There were Mr. and Mrs. Force, Col. Anglesea, Miss Meeke, Wynnette and Elva; but there was one absentee.

"Where is Odalite?" inquired her father, looking around the table.

"She has gone to bed with a nervous headache," replied her mother.

"Nothing serious, I hope," said the father, uneasily.

"Oh, no, nothing at all serious," answered the mother.

"I never knew Odalite to have a headache in her life before," said Mr. Force.

"No, but then—

"'Such things must begin, some day,'"

quoted the lady, with a forced smile.

Col. Anglesea engaged Mr. Force in conversation to draw off his attention from Mrs. Force, who seemed to have some difficulty in maintaining her self-possession.

After tea his host proposed a game of whist, and the party of four grown people sat down to a rubber.

Col. Anglesea and Mrs. Force played against Mr. Force and Miss Meeke.

The colonel and the hostess beat the rubber. And soon afterward the circle separated and retired to rest.

It was just after breakfast the next morning when Col. Anglesea said to his host:

"Force, can you give me a few moments private conversation before you go away this morning?"

"Certainly. Come in here," said the master of the house, leading the way to the vacant drawing room, and wondering much what Anglesea could possibly have to say to him in private.

"You will be very much surprised, and, I fear, very much displeased at what I am about to say to you; and yet, Force, I must say it. No other course is open to me, as a man of honor!" began Col. Anglesea, when the key was turned in the door and both men were seated.

"Whatever can you have to say to me that requires such deep solemnity of introduction?" demanded Mr. Force, with a light laugh, and yet with some uneasiness.

"It is this, then. Do not be offended. But I cannot help it—I love your daughter!" said the colonel, with that affectation of bluntness he had determined upon.

Mr. Force, with hands on knees, bent forward and stared at the speaker.

"You—love—my—daughter!" he slowly repeated.

"Yes! I cannot help it. If it be a crime, I cannot help it! If I were to be shot for it, I could not help it!"

"But, man alive! she is only sixteen, and you must be near forty! Quite old enough to be her father!"

"Yes, quite! You are right, and that is the worst of it! And doubtless I am a fool! But there! I love her! I cannot help it, I say!"

"But, dear me, Anglesea, you know it is of no sort of use your loving Odalite. She is to marry her cousin, you know."

"Yes, I know."

"I am very sorry for this, Anglesea."

"If it were only myself that is concerned I pledge you my word of honor that I would go away at once and bear my disappointment like a man. But, oh! Force, it is not only myself. I am not the only one whose happiness is at stake in this matter," said the colonel, solemnly.

Mr. Force stared at him uneasily.

"You do not mean—you do not mean—— What do you mean, man?" he demanded at length.

"Let me be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Force. Nothing was further from my—from our—intention than that which has happened. We drifted into this. When I discovered that my heart was irrevocably given to your daughter, and remembered that you had other views for her than my poor alliance, I was shocked and disgusted with myself, and I would have finished my long visit here, and would have gone away to distract my sorrow in extended travel; but when, too late, I also discovered that—well, it seems strange—but there is no accounting for such occurrences."

"In a word, what do you mean?" demanded Mr. Force, more and more disturbed.

"I mean that this attachment is reciprocal; that your lovely daughter returns my affection. Seeing that—as a man of honor, not to say a man in love—what could I do? I have made your daughter an offer of my hand, subject to your approval. She bids me say to you that her happiness is dependent on your consent to our marriage, and then to give the matter entirely in your hands, where I now place it, and leave it."

"Good heavens, Anglesea! this is a great shock to me! a very great shock!" exclaimed Mr. Force.

"I am sorry for it—very sorry. We place ourselves absolutely at your disposal, and submit ourselves to your will. We can do no more."

"How long has this been going on?"

"I think I must have begun to love your daughter from the first hour in which I saw her; but I think the growth of the interest was so gradual that I was not conscious of it until it was too late."

"When you put it to me as a hypothetical case, whether, if my daughter's happiness were involved in some other marriage, I would consent to forego my cherished plan of marrying her to her cousin, had you this case of yours and hers in view?"

"Not consciously. But we are such 'self-deceivers ever' that I may have had this at the bottom of my heart."

"My girl has been looking ill and out of spirits lately. Poor child!" said the father, reflectively. "Now, is her loss of bloom and cheerfulness caused by this affair between you?"

"I will tell you as truly as I can what has been on her mind," said the colonel, with a show of the most perfect candor. "She is struggling between her sense of duty to you and her affection for me. She thinks she ought to marry the young midshipman because you have set your heart on her doing so; and yet she does not wish to marry any one except your unworthy servant here present. This terrible struggle has been too much for her. Yesterday I proposed that we should end it all by coming to you, making a full confession for both of us, and leaving our fate in your hands."

"It is a terrible shock! a terrible shock! Have you spoken to her mother?"

"Yes; but she very properly referred me to you."

There was a pause of some moments, during which Mr. Force arose from his seat and walked uneasily up and down the whole length of the drawing room several times. Finally he stopped before the colonel, and said:

"Anglesea, this has been so sudden—so utterly unexpected—that I feel bewildered by it all. I cannot trust myself to give you an answer this morning. I must have a talk with her mother—yes, and with herself. I must try and get at the bottom of this change of sentiment in my daughter. I must leave you now."

"I thank you, Force, for the indulgence with which you have heard me. I feel like a very villain to have come into your house, accepted your princely hospitality and used the opportunity and abused the trust so viciously as to have won the heart of your daughter, and to have disappointed all your cherished hopes of another alliance for her. All I can say is——"

"Say no more, my dear Anglesea. These things cannot be prevented. 'The demands of the heart are absolute.' The fault—the presumption—was mine, in daring to think that any human being could make a match for another. In daring to try to make a match between my daughter and her cousin merely to gratify my ambition of sending the family name down to posterity with the family estate. There should be no 'parental' or other interference in such sacred matters. You and my daughter have become attached to each other. It is enough. I must speak to her mother, and, if need be, we must both bear our disappointment as we best can."

"But, my dear Force, if you feel this so deeply, there need be no final disappointment. Your fair daughter is very young. She may soon be able to forget me in the attractive society of some other and more favored suitor. As for me, I can go away; and though it is not likely that one of my age, loving for the first time in my life, will ever be able to forget my love, yet I hope I am man enough to bear my sorrow without complaint. Come, my kind host, the case is really at your disposal," said the colonel, with an air of frank generosity that would have deceived an angel.

"You are a noble fellow, Anglesea! A noble, open-minded fellow! I must consider my daughter. I must consider my daughter! And I have no doubt that this affair will end as you wish."

"You are really too good—too self-sacrificing! I, too, should consider your dear daughter's welfare above all other interests. But, see here, Force, in the event of my ever becoming the happy husband of your eldest child, what should there be to hinder me from taking the family name? I am the younger son of such a long line of younger sons that the marquisate must be at least a hundred removes from me, or I from the marquisate, whichever you like. So your cherished hope may yet be fulfilled in me."

"You are generous, Anglesea! I had not thought of such a concession from you. I should not have presumed to suggest it."

"What possible concession would I not make in order not only to win the daughter, but to satisfy the father?"

