl in both hands, as if it were a royal treasure.

"She likes her malted milk in it, you know she does, Mary," said the girl. "Only yesterday she was telling me never bring her any bowl except this. It's cruel of you to harry me for trying to save what she likes."

"You green goose! What will she want wid the bowl and you not leaving her a spoon to sup wid! Where is the key of the safe, I'm askin' ye! Maybe James could get it out yet."

"Oh, I don't know! I don't know! I expect I dropped it. I was going to get the silver myself; I'd ha' got all of it, without you telling me, but when I opened the pantry door, the fire leapt out at me, roaring like the pit, and I dropped the key and run. I'm awful sorry, but I've got the bowl, and I do wish you'd let me be."

A little apart stood Antonia, the French maid, bearing on her outstretched arms a superb tea-gown of violet velvet, embroidered with pearls. On it lay a pile of costly laces, slightly blackened by smoke, but uninjured. Antonia had done her best, and had saved the treasure of her heart. Margaret ran up to her.

"Antonia, where is Miss Wolfe?"

The woman did not seem to hear the question, but burst into agitated speech. "Oh, mademoiselle, mademoiselle!" she cried. "Ah, the tragedy! of all the robes arrived from Paris last week, but only last week, this only remaining! It was all I could save, all! I tried; I burned myself the hands, mademoiselle, to rescue the others, the blue crape, the adorable lace jacquettes, the satin rose-the—in vain, all gone, all devoured! Mon Dieu, and madame had not even had them on! But the lace, Mademoiselle Montfort, the point d'Alencon, the Valenciennes, all, I have it safe. See, mademoiselle, regard for yourself, un peu noirci, a leetle blackened, voila tout! It is without price, the point d'Alencon, you know, Mademoiselle Marguerite."

"Antonia, do you hear me? What do I care about the laces? Where is Miss Wolfe?"

"She's mazed, miss!" said Mary, the cook. "She can't talk about nothin' but that stuff. Sure Miss Wolfe is at Fernley wid the mistress. It's wondher ye didn't meet them on the way, miss. She went wid Mrs. Peyton, and me and the other girls stopped behind to see what we could save."

"Oh, no!" cried Margaret. "Mrs. Peyton came alone. She said Miss Wolfe came back—for the jewels. She said she was in the house now."

"Lord help her then!" said the parlor-maid. "If she's in the house now, she's as good as dead, and worse, too. The stairs has fallen in; Thomas seen 'em fall. Oh, dear! oh, dear! what an awful time!"

"Be still, Eliza!" said the cook. "Where's Jenny? She was in the sewing-room, next to Miss Wolfe's; maybe she'd know something. Who saw Jenny since we come out? Good Lord, where is the child? I thought she come with me."

"Oh, Jenny's all right!" moaned Eliza. "She'll have gone straight home. She was going home to spend the night anyway, Mary; don't be scaring us worse. It's bad enough to lose Miss Wolfe, poor young lady, and she so bold and daring!"

"Hold your tongue!" said Peggy. "Listen to me, girls, and answer plainly, and not all at once like a flock of foolish sheep. Did any one see Miss Wolfe go into the house?"

"No, miss, no; we see her go with Mrs. Peyton, and we never thought but she was all right."

"She may not be there after all!" said Peggy. "Her room is on the other side, isn't it, Margaret? Come on!"

They ran round to the other side of the house. This was apparently still untouched, though the fiery tongues came darting over the rooftree every now and then, hissing and lapping, and the roof itself was covered with sparks and great patches of burning tinder, fragments of the costly stuffs and tissues that the house-owner had so dearly prized. The windows were closed and silent, but all was bright as day in the red glare of the fire.

"Call, Peggy!" whispered Margaret. "I have no voice."

Even as she spoke, a window in the second story was thrown up, and there stood Grace herself, very pale, but quiet as usual.

"There's a young woman faint here," she said. "Too much smoke. The stairs are gone. Is there a ladder, Peggy? Ah, rope! Much better. Clever child! When I say three—throw!"

Oh, the good days on the Western farm, when little Peggy, on her rough pony, scampered here and there, lassoing the sheep and calves, and getting well scolded in consequence! Oh, the other good days at school, where nerve and muscle learned to follow the quick eye, so that thought and action seemed to flash together!

The rope hissed upward like a flying snake, but a cloud of smoke drove past the window, and the outstretched hands missed it. Again it flew, and this time it was caught, drawn up, and knotted tight inside the window.

"Now if I had a ladder!" muttered Peggy.

"I saw one," cried Margaret; "I am sure I did. Wait!"

She flew off, and returned followed by a boy with a ladder. It proved short by several feet.

"Oh, what shall we do!" cried Margaret.

"Hold the ladder steady!" said Peggy. "She'll see to that end, and I can manage this. Hold it!"

Margaret and the boy grasped the ladder; Peggy ran up it, and stood on the top rung, holding the lower end of the rope.

"All ready, Goat!" she called.

"Ay, ay!" said the quiet voice within. "Coming, Innocent!"

The women had followed Margaret and Peggy, and now a cry broke from them.

"She's got her!"

"'Tis Jenny! She was in there all the time!"

"She's dead!"

"She's not; she's living, I see her move. Oh, Mother of Mercy, they'll both be killed before their own eyes!"

What was Grace doing? The form she held in her arms was that of a slight girl of fifteen or so. She was knotting something round her, under arms and over breast; something half sling, half rope; towels, perhaps, tied strongly together. Now she brought the ends over her own shoulders, bending forward.

"Now, Peggy!"

"Now!"

With the unconscious child bound to her back, Grace leaned out and grasped the rope; another moment and she was swinging on it, clinging with hands and feet, the old school way.

Margaret covered her face with her hand and prayed. Peggy, steadying the rope with one hand, held out the other, and waited.

Down, hand over hand! Slender hands, to bear the double burden. Delicate shoulders, to carry the dead weight that hangs on them. Are they elastic steel, those fingers that grip the rope, never slipping, never relaxing their hold?

Down, hand over hand! the hands are bleeding now; no matter! the white dress is black with smoke, and blood drips on it here and there; what of that? it is nearly over.

"Now?" Peggy asked, quietly.

"Now!"

Steadying herself, Peggy left the rope, and received the burden in her arms. Grace, holding the rope with one hand, with the other loosed the knot, and laid the limp arms over Peggy's neck.

"All right?" she said.

"All right!"

"Ainsi long!" and as Peggy carefully slowly descended the ladder, Grace turned and began quickly and steadily to climb the rope again.

"Grace! Grace!" cried Margaret. "For God's sake, what are you about? Come down! There is no time to lose; come down!"

"And behold, all is vanity!" said Grace; and she disappeared inside the burning house.

But Margaret could bear no more. She helped to take the senseless girl from Peggy's arms and lay her on the grass; then the world seemed to slip from her, and she dropped quietly with her head on Jenny's shoulder.



CHAPTER XV.

JEWELS: AND AN AWAKENING

"Are you better?" said Gerald. "Are you truly better, Miss Margaret? I am going to drown myself anyhow in the first bucket I find, and if you don't feel better I shall make it a dipper, and that would be so inconvenient, don't you know?"

Margaret looked at him, only half hearing what he said.

"Yes, I am better; I am very well, thank you. What happened? Did I faint?"

"Yes! you fainted, just as we came up. They wanted to pour water over you, but I always think it's such a shame, in books, to spoil their clothes, and you have such pretty clothes. So I wouldn't let them. It wasn't Peggy, it was a lot of fool cooks and things."

"Did something hurt me?" asked Margaret, vaguely, still feeling that she was somebody else making friendly inquiries about herself.

"Yes, I—I pinched you, you dear, sweet, pretty—at least, I don't mean that! at least I do mean it, every word, only highly improper under the circumstances, but I don't care so long as you are better."

Making a strong effort, Margaret sat up and looked about her. She was still on the Silverfield lawn, but some one had drawn her away from the neighborhood of the burning house, now a shapeless mass, though still burning fiercely, and had pillowed her head on a rolled-up coat. Her companion was in his shirt-sleeves, so it was evident whose coat it was.

As she gazed at the blazing ruins, memory came back in a flood.

"Grace!" she cried, wildly. "Where is Grace?"

"Safe," said Gerald, quickly. "Safe and sound. Not a hair singed, though it sounds impossible. Most astonishing person I ever saw in my life. Came down the rope like a foretopman, hung all over with jewels: brooches, chains, and owches, you know,—Scripture,—kind of rope-walking Tiffany. You never saw such a thing in your life. Hadn't much more than touched the ground, when the roof fell in. Standing luck of the British Army, I call that!"

"Oh, thank God! thank God! but where is she? where are they all?"

"Mostly gone to take the fainted girl home. She didn't come to just right; choked with the smoke, Hugh thought. Phil and Peggy are carrying her, and Miss Wolfe giving moral support. Hugh has gone for the nearest doctor. The fool cooks have gone in search of their wits, I suppose; they didn't seem to be anywhere round here."

"And—Jean? she was here too; is she all right?"

Gerald hung his head. "She was left to take care of you," he said. "I told her I was a medical man, which is strictly untrue, and asked her to go back to Fernley to get something, cologne, or rum, or mustard,—I forget what I did say. The women bothered and made a noise, so I advised them to proceed in the direction of Jericho. Great place, Jericho! They went—there or elsewhere. Don't get up yet, please don't! it's always better to lie still after a fire, or a faint; how much more after both combined!"

"Oh, I must!" said Margaret. "I must go home at once, Mr. Merryweather, truly. Oh, thank you, but I can get up perfectly well—only my head is queer still. I wish—why did you send Jean away?"

"I didn't want her," said Gerald, meekly. "You looked so pretty—"

"Please don't talk nonsense!"

"I'm not. It's my truthful nature. It comes out in spots, like measles, in spite of me. When I was only six years old, I told my nurse she was a hideous old squunt, and she was. Fact, or at least justifiable fiction. If you must get up, won't you take poor Jerry's arm? just once, before he drowns himself? it's your last chance!"

"What do you mean? Why should you drown yourself?"

"Because I missed all the fun, and let you faint, and Miss Wolfe get nearly burned up, and Miss Peggy a sight to behold with smoke and water, and Hugh all tied up in t l k's, and all for a day's yachting. Not that it wasn't great yachting, but there is a sense of proportion."

"What are t l k's?" asked Margaret, smiling faintly. She was recovering her composure, and Gerald noted with inward thankfulness her returning color. His running fire of nonsense, kept up in the hope of rousing her to interest, covered an anxious heart, but he gave no sign.

"T l k's? true lover's knots! none of my business, of course, but the professor appears to be interested in the fairacrobat—acrobatess—acrobatia—what you will! Give you my word, when he came round the corner and saw her coming down that rope, I thought he would curl up into knots himself. Jolly stunt! when I first came I was awfully afraid—" Gerald pulled himself up suddenly, and blushed scarlet.

"Afraid?" said Margaret, innocently. "Afraid of what?"

"Of bats! When they squeak, I desire to pass away."

"Mr. Merryweather!"

"If you call me Mr. Merryweather any more, I shall pass away, without benefit of buckets. Say Gerald! just try it, and see how pretty it sounds. Gerald! 'tis a melting mouthful! Sentimental, if you will, but what then?"

Margaret laughed in spite of herself. "I must say, as Frances did, I never see such a bold boy since born I was!" she said. "Well, Gerald, then; and now, Gerald, here we are at the house, and would you please go round the north way, and not come into the library just now? Thank you ever so much for helping me! No, I must go in, I truly must."