"Thank you, thank you, Anglesea! I will speak to you further on the subject when I have conferred with my wife. There is my horse," he said, glancing through the front window, "and I must be off now to meet my engagement. Good-morning."

And Mr. Force warmly shook the hand of his guest, and left the room.

He paused in the front hall for a few moments, and seemed to fumble a good deal with his overcoat, gloves and hat before he finally appeared on the outside equipped for his journey.

Then he hastily threw himself into his saddle, and rode off, attended by his mounted groom.

Col. Anglesea walked leisurely down to the stables, chose a horse to his mind, ordered him to be saddled and brought up to the house, and then he returned to prepare himself for a "constitutional" gallop along the highroad.

Mrs. Force confined herself to her own room that day.

Odalite walked out into the woods, and then down to the seashore, followed by her faithful companion, Joshua.

The two younger children remained shut up in the schoolroom with Miss Meeke, diligently preparing for their home examination, that was to earn for them, if satisfactorily passed, many Christmas premiums and a long Christmas holiday.

And so the bright and kindly winter day passed.

When Col. Anglesea came home to dinner he found only Miss Meeke and the two little girls in the dining room.

Miss Meeke apologized for the absence of the ladies, pleading that Mrs. Force was suffering from indisposition, and that Miss Force was attending her; and with this explanation the governess took the head of the table.

Col. Anglesea politely expressed his regret, and then made himself as agreeable as possible to the remaining party.

It was so very late when Mr. Force returned that, finding the family had already taken tea, he declined the refreshment offered by Miss Meeke, and pleading fatigue, excused himself and retired, expressing his satisfaction, however, that the trial which had occupied so much of his time was at length happily concluded.



CHAPTER X

HUSBAND AND WIFE

Mr. Force was not obliged to ride to town the next day, for which he was thankful.

All the family met around the breakfast table in high spirits, with the exception of Mrs. Force and her daughter, Odalite, both of whom were pale and almost silent, trying to overcome their depression of spirits and to take a lively part in the conversation, but failing signally.

Col. Anglesea kept the ball rolling, however, by talking gayly to Miss Meeke, Wynnette and Elva, and sometimes gravely to Mr. Force or others.

Mr. Force watched his wife and daughter very anxiously, and drew his own conclusions from the false premises laid down by Col. Anglesea.

"My dear wife is troubled about Odalite, and Odalite is troubled about herself. They both think that I shall forbid the attentions of Anglesea, and insist on the claims of Leonidas Force. Strange that my dear ones should imagine that I, of all people, could forbid anything they wish, or insist on anything they dislike. I must set their dear hearts at ease without delay."

Immediately after breakfast, leaving the other members of the family to disperse and pursue their various avocations, he followed his wife into her sitting room, where he found her at her worktable, in her usual corner between the fireplace and the side window.

He closed the door, turned the key, and came and sat beside her.

She looked up in his face uneasily.

He took her hand gently within his own and said:

"Elfrida, dear, why can't you trust me? Why have you troubled yourself for days with a question that should have been settled satisfactorily on its first arising? Tell me."

She started slightly, and looked at him intently.

Had he discovered anything? Did he suspect anything?

But no! The honest black eyes fixed on hers had no expression but perfect love and faith.

"Why didn't you tell me, wife, that Odalite had given her heart to Anglesea? Did you think that I was so selfish as to sacrifice my own child—your child—to my private ambition? No, Elfrida! No, dear! Never think so hardly of me."

She could not reply. She burst into tears, covered her face with her hands, and sobbed convulsively.

"Don't! Don't, Elfrida! You distress yourself with thinking that I am disappointed in my plans for our dear girl. But I am not, really. It came upon me quite suddenly, you see, and I was not prepared for the thought of such a change. And so, you see, just at first, perhaps, I might have expressed more feeling of disappointment at the time than the matter justified. And——Well, I suppose Anglesea has told you, and you distress yourself on my account."

"Anglesea has told me nothing that passed in his interview with you, dear Abel. Indeed, we have not exchanged a word on the subject since he spoke to you of it," said Mrs. Force, trying to suppress her sobs and calm her emotion.

"Then why should you grieve so, dear? I am really not so much disappointed, after all; for, indeed, Anglesea behaved in such a frank, noble, generous manner, confessing the whole case to me, telling me how they—himself and Odalite—drifted into this attachment unawares, until it was too late to recede; and how, when he perceived that he loved her with all his heart and soul, he would have gone away rather than have sought to win her from the youth her parents had chosen for her husband; but how, when he discovered that his love was returned by her, he felt himself bound as a man of honor to declare his affection and offer her his hand, subject to her father's approval."

"He—told you this?" demanded the lady, in a husky tone, turning away her head to conceal the look of scorn and hatred she could not entirely suppress.

"Yes, dear! he told me this; and then—he left the case in my hands with perfect submission. Could any action have been more manly and straightforward? And she, too—Heaven bless her, she, too! She sent me word, through him, that though her heart was fixed on Angus Anglesea, yet she submitted herself entirely to my will, and would obey my commands. Did ever father have such a daughter, so gentle, so dutiful, so obedient as Odalite? Or did ever girl have such a lover, so noble, generous and magnanimous as Anglesea? Why—fine fellow—he felt for my disappointment as if it had been his own; and he exaggerated it, as I have told you! And he offered—dear fellow—to merge his own name in ours, so that my cherished wish to send the patronymic down with the estate might be carried out."

"But that will not be necessary," said the lady, recovering from her emotion, and with a grim smile arising out of her own thoughts.

"How, not necessary, my dear?"

"In this way: Leonidas Force, who is but twenty-one, can afford to wait two years and marry Wynnette, who will then be of marriageable age. They can live at Greenbushes, and in due course of time they can succeed us here at Mondreer."

"But Mondreer is the heritage of our eldest daughter."

"Not necessarily; not by entail, only by tradition and custom. You can leave your estate to whom you please; though, of course, you need not think of leaving it to any one; for you may hold it yourself for fifty years to come. You are not forty, and you may live to be ninety. But when you do leave it, it would be better to leave it to Wynnette."

"And—Odalite?"

"You lose sight of one matter, dear Abel—the future possibilities of our eldest daughter."

"I—do not quite understand. Anglesea, I know, has no very great expectations from any quarter, and so if he should marry Odalite they may need Mondreer; and Anglesea has promised to take the family name that it may go down with the estate."

"I think I can show you that the estate of Mondreer can be secured to the Forces by the marriage of Leonidas Force with our second daughter, much better than it ever could be by the marriage of any one, whether Leonidas Force, Angus Anglesea, or another, with our eldest daughter."

"I wish you would tell me, then, dear, for I am in a maze."

"Have you forgotten that the Earldom of Enderby, failing male heirs, descends to the female line? 'falls to the distaff,' as old writers call it?"

"No, I have not forgotten it, for I never knew it," replied honest Abel, lifting his eyebrows.

"Know it now, then! I have never spoken of this matter to you before; because, indeed, I have seldom thought of it at all, and nothing has occurred until now to recall it to my mind; but it is a fact of too serious importance to be overlooked at this crisis. Reflect now, that there is only one frail life between me and the heirship of my father's earldom—the life of my epileptic half-brother Francis, who, inheriting the malady of his beautiful young mother who perished in her youth, has declared that he will never marry to perpetuate such a misfortune."

"We will not, dear, speculate on the possible early death of your brother," said Abel Force, gravely and tenderly, but without the slightest shade of rebuke in his tones.

"No, we will not speculate; but we cannot avoid thinking of the possible, and, indeed, the very probable future of our eldest daughter, and guide ourselves accordingly," replied the lady.

"In what way?" gently inquired her husband.

"In this way, then: We must admit that it is not at all unlikely that our eldest daughter may live to inherit her grandfather's earldom and become Countess of Enderby in her own right. In which case, should she be living here, the wife of an American citizen, she must either lose all the privileges of her rank and title or else go to England and reside upon her estates there, leaving this place in the hands of strangers. I do not say that she would be legally obliged to take this alternative, but she would be conventionally and practically constrained to do so. Whereas, if she should marry an English gentleman, all would be well with her; she would then in any case make her home in England, and when she should inherit the Earldom of Enderby she could enter upon her new dignities without any disturbance of her domestic or social life. And if, in addition to this, Le should wed Wynnette, all would be well with them and with Mondreer; the old estate would remain in the old name. Don't you see?"

"Yes, I see. It is all for the best, of course. All for the best. So I shall tell my little girl. I long to tell her, face to face, how well satisfied I am, and should be in any event, that she should please herself. I want to tell her how well I think of her choice—how nobly I think he has acted, and—many things that will bring back the roses to her cheeks and the laughter to her lips. But I will not tell her of her future brilliant possibilities in England, and I hope that you have not done so."

"No, never!"

"Quite right. I would have her build her hopes of happiness on better foundations. Where can I find her?"

"She is in her own room; but I would not talk to her to-day. She is so shaken. Her little, tender heart is so pained—now that she has decided to please herself—to think of the suffering she may cause Le."

"Oh, that is what is the matter with her, is it? Well, tell her Le must console himself with Wynnette! Oh, it will all come right! I am quite confident that it will all come right!" happily concluded the honest squire, rising to leave the room.

He stooped and kissed his wife and then went out whistling an old hunting tune.



CHAPTER XI

FATHER AND DAUGHTER

He went to the stables, mounted his cob and ambled all over his plantation, looking after such work as could only go on at this season of the year—mending of fences, repair of outbuildings, of agricultural implements, and so forth.

Then he came back to the house and hung about it in hope of meeting his daughter.

At length, about noon, he saw her out on the lawn, warmly clothed in her close-fitting brown cloth coat, and her quaint brown beaver poke bonnet tied down tightly as if for a walk in the wind on this bright, breezy December day.

He quickly slipped on his overcoat, snatched his hat and gloves, and hurried after her.

He overtook her just as she reached the east gate opening upon the path that led down to the shore.

"'Where are you going, my pretty maid? Where are you going, my pretty maid?'"

he sang, gayly, as he came up with her.

She started, looked around and recognized her father.

"I am going down to the shore, papa," she answered, as prosaically as if he had not sung his question. But he was not put down.

"'May I go with you, my pretty maid? May I go with you, my pretty maid?'"

he continued, taking her hand and drawing it through his arm.

But she was not be won to any frivolity, so she replied, gravely:

"I should be very glad to have you, papa."

"'Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Why so pale and wan?'"

he continued, in a tone of mock gravity.

"What is the matter with you to-day, papa, dear?" she inquired, uneasily regarding him.

"Why do you ask? Because I quote old poetry? My dear, it is to convince you that I am in excellent humor with all the world, and that you have no cause to complain of me. I do not intend to enact the role of a 'cruel parent,' in order to make you a persecuted heroine. I do not even intend to reproach you with your inconstancy!—though I do hope it is not going to be a chronic complaint!—because it would be embarrassing, for instance, if while we were in the midst of the preparations for your wedding with Anglesea, young Herriott, the new minister, were to come and beg my indulgence to explain to me how you never really cared for the colonel, but found your salvation depend on your union with him—Herriott! And by the time we have adapted ourselves to the new situation, young Dr. Ingle should solicit a private interview and inform me that you——"

"Oh, papa! don't! don't!" exclaimed the girl, almost surprised into a smile.

"Well, I will 'don't,' until we get down this hill, which is rather rugged!" said Mr. Force, as he passed his daughter, and went before her down the declivity, clearing away the branches of tall bushes that crowded and obstructed the narrow path.

When they reached the foot of the hill he once more gave her his arm, and they walked along the sands toward the north—Mr. Force purposely taking that direction, because it was the opposite one from that which led toward Greenbushes.

"Now, my darling," he continued, "laying all jokes aside, I wished to talk to you to-day, to assure you that you need not distress yourself, either about my fancied disappointment or about Le's fancied despair, when he shall hear of your change of mind."

"Papa——"

"Hear me out, my darling! Hi! look at that rise of blue necks! If Anglesea were only here with his gun and dogs! He is a famous shot, my dear! Where was I? Oh! I say, as for myself, I am quite satisfied to receive Anglesea as my son-in-law. He is of noble race—there is a marquisate in the family, though too far removed to do him much good, except in the honor of the connection. He is of moderate fortune, very moderate; but wealth should not be the first consideration, you know! He is a fine, noble, generous, chivalrous fellow, and I like and admire him. And more than this—more than all else, he is my dear daughter's choice, and as such I shall welcome him into the family circle."

"Oh, papa, papa!" moaned Odalite, pierced through the heart by the thought of how little her father knew of the real character of the man, the real circumstances of the case, and how impossible it was for her to enlighten him.

"Still so grave, my little one? It is of Leonidas you are thinking! Do not fret your tender heart about him, my darling girl! If you, after three years separation from your boyish lover, have changed toward him—of which, in your secluded home, there was about one chance in a hundred of your doing—be sure that he, in his long absence from his childish sweetheart, on his long cruise around the world, has half forgotten the baby girl he left behind—as there must have been a hundred chances to one that he would. I think he will in time be able to console himself with your sister. It is all in the family, you know!" he said, looking down quizzically at the young face by his side.

But, somehow, the expression of that face did not convey the idea of any great satisfaction. Quite the contrary. Odalite looked ready to cry.

"I do believe girls, with their lovers, are like dogs in the manger; they can't marry them all, and yet they are not willing that any other girl should have any of the rejected ones! Sweet angel!—the girl of the nineteenth century!"

"I do not think," murmured Odalite, breaking in upon her father's silent criticism—"I do not think, judging from Le's letters, that he has ever changed toward me. No, papa, I do not wish to justify myself by accusing Le."

"Le's letters, my dear! Why, they afford the strongest proofs to my mind that he is not, and never has been, the least bit in love with you."

Odalite looked up in surprise.

"My dear, you have no experience, or you would never mistake Le's practical epistles for love letters. Why, you let all the family read them! You could not if they were love letters."

"Why, papa?"