* * * * *

Mrs. Peyton was sitting bolt upright on the sofa on which they had laid her. Her face was absolutely colorless; it might have been an ivory statue, but for the ghastly look of the blue eyes. She fixed her eyes on Margaret, but said nothing. Margaret ran to her, and put her arms round her. "Oh, how could they leave you alone?" she cried. "She is safe; every one is safe, dear Mrs. Peyton. No one hurt, only Jenny overcome with the smoke a little. I thought Jean would have told you."

The ivory figure began to tremble. With shaking hands she tried to put Margaret away from her; then, with a sudden revulsion of feeling, she clung to her and burst into tears.

"I sent them away!" she whispered through her sobs. "I would not have them look at me. Margaret—are you sure? that girl, is she truly safe?"

"Truly and honestly, dear Mrs. Peyton. It was a most marvellous escape, but she is absolutely unharmed, and she saved another life beside her own. But for Grace, poor little Jenny must have been lost. She is a heroine, our Grace!"

"I did not mean to kill her!" said the poor woman. "I did not realize what it meant. I said, 'My jewels! my jewels!' and I don't know what other nonsense. She never said a word, just turned and went back. Then—oh! then, when you were all gone, I understood, I saw, that I had sent her to her death for those—those horrible things. Never—never let me see them again! I have been sitting here—years, it seems to me—waiting to hear that she was dead; perhaps to see her body brought in, all—"

"Oh, hush, hush, Mrs. Peyton! You will make yourself ill. You are only distressing yourself beyond all need. She is safe, I tell you. In a few moments you will see for yourself—"

At this moment the door opened, and Grace stood before them. She was a strange figure indeed. Black with smoke, her fair hair gray with ashes, her dress torn and discolored; but sparkling with jewels as never was any ballroom belle. Superb necklaces of diamond and emerald hung around her neck; her arms glittered with bracelets, her fingers were loaded with rings, while ropes of amethyst and pearl were wound around her head and even about her waist.

"All the way over," said Grace, "I have been pitying the robber who didn't meet me, and so lost the great chance of his life. So sad for him!"

Margaret recalled Gerald's expression, "a rope-walking Tiffany," and could not help smiling in spite of her anxiety; but Mrs. Peyton hid her face in her hands.

"Take them away!" she said. "Take them off, Grace! I never want to see them again. Horrible things, all blood and flame! who knows how many other lives they have cost? and it is no fault of mine that they have not cost yours. No fault of mine!"

This was so true, that neither Grace nor Margaret spoke. Mrs. Peyton rose, and moved restlessly about the room.

"Incidentally," she said, "I have got well."

Grace glanced at Margaret, but still neither spoke. Mrs. Peyton gave Grace a strange look. "You didn't set fire to the house deliberately, I suppose?" she said.

"I did not!" said Grace, bluntly. "To be honest, I have thought of it—thought, I mean, of the effect it might produce; but it isn't a thing one does in general society."

"I remember!" said Mrs. Peyton, dreamily. "I remember. I did it myself."

"Did it yourself?" cried Margaret, aghast. Grace was silent.

"I threw the candle down. I had been looking in the glass, and I found a new wrinkle, a horrible one. I threw the candle down, and it fell on a roll of cotton wool. How it went! I can hear the sound now, and see the fire run—run!"

"I wouldn't talk about it any more," said Grace, quietly.

"I must. I must tell it all. She—Grace, there—found me; it had caught my bed, and the curtains were blazing. She carried me out of the room and down the stairs herself. What is she made of? She isn't so tall as I. Then—at the door—she set me down and told me to run, and I ran. We ran together, till the devil brought these things into my mind, and I sent her back to be burned up for my vanity."

"I wasn't burned up," said Grace, composedly; "and as you remarked just now, Mrs. Peyton, you have got well. Do you want to know what I think?"

"Yes, Grace—"

"I think—that the game was worth the candle!"



CHAPTER XVI.

FOR AULD LANG SYNE

"Confess that I have surprised you, John Montfort!" said Mrs. Peyton.

"I do confess it, Emily," Mr. Montfort answered, gravely. "But I am truly glad that my house has been able to afford you shelter when you were in need of it."

"That is as much as to say, that under other circumstances—never mind! I am not going to quarrel with you, John."

"I trust not," said Mr. Montfort, still speaking with grave courtesy.

If Margaret had been present, she would have wondered at the change in her uncle's face. The warmth, the genial light of kindness, was clean gone out of it; it was an older and a sterner man who sat in the great armchair and looked steadily and quietly at his visitor.

Mrs. Peyton smiled, then frowned; at last she sighed.

"I never meant to hurt you, John," she said, softly. "Thirty years is a long time to hate a person who—who never hated you."

"I have never hated you, Emily," said Mr. Montfort, not unkindly. "Our paths have not crossed—"

Mrs. Peyton laughed. "No, they have not crossed. You took care of that. They have only run alongside each other—with the garden wall between."

"And nothing else?" said John Montfort.

She was silent for a moment. Then, "I never meant to make trouble between you and Rose!"

"You never did," said Mr. Montfort, tranquilly.

"I know! but—you thought I tried. I did tell you a lie that night, when I said she would not see you. How could I know that she was going to die before you came back from the West? I—I wanted to see you myself; that was no such dreadful sin, was it? I was sorry—sorry, I tell you, when I heard of her death. Thirty years ago, and I have never been able to speak to you alone till to-day. I—I had to burn my house down to get a chance to make my peace with you, John Montfort. No, I don't mean that I did it on purpose, though I am not sure that it wouldn't—aren't you going to forgive me, John, after all these years?"