"Because, my dear, if they were, they would be much too silly to be shown. You would not think so; but you would have sense enough left to know that other people would; and so you would hide them. But Le's letters are laudably practical and fit to be shown to a deacon, as, for instance, this:

"'Tell Beever he can stay on as overseer as long as you please; so he must look out and please you. Tell him I don't know anything about the relative merits of Durham or Alderney breeds of cattle, or Southdown sheep, or anything of that sort. I took my degree at a naval academy, not at an agricultural college. So you just buy what stock you like best, and if you don't know any better than I do, ask your father. He does.'

"That's the sort of love letters Le writes to you, my dear! A letter that he might have written to his attorney or to his overseer!"

"And yet, showing in every line, in every word, his constant consideration for me, his wish to defer everything to me," sighed Odalite.

"Showing the carelessness of the sailor, rather than the devotion of the lover! But look you here, my little girl! How is this? Grieving—actually grieving for Le, while you are loving and engaging to marry Anglesea? I do not understand it!"

"Oh, papa! It is only that I wish to be just to Le! And I wish you to be just to him. However you may blame my fickleness, do not blame him; he has not changed!"

"Tut, tut, my dear! Young naval officers sailing all over the world, seeing all sorts of beautiful and attractive women of all races and nations, do not break their hearts about little, childish sweethearts left in their country homes, and whom they have not seen for years! Midshipman Leonidas Force, if he aspires to marry one of my daughters, must put up with the second Miss Force! Ay, and must wait until she is of suitable age! Now let us talk about the wedding! The colonel—he is something like a lover!—wants it to come off as soon as may be, before Christmas, if possible! What do you say, my dear?" inquired the squire, just to divert his daughter's mind from what he considered a morbid and painful compassion for the discarded lover's wrongs.

"It shall be just as my mother pleases, sir! I should like to leave everything to her," replied Odalite.

"That is quite right. The mother is the proper one, of course. Well, talk to her, my precious, and whatever arrangements you two agree upon I shall indorse. It seems to be clouding up. I should not wonder if we were to have snow before night. Shall we turn homeward?"

"Yes, if you please, papa."

"Oh! look at those wild turkeys! What a splendid chance for a shot, if I only had my fowling piece. Strange that I only have such chances when I have no gun—and consequently no chance at all!" laughed the squire, as they turned to go up the hill.

They reached the house just as the first fine flakes of snow began to fall.

"It will be a white Christmas, with fine sleighing, after all, perhaps," said the squire, cheerily, as they entered the house.

"Dinner has been waiting full half an hour, papa. And I would like to know where you and Odalite have been gadding to without saying a word to anybody. And I would like also to know—oh! how I should like to know—what has come to everybody in the house, that nobody but Elva and I and Miss Meeke have any common sense left!" exclaimed Wynnette, meeting the returning couple.

"Whereas the simple and exact truth is, that you three are the real and only lunatics in the house, and, like all lunatics, think everybody else but yourselves mad," laughed the squire, as he led his eldest daughter straight to the dining room.



CHAPTER XII

ODALITE AND LEONIDAS

Before the week was ended Wynnette, as well as every other member of the family, knew "what was the matter."

Beever, the overseer of Greenbushes, came to consult Miss Force about the size and quality of the Persian rugs to be bought for the bedrooms of the farmhouse.

And Mr. Force, in the presence of the whole family, said that henceforth all these consultations were to be suspended, as Miss Force had nothing further to do with the fitting up of the house.

This caused much surprise, not only to the overseer, but to Wynnette and Elva, who became importunate in their inquiries, and in a manner compelled an explanation.

Great was the indignation of those two young ladies on learning that their dear Le was to be "thrown over" for the sake of that "big, yellow dog," Col. Anglesea.

Wynnette and Elva went off to take secret counsel together.

Wynnette declared that she meant to talk to Odalite about it, and also to Col. Anglesea, and to tell him, if need were, that he was no gentleman to come into the house to cut out—

"No, I won't say 'cut out,' either, for it is vulgar; I will say supplant—that is the word, and I will say something better than I first thought of, too! I will stand straight up before him and lift up my head and look him straight in the face, and I will say to him:

"'Col. Angus Anglesea, do you consider it conduct becoming an officer and a gentleman to come into this house to supplant a gallant young midshipman, who is serving his country, in the affections of his betrothed bride?'"

"Oh! that will be splendid, Wynnette! What book did you get it out of?" innocently inquired Elva.

"'Book?' No book! Every good thing I say you think comes out of a book; but it came out of my own head."

"What a splendid head you have, Wynnette!"

"Yes. I guess people will find that out some of these days."

"Col. Anglesea will, won't he? Now you say that to him, Wynnette! Just as you said it to me!"

"That will fetch him! No, not 'fetch him'—that is vulgar, too. Make an impression on him—that is what I mean, Elva."

"Yes; and I do just think that he would feel so ashamed of himself that he would turn right around and go home!"

"I hope he may!" said Wynnette.

"But if he should stay and marry Odalite, in spite of all, oh! what will poor Le do?" said compassionate little Elva.

"Don't know, I'm sure; but I know what I would do."

"What would you do, Wynnette?"

"Have the satisfaction of a gentleman."

"And what is that?"

"Call the rapscallion—no, I mean the diabolical villain—out and shoot him!"

"Oh, Wynnette! Is that the satisfaction of a gentleman? To commit so great a sin?"

"I'd do it, and face the music afterward. No—I mean I would take the consequences."

"Oh, no, you wouldn't, Wynnette. And you must not, for all the world, put such a thing in poor Le's head. He will be in trouble enough when he comes home, poor fellow, to find his sweetheart taken away from him without having—oh! I can't speak the dreadful word, Wynnette. Poor Le! I tell you what I'll do, Wynnette."

"What?"

"Well, if the worst comes to the worst, and that colonel does take Odalite away from Le——"

"Of course he will take Odalite away from Le. There is not a doubt of it. I shall have the pleasure of speaking my mind to the scalawag—I mean the wretch—but that is all I shall get; and he, he will feel ashamed of himself, perhaps, and that is all he will do. He is not a man to give up anything he wants; and he wants Odalite, and he means to have her—the brute!"

"Well, if it comes to that, I tell you what I will do. I will marry poor dear Le myself—that is, when I am big enough. I always did like Le."

"You! You marry Le!" exclaimed Wynnette, opening her black eyes to their widest capacity.

"Yes, when I am big enough—that is, I mean, unless you would take him. That would be ever so much better."

"I! Why, I wouldn't have Le Force if every hair on his head was hung with a diamond as big as a hazel nut, and he would give them all to me. No, I thank you."

"Well, then, I would. So there now! Not only if he hadn't a diamond to his name, but if he hadn't a hair on his head. Poor Le! Poor dear Le! I do love him so dearly!"

Wynnette had made no vain boast of "bearding the lion." She watched her opportunity, and on the very first occasion on which she found him alone, sitting and reading in the drawing room, she—to use her own expression—"went for him."

She stood right up before the great soldier of India, and astonished him by addressing him in the very words she had rehearsed to Elva.

Col. Anglesea threw himself back in his chair, and gave way to a peal of laughter. And when he recovered his breath, patted her on the head and said, mockingly:

"You will forgive me, and thank Odalite, when you discover that we have got married on purpose to leave the gallant young middy to you, so that you shall not be an old maid."