Mr. Montfort rose. He was very pale, but he spoke steadily. "Emily, it is hardly strange that I do not care to open old wounds. If I have been unkind, I am sorry for it. I do forgive you, fully and freely. Now, let the past alone. What can I do for you in the present, and how help you to provide for the future? I have not been a good neighbor, I confess it; I will try to prove myself a better one henceforward."

Mrs. Peyton laughed her little mocking laugh. "It will be easier than you think, John. I am going to Europe, and I don't know whether I shall ever come back."

"Going to Europe, Emily? Are you strong enough?"

"I am perfectly well!" said Mrs. Peyton, simply. "Doctor Flower has been telling me for several years that there was nothing really the matter with me any more, and that I could be well if I wanted. Grace Wolfe made me feel the same thing. Well, now I do want it. The fire lighted up a good many things for me, and showed me the way. I have no house to live in; I am alone in the world; I may as well be doing things as staying in bed, of which I am really very tired. I am writing to my man of business to take places for Antonia and me on next week's steamer for Paris. I've half a mind to take Grace Wolfe, too, if she will go."

"I have asked Grace to make her home with us for the present," said Mr. Montfort, quickly. "Next year I expect to take her and Margaret abroad together."

Mrs. Peyton laughed again. "I can't even have her! Well—never mind. I love her, but she frightens me. She might have catalepsy again,—though I rather think that was a clever device for getting me out of bed,—and I want to forget everything connected with sickness. But—John—there is something you can do for me. This girl risked her life to save my jewels, the playthings I have tried to amuse myself with these many years. I want you to sell them for me, and give her the money."

"Sell your jewels, Emily!"

"Yes. I never want to see them again." She shuddered slightly, but her voice was firm and steady.

"They are all here, in this basket. Lock them up now, and the next time you go to town sell them, and invest the money for Grace Wolfe. Will you do this for me, John? It is the only thing I shall ever be likely to ask you."

"Indeed I will, Emily!" said Mr. Montfort, speaking with much more warmth than he had hitherto shown. "It will be a grateful commission. Shall I look?—these things are of great value, Emily. There are thousands of dollars' worth of trump—of trinkets here."

"So much the better for Grace!"

"There is nothing you would like to keep? None of these diamonds?"

"No; I detest diamonds! When a complexion begins to go—never mind! Stay, though! Margaret liked that pink pearl; sweet little prim Margaret, who has given me most of the little pleasure I have had these last three years. You'll let her have it, John? I beg you to let me give it to her!"

"Surely, surely, my dear Emily. It is a beautiful gem, and I am glad that my Margaret should have something to remember you by while you are gone. And now shake hands, for I must be off."

"You are going away?"

"For the night only. I was to have spent two or three days in town on business, but hurried home on hearing of the fire. I shall be back to-morrow, or next day at latest."

"And—I may stay here till then, John?"

"My dear Emily, I earnestly beg that you will stay as long as it is convenient to you. You must have many things to arrange; pray consider Fernley as your own house until you have everything comfortably settled."

"Thank you, John! I heard your own voice then, the kindest voice that—good-by, John Montfort!"

* * * * *

"Gone, you say, Margaret? When did she go? I fully expected to see her again."

"This afternoon, Uncle John. We could not persuade her to stay longer. Her man of business came down this morning early, and arranged everything with the farmer and the servants, and finally took her and Antonia back with him. It is very sudden! I should be frightened at her attempting the voyage, but Grace says it is just what Doctor Flower has been wishing and hoping for. Poor Mrs. Peyton! I shall miss her very much, Uncle John. She is very, very lovable; and, somehow, these few days have so softened and changed her—I hardly know how to put it, but it is as if her heart had waked up after a long sleep."

"Perhaps it has!" said Mr. Montfort, thoughtfully. "Poor Emily! she has had an unhappy life; yet when she was your age, Margaret, Emily Silverton thought she had the world at her feet. Life is instructive, my child. Did she tell you what she had done about Grace?"

Margaret shook her head. "She said you would have something to tell me, but she would not say anything more. She was bent on keeping control over her nerves, I think, so I tried just to keep things quiet and cheerful, and I saw that was what she wanted. What is it about Grace?"

Thereupon Mr. Montfort told the story of the jewels, and how he had taken them to town with him the day before. "It will be a great change for our Grace," he said. "She has had very little money, I think you told me, Margaret?"

"Oh, almost none, Uncle John. She has had a very, very hard time; and since her father died last year—she seems to have no other relations—she has supported herself entirely. Oh, this is a kind thing of Mrs. Peyton; and I understand just how she feels and why she wants to do it. Aren't the jewels worth a good deal, Uncle John?"

"Guess how much, little girl!"

"How can I? Perhaps as much as a thousand dollars? Oh, Uncle John!"

"Perhaps, Margaret; my child, Tiffany's head man thinks,—he could not price them all exactly,—but, roughly speaking, he thinks—that this collection is worth—fifty thousand dollars. Grace is, comparatively speaking, a rich woman."

Margaret stood speechless, in utter amazement. At this moment there was a sound, as of a book falling to the ground, and a smothered exclamation. Both started and looked round, as Hugh Montfort rose from the corner where he had been seated and came slowly forward. He was very pale, and seemed to bear more heavily on his stick than usual.

"You knew I was here, Margaret?" he said, with a look that tried to be unconcerned. "I trust I have not overheard anything that I should not. I was writing, and thought you saw me when you came in."

"No secrets, my boy, no secrets!" said Mr. Montfort, heartily. "You heard this great piece of news about our little friend, did you? She does not know it herself yet; Margaret must tell her. Margaret, you have deserved this pleasure, my dear, and I rejoice in making it over to you."

The good man was glowing with pleasure and good will; but for once he met no response from Hugh, who, pale and gloomy, stared before him as if he had seen a ghost.