"Thank you, sir. No one shall make a match for me. And since my peaceful mission to you has failed, I must leave you to be taken in hand by the gentleman you have robbed. He will call you to a strict account."

So saying, the small young lady threw up her head, and with great dignity marched out of the room.

Her next effort in the absent lover's cause was with Odalite herself.

She found her eldest sister in their mother's room, where a colored maidservant was engaged in unpacking a case just arrived from New York, and carefully extricating from its interior a rich white dress of velvet and swansdown, garnished with orange blossoms, and which was elaborately folded, with white tissue paper between every surface.

"Be careful, Net. The veil must be somewhere there," said Mrs. Force, who was standing over the case, watching the work.

"I reckon it is in this square bandbox at the bottom," suggested the woman.

"Get it up very carefully, then."

Odalite, sitting back in an easy chair, seemed languid and indifferent to what was going on before her.

"Is that the wedding dress?" inquired Wynnette, when the elegant structure was laid out at length upon the bed, the train hanging from the foot far down on the carpet.

"Yes, that is the wedding dress. What do you think of it? Is it not beautiful?" inquired Mrs. Force, gazing admiringly on the bridal robes.

"No! I think it is horrid! Perfectly horrid! I wouldn't wear it if I were Odalite!" exclaimed Wynnette, turning her back on the finery, and going straight up to where her sister sat alone in her sadness.

Disregarding the presence of others in the room, the impetuous little lady struck at once into the middle of her subject.

"Odalite! It is not true—it cannot be true—that you are going to throw over your own dear true love—our own darling Le, whom we have known all our lives—just to marry that foreign beat, whom nobody knows anything about—I mean that British colonel, who is almost a stranger to us?"

Wynnette was terrified at the result of her question.

Odalite bent forward, threw her arms around her sister's neck, and burst into a storm of sobs and tears.

Mrs. Force wisely forbore to interfere.

The colored woman looked on philosophically. She had seen hysterical brides before now.

Wynnette clasped her sister close to her bosom, and cried for company.

Presently Odalite raised her head, wiped the traces of tears from her face, and taking the hands of her sister, looked earnestly up to her, and speaking more solemnly than she had ever done before, said:

"Father and mother have consented that I may. Wynnette, if you love me, never, never speak to me of this again."

The little girl kissed her sister in perfect silence, saying to herself:

"He has bewitched her—there's where it is! He must have learned magic when he was in India, and he has bewitched her!"

A joyful commotion in the hall below, a chorus of voices in glad surprise, and of dogs in eager welcoming barks, attracted the instant attention of all who were present in the room.

"Oh, mother! what is it? What is it? Has—has——Oh, mother!" exclaimed Odalite, half rising, then sinking back and grasping the arm of her chair, pale as death.

But before Mrs. Force could go to her daughter, the door was unceremoniously burst open by an excited negro girl, who, with her eyes starting, and her hair bristling, not with horror, but with delight, burst into the room, exclaiming:

"Marse Le is come home! Marse Le is come home! 'Deed he is, missus! 'Deed he is, Miss Odalite!"

And in another instant the young sailor rushed into the room with a joyous bound, almost whooping:

"Here I am, auntie! Here I am, cousins! Ship reached New York yesterday morning, and here I am to-day! And old Joshua knew me! Indeed he did, after three years. Where is she? Where is she! Where is my pet?" he asked eagerly, after hastily kissing and hugging everybody who had put themselves in the way between him and the fainting girl, and looking eagerly all around for her, he caught sight of her reclining in her easy chair.

He made an impetuous dash forward, caught her in his arms, strained her to his heart, and covered her face with kisses, before he perceived her condition.

Then he lifted the lifeless form, hurried with it across the room and laid it on the bed, crushing the orange blossoms on the beautiful bridal dress, in careless disregard of everything but his sweetheart, and crying out in dismay:

"Oh, auntie! she has fainted! I took her too suddenly by surprise! And oh! my darling has fainted for joy!"



CHAPTER XIII

LEONIDAS AND ODALITE

"Dear Leonidas, leave her to me. You know your room, dear boy! Go to it and call for whatever you want. Jake will wait on you as before you went away," said Mrs. Force, gently putting the young officer aside and taking his place next her daughter.

"But Odalite? I—I feel so worried about Odalite!" urged Le.

"Oh, she will rally soon! But you see, dear, we must remove her tight clothing, and you must leave the room."

"Oh, I see," assented the youth, and he went out.

Wynnette and Elva were waiting for him in the upper hall. They had held council together and decided not to tell him anything about Col. Anglesea's and Odalite's engagement.

"For," said canny Wynnette, "perhaps now that Le has come back Odalite may return to her first love."

And Elva agreed with her.

Now as soon as Le appeared in the hall the two children fell upon him with the most extravagant welcomes and caresses, and, refusing to be shaken off, went up with him to his room.

In the meanwhile, in her bedchamber, Mrs. Force was doing all that she could to restore her daughter.

In a little while Odalite opened her eyes and fixed them full of unutterable anguish and reproach upon her mother's bending face.

She did not mean to do so. It was the first involuntary expression of her waking consciousness.

"Oh, do not look at me so, my child! You will break my heart!" moaned Elfrida Force.

Odalite took her mother's hand and kissed it tenderly; then closed her eyes and turned away her head.

Presently she said:

"Let no one tell him, mother, until I see him again. I must be the one to tell him."

"Oh, Odalite! Oh, my child! Would you—would you——" began the lady, in alarm; but her daughter hastened to allay her fears.

"No, mother, I would not! But send every one from the room so that we may talk together," she whispered.

Mrs. Force gave the order, and Luce, the colored woman, dropped a bridesmaid's dress that she was unpacking, and went out, followed by all the others, leaving the mother and daughter alone together.

"No, mother, dear, your secret is as safe with me as with the dead; for I seem dead. I must tell Le myself that I wish to break with him to marry Col. Anglesea; and that is true so far as it goes, because I do wish to marry him to save you and my dear father and my little sisters from evils much greater than my marriage with Col. Anglesea could bring me. I need not tell Le why, but simply that I do. Le will believe that I am false to him. And that will be true also, for I am false to him, no matter what my excuse may be! And it will be best for him to believe it; for it will help him to get over any disappointment he may feel now, or any remaining affection for me. That is the reason why I myself must be the one to tell him."

"Oh, Odalite! Oh, my dear! Can you do so?"

"Yes, I can compel myself to do so. And now, mother, I must get up and see Le, without delay. No! do not try to prevent me! I am strong enough in mind and body! I was only overcome for the moment by the sudden coming of Le so full of hope and joy, and the knowing what a shock of disappointment was in store for him. That was all. I am stronger now."

So saying, the girl arose from the bed, stood up and took hold of her long, black hair, which had fallen down. She walked to the dressing bureau and secured the roll with pins, and then proceeded to smooth the folds of her disordered dress.

When all this was done she left the room.

"Odalite! Odalite! where are you going, my child?"

"To my interview with Le! Don't hinder me, mother, dear! I can go through the ordeal now! I am nerved for it. I may not be able to meet the trial on another day, or even in another hour," said the girl, looking back for a minute, and then closing the door and passing downstairs.