"My dear fellow," cried Mr. Montfort, changing his tone at once, "you are not well. How pale you are! or—you have had no bad news, Hugh? Nobody ill at home, eh? Your father—"

"No, no, sir, all well! Father is in perfect trim; I have just been reading a letter from him, Uncle John; you must hear it, sometime when you are not busy. Don't look at me like that, Margaret! I—my head aches a little, if I must confess. Did you never see any one with a headache before?"

Was it possible that Hugh was out of temper? Neither Mr. Montfort nor Margaret could believe it at first; both gazed at him, expecting the usual kindly smile to begin in his eyes and break gradually over his face; but no smile came. Mr. Montfort, who had lived many years and seen many things, was the first to recover himself; he passed Hugh with a friendly pat on the shoulder, and, nodding to Margaret, went out of the room. Margaret remained still, looking earnestly in her cousin's face, unconscious of offence.

"Dear Hugh," she said, affectionately, "I am so sorry! Let me get you something—one of those tablets that relieved you last time."

"No, no!" said Hugh. "It is nothing, Margaret, nothing at all. So Miss Wolfe is a rich woman, is she, and spoilt for life? And you are glad, you and Uncle John! Well, I am sorry, for my part; sorry from the bottom of my heart. It is an iniquity."

"Hugh!"

"It is! She will grow into an idle fine lady, like this very Mrs. Peyton, who throws about her gewgaws at every whim. Her life will be frittered away over dresses and frippery and fashion. Instead of a worker, a real woman, with a woman's work and aims, you will have a butterfly, pretty and useless, fluttering about in the sunshine, unable to bear rough weather. A fine piece of work it will be, the ruining of a girl like that."

Margaret stood aghast, and for a few moments found no words. Her cousin's face showed that he was only too deeply in earnest; his eyes glowed with sombre fire, and a dark red spot burned in his cheek. When Margaret did speak at last, her eyes were tender, but her voice was grave, almost stern. "Hugh," she said, "I hardly know you; and I see that you do not know Grace in the least. I thought—I thought you did—understand her, better perhaps than any one else did; but if you can say such things as these, I see I was utterly mistaken. She, spoiled by a little prosperity? Oh, how can you? For shame, Hugh!"

Hugh looked up at her suddenly. "Oh, Margaret!" he said. "Margaret, have patience with me! I—I am not myself to-day. My head—there is something wrong with me."

"Yes, dear," said Margaret, tenderly. "Go and lie down, Hugh, won't you? And I'll bring you some cracked ice. That always helps a little."

"I don't want to lie down, and I don't want any cracked ice; thank you all the same, good little sister-cousin! I'll go out into the garden, I think. The trees will be the best thing for me to-day. And—Margaret—forget what I said, will you? It is none of my business, of course; only—good-by, little girl!"



CHAPTER XVII.

IN THE GARDEN

"But, Grace—"

"But-ter, Margaret!"

"My dear, please don't be absurd!"

"My angel, I am not half so absurd as you are. Why, in the name of all that is incongruous, should I take this lady's money? Is thy servant a dog, that she should do this thing?"

"Listen, Grace! You are wholly, utterly wrong. Listen to me! Let us sit down here by the summer-house and have it out. No, you have said enough; it is my turn now. You talk about yourself, and your independence and freedom, and I don't know what. My dear, I want you to forget yourself, and think of her."

"Of her? What difference does it make to her?"

"All the difference in the world, it may be. What is that noise?"

"It is I!" said Hugh, emerging from the summer-house. "I seem fated to be an eavesdropper, and yet I am not one by nature. Pardon me, young ladies!"

He was about to pass them with a formal bow, but Margaret, with a sudden inspiration, caught his arm. "No!" she cried, "I want you to hear what I am going to say. You, too, misunderstand—sit down, Hugh, and listen! Please!" she added, in the tone that seldom failed to win any heart.

Hugh hesitated, but finally sat down, looking very grim, and stared at the box-tree in front of him. Margaret went on, hurriedly, moved for once out of her gentle calm.

"This lady—I must speak plainly, though she is my friend—has lived a selfish, empty, idle life. She was very beautiful and very rich, really one of the great beauties and heiresses, and—and that was all. She was brought up by a worldly aunt—her mother died when she was little—and married to some one whom she cannot have cared for very much, I am afraid; and she never had any children. Then came all this ill health. Oh, Grace, I can't help it if it wasn't all real, she certainly has suffered a great deal; and through it all she has been alone, loving no one, and with no one to love her. She will not see any of her own people, cousins—she has no one nearer; she says they are all mercenary. I don't know, of course, but it is one of the terrible things about having a great deal of money, that you think everybody wants it, whether they do or not. Now, at last, before it was too late,—oh, I am so thankful for that,—the change has come. She has waked up, and it is all owing to you, Grace. Yes, it is! I have been fond of her, and she has petted me, and been very good to me, and given me things, but I never could open her eyes, try as I would. Now, you have done it, dear. You not only saved her life actually—yes, you did, Grace; she told me all about it; she never would have got out of that room alive but for you—you not only saved her life, but you have given her some idea of how to live. She wants to do something in return. It is the first time, I do believe, that she has wanted really to help some one else. When she gave me prettinesses, it was because it amused her to do it, not because I needed them, nor because she was thinking specially about me.

"Grace, if you refuse this; if you shut back the kindly impulse, the desire to help some one, I tell you you will be doing a wrong thing. It is nothing in the world but pride, selfish pride, that is speaking in you. Tell me again—tell Hugh, what Mrs. Peyton said to you when she went away."

"She said—" Grace's voice had not its usual cool evenness, but was husky, and faltered now and then—"she said, 'Do not refuse my last wish! I do not tell you what it is, for fear you should refuse at once, and shut me up with myself again. Do not refuse, for the sake of Christian kindness, of which I have known nothing hitherto, but which I mean to learn something about if I can.'"

"And then?"

"And then—she kissed me—Margaret, it is brutal of you to make me tell this!—she kissed me twice, and said—" Grace's voice broke. "I—cannot!" she faltered.

Margaret rose to her feet with a sudden impulse. "Hark!" she said. "Is that Uncle John calling me? Wait here, please, both of you!" and she ran off, never looking behind her. It was the first and last deceitful act of Margaret Montfort's life.

There was a long silence. Hugh Montfort stared at the box-tree. Grace cried a little, quietly; then wiped away her tears, not noticing them much, and observed an ant running along the path. At last, "Well?" said Hugh.

"Well!" said Grace. "I am sorry to have made such a spectacle of myself. Is there anything to say?"

Hugh plucked a box-leaf and scrutinized it carefully.

"They make these things so even!" he said.

"Machinery never could—Let me tell you a story. Do you mind? Once upon a time there was a man—or—well, call him a man! He was part of one, anyhow, as much as accident allowed. He was not strong, but he could work, and he meant to work, and do things he cared about, and lead as good a life as he knew how. He had been a good deal alone, somehow, though he had dear good people of his own; he was an odd stick, I suppose, as odd as the one he walked with."

He stopped, glanced at his stick, with its handle worn smooth as glass; then he went on.

"He had never seen much of women, except his own family; never thought about them much as individuals, though always in his mind there was a dream—I suppose all men have it—of some one he should meet some day, who would turn the world from gray to gold. One day—he saw a vision; and—after that—he learned, not all at once, but little by little, that life was not full and rounded, as he had thought it, but empty and one-sided and unprofitable, if this vision could not be always before his eyes; if this one woman could not come into his life, to be his star, his light, his joy and happiness. She was poor, like himself. He thought of working for her, of sharing with her the honest, laborious, perhaps helpful life he had planned, the life of a Western forester, living among the woods and mountains, studying the trees he loved, learning the secrets of nature at first hand, teaching his beloved all the little he knew, and learning more, a thousandfold more, from every look of her eyes, every tone of her wonderful voice.

"Well—while he dreamed—something happened. Suddenly, by a wave of a wand, as in the fairy tales, his maiden was transformed. Instead of the orphan girl, working bravely with her brave hands to earn her bread, he saw—a rich woman! saw the woman he loved condemned by the idle whim of an idle pleasure-seeker to sit with folded hands, or play with toys and trinkets. He was filled with rage; he hated the very sound of the word money, because—it seemed to him that this money would rob him of his darling. I—he—"

Hugh broke off suddenly. "I am the greatest fool in the world!" he said. "Grace, do you understand me? Do you know what I am trying to say?"

It was the merest whisper that replied, "I don't—know—"

"Yes, you do." Hugh caught the slender hands, and held them close. "You know, you must know, that I have cared for you ever since that first wonderful moment, when you broke through the leaves like sunshine, and I saw the face I had dreamed of all my life. You must have felt it, all these weeks. Oh, Margaret is right, I suppose. All she says is true enough; if you can help this poor woman by taking her wretched money, I suppose you will have to do it. But—but I lose my princess, before ever I could win her. I can't ask a rich woman to be my wife."

While Hugh was speaking, Grace's head had drooped lower and lower, as if she shrank under the weight that was laid upon her; but now she looked up bravely, with a lovely light in her eyes. "Can't you, Hugh?" she said. "It's a pity you can't, Hugh, because—you could have her for the asking."



CHAPTER XVIII.

UNCLE JOHN'S BIRTHDAY

If Timothy Bannan has had scant mention in these pages, it is not because he was not an important personage at Fernley. King of the stable, governor of the dogs, chief authority on all matters pertaining to what Gerald called "four-leggers," he was as much a part of the establishment as Frances herself. In person he was a small man, with reddish-gray whiskers, an obstinate chin, and a kindly twinkling eye. He usually wore a red waistcoat with black sleeves, and he was suspected of matrimonial designs on Elizabeth.

One morning, not long after the events of which I have been telling, Bannan approached his master, who was tying up roses, Margaret, as usual, attending him with shears and ball of twine.

"If you please, sir," said Bannan, touching his hat, "would it be convenient for me to take a horse this evening, sir?"

Mr. Montfort straightened himself, and looked with friendly interest at his retainer.

"A horse, Bannan? Certainly! What horse do you want?"

Bannan looked embarrassed. "I was thinking of taking Chief, if you was anyways willing, sir." Now Chief was the pride of the Fernley stable. Mr. Montfort opened his eyes a little.

"Going far, Bannan?"

"N—not so very far, sir. I was wishful to try him with the new cart, if you had no objections."

The new cart was a particularly stylish and comfortable wagonette, bought for Margaret to take her young friends out in, and Mr. Montfort's eyes opened still wider.

"Well, Bannan—of course you will be careful. You want to take some friends out, eh?"

This simple question seemed to embarrass Bannan strangely. He reddened, and taking off his cap, turned it round and round in his hands. "No, sir, I shouldn't presume—that is to say, not exactly friends, sir, and yet not anyways the reverse. But if it's not agreeable to you, sir, I'll take the old mare and the Concord wagon."

"No, no," said Mr. Montfort, kindly. "Take Chief and the cart by all means, Bannan. I wish you a pleasant drive with your—friends." Bannan thanked him and withdrew, and Mr. Montfort turned to Margaret with a smile and a sigh. "Does that mean Elizabeth and matrimony, Margaret? What will Frances say?"

"Indeed, Uncle, I am quite sure that Elizabeth would disapprove as much as Frances of Bannan's taking Chief and the wagonette. You are too indulgent, dear sir."

"I suppose I am," said Mr. Montfort. "I suppose, also, that I am too old to change. But I never knew Bannan to do such a thing before."