Mrs. Force threw herself back in her easy chair, covered her face with both hands, and moaned.

Meanwhile Odalite went downstairs, opened the front door, and passed out upon the porch, on which the winter sun was shining, and through which a fresh breeze was blowing.

She was immediately followed by Luce, who had seen her leave the hall, and who now came out, bearing the girl's coat and bonnet on her arm, and saying:

"Yer want to ketch yer deff, doan yer, Miss Odylit? Goin' out in de cole widout nuffin on yer! Yer musn' gib yerse'f dat habit. 'Deed yer musn'. Here, put on yer coat an' bonnet."

The girl turned, and let the woman help her on with her outer garments, and when they were fastened, said:

"Aunt Lucy, will you go up to Mr. Le's room, and ask him to come down and join me here?"

"Yes, honey, sure I will. Didn' he put a s'prise on to us all? Whip you horses! how we was all took aback! Lor'! no wonder you fainted dead away. But look yere, chile. Dat was de fus time as yer ebber fainted in yer life, an' let it be de las'. Doan gib yerse'f a habit ob it. I know it tuk yer onawares dis time, bein' de fus time, an' you knowin' nuffin 'bout it. But you be on de watch out nudder time, an' if yer feel it a-comin' on, you 'sist it wid all yer might. Doan yer faint no mo'. Ef yer gibs yerse'f de habit, yer'll jes be like one ob dese yere po', mis'able, faintyfied creetures as can't stand nuffin. Dey's allus faintn'. It's a habit dey gibs deirselves."

So talking, Luce went into the house and up the stairs to give her message.

In a few moments Le came bounding down the steps, three or four at a bound, and out of the door with a shout of joy, to join his sweetheart, little thinking of what he was to meet.

"Luce tells me that you are all right now!" he exclaimed, suddenly clasping her in his arms and pressing her to his bosom, while he covered her face with kisses.

"Little mistress of Greenbushes! Little lady of the manor! Have they done everything to please you over there? If they have not—if any man has failed to please my little lady—that man must march. How soon will our wedding be? Before Christmas? Let it be before Christmas. Let us keep our Christmas at Greenbushes, and have uncle and aunt and all the family there to keep it with us. Won't that be jolly? For you and me to entertain our friends at our own home! I was thinking of all this, and a lot more, all the homeward voyage. Odalite, why don't you answer me? Why, Odalite! Odalite! What is the matter?" he anxiously inquired, seeing at length how pale and cold and silent she was—how utterly irresponsive to his enthusiasm.

She struggled out of his embrace, and stood leaning for support against the railings of the porch.

He followed her in surprise and alarm.

"Odalite! what is the matter, dear? Are you—are you going to be ill?"

"No!" she answered, in a hollow, far-off sounding voice. "No! But come with me—somewhere—where I can—breathe! Come down to the shore, Le. I have something to tell you."

He stepped back into the hall, hastily drew on his overcoat, seized his hat and gloves, and rejoined her, still in some anxiety, but without the least suspicion of the blow that was about to fall upon him.

He drew her arm within his own, and holding and fondling her hand, led her down the steps, across the lawn to the east gate, and down the wooded hill to the shore.

"No; I do not wish to walk further. We will rest here," she said, as soon as they had reached the sands. And she sank wearily upon the rude wooden bench that stood on the beach just above the water mark.

He sat down beside her, took her hand, looked into her pale face, and tenderly questioned:

"What has happened to distress you, darling? Is anyone you care for sick or in trouble? Can I help you, then? You know I would aid to my last dollar if it were any one you cared for," he said, caressing the little fingers he toyed with.

"Oh, Le! Le!" she moaned.

"Odalite!" he whispered, in an access of anxiety, "is any one—dead? Tell me! I have just come, and know nothing. Is any one—dead?"

"Oh, no! No, Le! No one is dead. I—I wish to Heaven some one were!"

"Odalite!"

"Not any one we love, Le. Oh, Le! I will tell you as soon as I can. Something has happened. I—I brought you out here to tell you. But, oh, Le! Le! dear Le! how shall I tell you?"

"My darling Odalite, what?"

"Don't speak to me, Le! Don't speak! Listen! Le, hate me! scorn me! I deserve that you should. Oh, no! no! Don't! don't! I should go mad if you did. But—try not to mind me; try not to care for me at all. I am not worth it, Le. Not worth a regret—not worth a thought. I am such a poor thing! Such a very poor thing! And I shall not last long. That is the best of it." She breathed these last words out in a low, long-drawn sigh, dropping her head upon her bosom and her arms upon her lap.

"Oh, my dear Odalite, what is the meaning of all this? What ails you? What misfortune has happened to you? Have you lost your health? Oh, my own, own darling! is it so? You are so pale and cold and faint! That must be it. You have lost your health. But do you think I would give you up for that? Oh, no, no, no, my precious! That would make me only more your own devoted Le than ever before. I would care for you, and wait on you, and nurse you more tenderly than ever a mother did her baby. For are you not my own—my very own?" he said, putting his arms around her and drawing her close to his heart.

"Oh, Le, Le! No, no, no! I am no longer your own! No longer your Odalite," she exclaimed, struggling out of his embrace, and bursting into a tempest of tears and sobs.

"Not my Odalite! Nonsense, dearest dear! Not my own Odalite? Whose else should you be, I wonder? Why, you have been my own Odalite all your little life. What can be the matter with you? I know now! I have read and heard about hysterics in young girls, and that is what has come over you, darling! I took you too much by surprise! You fainted, and now you are hysterical! What can I do for you, Odalite? I wish I knew just what to do! Do you know? No! you shake your head. Well! let us go back to the house! We had certainly better do that!" said the youth, rising and offering his arm.

"No! no, Le! not to the house! It is here that I must tell you! here by the sea! Yes! it is a fitting place for such a confession! here by the treacherous sea!" she said, trying to suppress the sobs that still shook her bosom.



CHAPTER XIV

TOLD BY THE WINTRY SEA

The young man said no more, but simply stood before her and waited in wonder for her words.

"I am not hysterical, Le! I am not hysterical; but I am false—faithless! Despise and forget me, Le! for I am not worthy of your remembrance. I am false and faithless!"

"No, no! Odalite, it cannot be true!" cried the young man, in a sharp tone of anguish.

"Yes, yes! it is true! it is true! it is shameful, but it is true!" exclaimed the desperate girl.

"Oh, my Lord, my Lord! Can this be possible? You false to me, Odalite! You—you!" cried the youth, growing deathly pale, while great drops of cold sweat started from his forehead.

The girl strove to speak, but failed, and nodded with a choking sob.

"Who is the man?" demanded the youth, throwing himself again on the bench, since indeed he was scarcely able to stand.

"I—I—I—am engaged to Col. Anglesea," gasped and faltered Odalite.

"'Col. Anglesea!' And who, in the foul fiend's name, is Col. Anglesea? Satan fly away with him!"

"He is—is an—an officer in the—the East India Service."

"How did you come to know him? May the——"

"Oh, don't, don't, Le! He was an old—old friend of my mother, and—we met him at Niagara."

"I wish to Heaven he was at the foot of the falls!"

"So do I with all my heart!—oh, no, I don't either!—I—I don't know what I am talking about! My head is wild!" said Odalite, putting her hand to her forehead.

Le looked at her wistfully.

"An old friend of your mother, eh?"

"Yes."

"Rich? Of high rank?"

"I—I believe so."

"Where is the man?"

"He is here at Mondreer, where he has been staying ever since he came down with us at my father's invitation from Niagara."

"And you are going to marry him?"

"Oh, yes," replied Odalite, with a heartrending sigh. "It cannot be helped. It is all settled."

"I see how it is! A friend of your mother, rich, and of high position; and so they have yielded to the temptation of wealth and rank, and they have forced or coaxed you into compliance with their wishes in consenting to this dishonorable marriage! I did not think so of my uncle and aunt. But this cannot, shall not go on! I shall insist upon my prior rights. Take heart, my precious. I shall not let them destroy our happiness by parting us. No, not for all the wealth and rank in the world!"

"Oh, Le! Le! you mistake! you mistake! Nobody forced me! Nobody persuaded me! I am going to marry Col. Anglesea of my own free will! Indeed I am! Oh, Le! Le!" wailed the unhappy girl.

The youth stared at her in speechless astonishment and bitter misery.

"Oh! don't look so, Le!—don't look so! I am not worth it, Le! Indeed I am not!"

"Do I understand you to say that you break your engagement to me, and marry this foreigner, of your own free, unbiased will?" he asked, at last, in cold, hard, restrained tones.

"Yes, yes, yes! that is what I am going to do!" replied Odalite, with the firmness of despair.

"Then you are false to me—to me, your lover, who had never a thought that was false to you!—to me, your mate of many years!—to me, your almost husband!" cried the youth, losing all self-command in the sharpness of his pain, and bursting into a tempest of grief and rage, and launching fierce reproaches upon her.

She raised her hands in piteous deprecation, and then held them up before her head as if to shield it from the storm.

But as he flashed the lightnings of scorn and hurled the thunder of condemnation upon her, she cowered lower and lower, holding by the bench on which she sat, until at length, utterly overwhelmed, she sank to the ground, rolled over, and lay with her face downward on the sand at his feet.

But she uttered no word in self-defense; she only wept and sobbed as if her heart were bursting.

By this time the frenzy of passion had spent itself, and there came a reaction that brought him to his senses. He looked down at Odalite in her misery. He saw in her now, not the faithless sweetheart, but the child of his boyish love and care.

He stooped and raised her up, and set her on the bench again, laying her head upon his shoulder, and supporting her form with his arm around her waist.

She made no resistance, but continued to weep convulsively.

As soon as he was able to command himself he spoke to her in a quiet tone.

"Odalite, why do you cry so hard? If you are going to marry this man to please yourself you should be happy, in spite of anything that I should say about it. Now, why do you grieve so much?"

"Oh! I have been so faithless to you, Le! I have been—so base to you! Oh! I wish I were dead! I wish I had died before I betrayed your trust in me, Le!"

These words came in spasmodic gasps and sighs from the white and quivering lips.

He looked at her searchingly, incisively; he could not understand her.

"Odalite," he said, suddenly, "I am full of doubt. I ask you again, and I charge you in the name of all that is pure and holy, to answer me truly: Was it of your own free will that you engaged yourself to Col. Anglesea?"

"Yes, yes! I repeat it: No one forced me, no one persuaded me. My father and my mother let me do just as I pleased," she sobbed.

"And yet, though you say this, you seem so miserable over it all! I cannot comprehend it!" muttered Leonidas Force, carrying his hand to his forehead and trying to reflect on the situation. "But—yes—I think I do now," he said, suddenly, as a light seemed to break on his mind.

Odalite raised her pale and tearful face from his shoulder and looked at him.

"I think I understand now, my dear; and it shall all come right yet."

She sorrowfully shook her head.

"Oh, yes; it shall come right. Confess now, Odalite. When your boy lover had been gone away so long that you had almost forgotten him, this foreign officer comes along and fascinates you with his splendor, as the rattlesnake fascinates the humming bird, and you were drawn in. Now, however, that I have come back, the old-time love has revived, and you are sorry that you mistook your heart and engaged yourself to this brilliant stranger. Is it not so? Tell me, Odalite. If it is so—as I feel sure it must be—then I will put in my prior claim and stop the marriage, send the interloping foreigner back to his own country, and you and I will marry and go to housekeeping at Greenbushes, according to our lifelong engagement. That is, if the old love has revived, as of course it has," he concluded, looking eagerly in her face.

She did not answer him. She could not.

Was the old, true love revived, indeed?

No! for the sweet, sacred love of childhood had never died, never failed, but burned now a pure fire that wasted her life.

Was she sorry that she had engaged herself to that man?

So sorry, at least, stern necessity had compelled her to do so, that now death would have been a welcome release.

But she could not tell Leonidas this.

He waited for her answer for a few moments, and then continued:

"Does that grave silence give consent, my Odalite? You are sorry? While your sailor sweetheart was so far off and so long away that you had almost forgotten what he looked like, you let your fancy be taken by this fine foreigner, with his fine social position and his wealth. But now your sailor lad has come home again, and you see him, and you know whom it is you really love, you are sorry for what you were misled into doing. But don't cry any more. You shall not be compelled to marry that man, since you do not wish to, even though you did accept him of your own free will! for you had no right to accept him, you know; you were engaged to me. But to think that he has kissed you!" exclaimed the youth, with a jealous pang, as he remembered the usual manner of sealing such an acceptance.

"Oh, no, no, Le! He has never kissed me—never, never kissed me—and he never shall until I cease to be myself and become his property, a body without a soul, which cannot help itself," said Odalite, with a woeful, wintry smile of triumph and defiance breaking through the cold rain of her tears.

"You—you—you have never let him kiss you—not even when you accepted him!" exclaimed Le, in pleased surprise.

"No; not then; nor ever! No; nor ever shall, until I become his slave in marriage!" exclaimed the girl, with a dangerous sparkle in her eyes.

"But that shall never be! Why, Odalite, you speak not only as if you do not like the man, but as if you really hate him; and that being so, you shall not marry him! I will put a stop to that at once! I have the first right to you by a long distance—the only right to you, indeed—and—and I'll throttle him—confound him!—before he shall have a hair of your head!"

"Oh, Le, hush! hush! You don't know! You mistake! Le, I must marry him! Do you understand? I must, I say!" wailed Odalite, wringing her hands.

"And you shall not, I say, because you do not want to. Your promise to him goes for nothing beside my claims," said the youth, in a tone of gay defiance.

"But, Le! Le! I—I—I want to marry him! I do indeed!" she cried, again bursting into tears and weeping violently.

He drew back from her in amazement, staring at her, while she repeated and reiterated her words, that she really wished to marry Col. Anglesea.

"I cannot comprehend you at all, Odalite. My heart aches for your evident suffering; but I cannot comprehend it. I almost fear that you are not quite sane! If you really please yourself in marrying Anglesea—as you insist that you do—why should you be so miserable over it all?"

"Oh, Le! as I told you before, it is because—because I feel that I am acting so basely by you!—oh, my dear! the thought almost maddens me!" she sobbed.