Meanwhile, Bannan was standing at the kitchen door, fuming. "If ever I do sich a thing again, Frances, you may cut me up and serve me in a gravy-boat."

"Nobody'd touch ye!" said Frances. "Ye've got to have juice to make gravy, ye little bones-bag. I told ye let me see to it; men-folks always messes when they try to manage nice things. It's like as if you started to whip cream with a garding hose."

"I don't care!" said Bannan. "'Twas me the telegram come to, and 'twas me they expected to see to it. You'd like to boss everything and everybody on the place, Frances."

"I'll boss you with this mop, little man, if you give me any sauce," said Frances, with massive calm. "Go away now and feed your beasts; it's what you're best at."

"But you'll have the supper ready and all, Frances? If I can feed beasts, you can feed their masters, I'm bound to own that," said Bannan, presenting this transparent sop with an air of hopeful diffidence.

"Go 'long with ye!" said Frances, loftily, yet with a suggestion of softening in her voice. "I've kep' Mr. John's birthday for twenty years, but I reckon you'd better tell me how to do it this time."

"And you'll tell nobody about—them—"

But here Frances raised the mop with such a businesslike air that Bannan took himself off, grumbling and shaking his head.

Left alone, Frances fell into a frenzy of preparation, and when Margaret found her half an hour later, she was beating eggs, stoning raisins, and creaming butter, apparently all at the same moment. An ardent consultation followed. What flavor would Mr. John (Frances would never say Mr. Montfort) like best for the ice-cream? and the cake—would a caramel frosting be best, or a boiled frosting with candied fruits chopped into it? and for the small cakes, now, and the tartlets?

Mr. Montfort's birthday came, as most birthdays do, once a year. Considering this, it was a singular thing that he, the most methodical of men, who turned his calendar as regularly as he wound his watch, never seemed to remember it. He never failed to be astonished at Margaret's morning greeting. More than this, he apparently forgot it as soon as it was over, for he always had a fresh stock of astonishment on hand for the health-imperilling feast that Frances was sure to arrange for the evening. To-day he took no notice of the fact that wherever he went he came upon some girl or boy carrying armfuls of flowers and ferns, or arranging them in bowls, jars, and vases. When he found his desk heaped with a tangle of clematis and wild lilies,—Peggy had dropped them there "just for a minute," half an hour before,—this excellent man merely said "Charming," and rescued his pet Montaigne from the wet sprays which covered it. In the course of the morning, Fernley House was transformed into a bower of greenery, lit up with masses of splendid color. Everywhere drooped or nodded clusters of ferns, the ostrich fern and the great Osmunda Regalis, with here and there masses of maiden-hair, most delicate and beautiful of all. In the library, especially, the ferns were arranged with all the skill and care that Margaret possessed. They outlined the oaken shelves, their delicate tracery seeming to lie lovingly against the rich mellow tints of morocco and vellum; they waved from tall vases of crystal and porcelain; they spread their lace-like fronds in flat bowls and dishes. "I don't see how there can be any left," said Peggy; "it seems as if we had all the ferns in the world, and yet in the woods it didn't seem to make any difference. Oh, Jean, isn't it just splendid!"

"Corking!" said Jean.

"Jean, I won't have you say that."

"Well, the Merryweathers say it all the time, Peggy. They never say anything else, except when Margaret is round; you know they don't."

"The Merryweathers are boys, and you are a girl, and there is all the difference in the world," said Peggy, loftily. "Jean, it is high time you went to school."

"Oh, bother school! I have two ponies to break this fall, and Pa has promised to let me drive the reaper around the hundred-acre field."

Peggy said nothing, being a wise as well as an affectionate elder sister; but she resolved to consult Hugh, and to write to "Pa" without delay.

So the morning passed in preparation and mystery. Then in the afternoon came a drive in the great open car, a delightful vehicle, holding eight people comfortably. Peggy sat on the box—happy Peggy!—and drove the spirited black horses. Uncle John was by her side, and they recalled merrily the day when, as John Strong, he took his first drive with her, and decided that she was to be trusted with a horse.

"Oh, what fun we did have that summer!" cried Peggy. "Only—we had no Uncle John. Oh, Uncle, if we had Rita here, wouldn't it be too absolutely perfect for anything?"

"It would be very delightful," said Mr. Montfort. "I would give a good deal to see that dark-eyed lassie and her gallant Jack. I think I must take you and Margaret to Cuba one of these days, Peggy, to see them. How would you like that, Missy?"

"Oh, Uncle John!" cried Peggy; and she almost dropped the whip, in the effort to squeeze his arm and turn a corner at the same moment.

But the best of all was when the whole family assembled in the library before supper, the girls in their very prettiest dresses, with flowers in their hair, the lads brave in white duck waistcoats, with roses and ferns in their buttonholes. Then the girls presented the gifts they had made for the beloved uncle; Margaret's book, a fine old copy of the "Colloquies of Erasmus," bound by her own hands in gold-stamped brown leather, Peggy's mermaid-penwiper, with a long tail of sea-green sewing silk, and the pincushion on which Jean had spent many painful hours in her efforts to make the ferns look like ferns instead of like green hen feathers. Grace had woven a basket of sweet rushes, of quaint and graceful pattern, which Mr. Montfort declared was what he had dreamed of all his life, while Hugh produced a box of wonderful cigars, which had a history as mysterious and subtle as their fragrance. Lastly, the Merryweathers, declaring that they had no gift but themselves, and that if Mr. Montfort would be graciously pleased to accept them, they were his, proceeded to go through a series of acrobatic performances, which brought cries of admiration from all the beholders.

While this was going on, Margaret took advantage of the interlude (though she was loth to lose one of Gerald's graceful postures) to run out and see if supper was ready. She came back with a rueful countenance, and whispered to Peggy, "Supper will not be ready for ten minutes yet, and Frances is in a most frightful temper. She actually drove me out of the kitchen; said she would not be bothered with foolish children, and she would not send supper in till Bannan came back, if it cost her her place."

"Bannan? What has Bannan to do with supper?"

"Bringing something, I suppose; some extra frill she has prepared as a surprise. She is always savage when she has a surprise on foot. Hark! There are wheels now. Listen! Yes, they are going round to the back door. Bannan has come, then, and we may hope for food. Oh, do look at those boys! Did you ever see anything like that?"

All eyes were fixed on the twins, who, after every variety of separate antic, now proceeded to perform what they called a patent reversible waltz. Standing on their hands, they twined their feet together in the air, and revolved gracefully, moving in unison, and keeping time to the waltz they whistled. The whole company was watching this proceeding with such absorbed attention that no one saw the door at the back of the hall open silently; no one noticed the figure that stole noiselessly through, and now stood motionless in the doorway. A young woman, slender, richly dressed, beautiful exceedingly; with a certain foreign grace, which struck the eye even more than her beauty. But it was neither the grace nor the beauty that was first to be seen now; it was the light of love in the large dark eyes, the soft fire of joy and tenderness and mirth that shone from them, and seemed to irradiate her whole figure as she stood there, erect, yet seeming to sway forward, her hand on the door, her eyes bent on the group before her. Her gaze wandered for a moment to the guests: the revolving boys, Grace and Hugh in their quiet corner together, Jean staring with open eyes and mouth; but after a wondering look, it came back and settled again on the central group, Mr. Montfort, in his great armchair, Peggy and Margaret each on a stool beside him, leaning against his knees. Was the group complete? or was there room for another by that good man's side?

Jean was the first to look up and see the newcomer. She started violently. "My goodness!" she cried, "who is that?" The next instant a cry rang out, as Margaret and Peggy sprang forward, "Rita! Rita!"

But Rita was too quick for them. Before they were well on their feet she had them both in her arms, and was weeping, sobbing, laughing, and kissing, all in a breath. With the next breath she had sunk at Mr. Montfort's feet, and, seizing his hand, pressed it passionately to her lips.

"My dear child," cried Uncle John, blushing like a girl, and drawing away his hand in great discomposure. "Don't, my love; pray don't. Rita! is it possible that this is really you? What does it mean?"

"What does it mean, my uncle? It means that even in Cuba we know the days of the month. Dearest and best of men, I wish you a thousand returns of the day,—five, ten thousand returns, and each one more blissful than the last. Marguerite, my angel, you are more beautiful than ever. Angel is no longer the word; you are a seraph! Embrace me again! Peggy, you are a mountain; but a veritable mountain of roses and cream! Dear little huge creature, I adore you. But where, then, is the rest of me? Jack! Figure to yourself a husband who skulks in doorways at a moment like this! Come forth, thou!"

Jack Del Monte advanced laughing; behind him in the passage the three conspirators, Frances, Elizabeth, and Bannan, peered triumphant. "My dear," said Jack, "I was merely waiting for my cue. You would not have had me spoil your entrance, you know you would not. Uncle John—I may say Uncle John? thanks!—I hope you will forgive Rita's little stratagem for the sake of the pleasure it has given her."

"My dear nephew," said Uncle John, "you have brought me the most enchanting birthday gift that ever a man had. Let me look at you again, Rita! If ever happiness agreed with a person—but I must not begin upon compliments now. I want you to know these cousins and friends. Here is Hugh Montfort and Jean; here is Grace Wolfe, who is to be your cousin one of these good days; and here are our friends Gerald and Philip Merryweather. You have all heard of one another; let us all be friends at once, without further ceremony, and keep this joyful feast together."

"Supper is served, sir," said Elizabeth.

A joyful feast it was indeed. The table, decked with ferns and roses, was covered with every good thing that Frances could think of, and she could think of a good many. The candles shed their cheerful light on all, though the faces hardly needed the artificial light. Amid general mirth, Rita told of her plan; her letter of inquiry to Frances and Elizabeth, asking if all were well, and if their coming would make any inconvenience. Then the telegram to Bannan, and the arrival, to find him awaiting them with the best horse the stable afforded; and, finally, their stealthy entrance at the back door. All had been triumphantly successful, and as Rita told her story, she laughed and clapped her hands with the glee of a child, while every face glowed responsive.



"And now," said Rita Del Monte, springing to her feet, and lifting high her glass, "I wish to propose a toast—the only fitting toast for this night. I propose, dear friends, and dear strangers whom I hope to have for friends, the health of the best man—ah, Jack, you have not had time yet, nor you others; but courage, time is before you!—of the best man, I say, that lives upon this earth to-day; the dearest, the kindest—oh, all please drink to the health of my Uncle John!"

One and all were upon their feet; all bending forward, glass in hand, eager and joyous, their eyes shining with love and admiration; and from one and all came the same glad cry, "Uncle John!"

"Because if one hasn't the luck to be really his nephew," said Gerald, "the least one can do is to make a bluff at it."

And here, at this happy moment, let us leave our friends. Good-by, Margaret—dear Margaret! Good-by, Peggy and Rita, Hugh and Grace, Gerald and Phil,—we may see you again, boys,—Jean and Jack! Good-by, and good luck to you! Last of all, good-by to you, John Montfort. If you are not the best man in the world, you are at least a good one! Wise and strong, courteous and kindly, brave and true, long may you live, as now you sit, in your own beautiful home, surrounded by those you love best in the world. Love, kindness, and truth; having these, what more do you lack? Good-by, John Montfort.

THE END.

* * * * *

Transcriber's Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired.

Page 45, "be" changed to "am" (I am to use)

Page 233, "delared" changed to "declared" (which Mr. Montfort declared)