"And is it indeed for me that the gentle heart suffers so much?" questioned Le, utterly subdued by her sorrow and humility. "Do not cry, Odalite. I was cruel, and brutal, and most unmanly to blame you so much a while ago. I am sorry and ashamed of having done so, Odalite. I have no excuse to offer, unless it is that the suddenness and the bitterness of my disappointment threw me off my balance. Forgive me, Odalite. And do not spend another thought or shed another tear over me. Poor, little, tender Odalite! Do not mind me, little one! I—I—I shall get over this when I feel sure that you are happy. Do not grieve so! I shall never blame you any more, dear! I mourn that I ever could have been such a wretch as to blame you, for you could not help what has happened. I was away at the antipodes—had been there for years. He was in the house with you for three months. And—and—I have noticed—even I—what a fascination some of these handsome, brilliant soldiers exercise over young girls! You were fascinated, and your affections were won before you knew it. You did not mean to be drawn away from me any more than the boat means to be sucked into the whirlpool! You could not avert your fate any more than the boat could. I do not condemn you, Odalite. And I shall always—always love—no! I must not love another man's bride, even though he has stolen her from me; but I will always care for you as for a dear and only sister. There! there! do not cry any more. It is all for the best! All for the best!" he concluded, in a broken voice, that all his effort failed to steady.

"Le! oh, Le! I am so miserable—so miserable! Oh, Le!" she cried, looking wildly up into his eyes and then staring fixedly down upon the sea at their feet—"oh, Le! I wonder would the merciful Lord forgive me if—if——" She paused and pointed downward.

Leonidas shuddered, but controlled himself. He now believed the girl to be laboring under a temporary fit of insanity. He took her hand, raised her up, and drawing her arm within his own, said, gently:

"Come, dear, let me take you home to your mother."

She silently assented, and he led her up the hill, through the wood to the lawn gate, and across the lawn to the house.

They had not spoken a word since leaving the shore.

Le took her into the house, and into the sitting room usually occupied by Mrs. Force.

That lady sat, as was her custom, in her low sewing chair beside her worktable in the angle of the fireplace and the side window.

She arose as they entered and looked anxiously from one to the other.

Le led his companion up to her and said, in a broken voice:

"She has told me all about it. And yet I do not understand it in the least. See! she wants attention."

Mrs. Force received the half-fainting girl in her arms, and guided her to a large, cushioned chair, which Le hastened to push forward.

When Odalite was seated and reclining against the high, cushioned back, Le lifted her hand, pressed it to his lips, and turned to leave the room.

Mrs. Force followed him into the hall.

"Where are you going, Le?" she inquired.

"I don't know—I don't know! I feel lost! Like Adam turned out of Eden! And without my Eve—without my Eve!" he groaned.

"Bear it like a man, Le! You are very young, and—there are many lovely girls in the world in your reach."

"Oh, don't. Aunt Elfrida! don't! Never mind me! Go in to Odalite—she needs you."

"Le, do not leave the house—at least, till you see your uncle," pleaded the lady.

"Oh, no, I shall not go away at once. I shall do nothing hastily, to hurt her. I hurt her enough this morning, the Lord knows!" said the youth, with a heavy sigh.

Mrs. Force looked up inquiringly.

"Oh, yes," continued Le, "I behaved like a brute! I went out of my head, I think—when she first told me—and I raged at her! raged at the tender, defenseless, little creature—like the wild beast that I was!"

"Oh, Le, it was natural, my poor lad!"

"I was a savage! brutal! beastly! devilish!—but I was out of my mind! And she never defended herself, only cried—cried for me! I wish I had dropped dead before I spoke a word to hurt her! But the devil took me unawares, and drove me out of my senses."

"I do not wonder, Le."

"But there, Aunt Elfrida. Go to her! I will walk on the porch for a while."

Le's appearance on the porch was the signal for such a reception, or, rather, such an ovation, as could only be seen on a Southern plantation, and upon some such occasion as the present.

The news of the young midshipman's return—or "the young master's," as they chose to call him, in view of his relations, present and prospective, to the family of Mondreer—had spread far and wide among the negroes, and they came flocking up, men, women and children, to shake hands with him and welcome him home.

Some of the elder negroes, with "itching palms," belabored him with begging questions of—

"Wot yer got fur yer ole Aunt Mole, honey?"

"Wot yer done home f'om furrin' parts fur yer ole Uncle Bob?"

And so forth and so forth.

Le promised one and all a present as soon as ever his sea chest should arrive.

And yet they might have stayed there all day but for the opportune appearance of Aunt Lucy on the scene.

She had watched from an upper window the gathering of the crowd, and now she swooped down upon them.

"Shame o' yerselbes!" she said. "Come yere bodderin' the young marse fust minute as eber he get in de house! Whar's yer manners?"

"Don't scold them, Aunt Lucy," pleaded Le. "They came to welcome me home."

"Dey come to beg, dat's wot dey come for—to beg. It's a habit dey gibs deirselves," said the unrelenting Lucy.

"It is a habit they cannot indulge in more than once in three years, where I am concerned. I do not come home every day."

"An' a werry good fing, too, for it's a werry bad habit."

"What, coming home?"

"No, sah. Dem niggahs is a werry bad habit as oughtn't to be 'dulged in once—no, not once. Now cl'ar out wid yer all, an' go 'bout yer work."

This order was addressed to the negroes, who, overawed by the authority of the chief house servant, began to steal away from the house.



CHAPTER XV

LE'S FIERY TRIAL

Le was still walking up and down on the porch, when Mr. Force rode up, followed by his mounted groom.

He did not see Le, who was partly shaded by the bare tangle of the climbing rose vines on the trelliswork.

He threw himself out of his saddle, threw his bridle to his groom, and came up the steps.

"Ho, my boy!" he shouted, as he caught sight of the youth. "Is that you, really? Welcome! welcome! I am delighted to see you!"

And he seized Le by both hands, and shook them heartily.

"When did you get home?" he continued, in the same cordial tone.

"Only this morning," answered Le, trying to command himself, for the sudden sight of Odalite's father and the jubilant cordiality of his address nearly upset the poor fellow's balance.

Had his uncle no feeling, knowing, as he must know, that he, Le, had come home joyfully expecting to marry Odalite, only to meet with a bitter disappointment?

"Come into the parlor! Come into the parlor! It is too cold out here! You look quite blue! Come in, and let's get a better view of you!" continued Mr. Force, leading the way into the house, followed by Le.

In the hall he threw off his riding coat, drew off his long, India rubber boots, and then entered the parlor, which was on the opposite side from Mrs. Force's sitting room.

It was a medium-sized, wainscoted room, with two front windows and one side window. It was carpeted and upholstered in dark crimson, and had a large, open wood fire burning in the ample chimney.

"Take that chair! I'll take this," said Mr. Force, pushing one armchair toward Le with his foot, and throwing himself into the other.

Thus they sat in opposite corners.

"Now tell me! When did your ship get into port?"

"Yesterday morning, and I hurried immediately down here to see—to see my—to—to—meet the bitterest disappointment of my life, Uncle Abel!" said the youth, faltering, hesitating, but determined to come to the point at last.

"Oh, come, come! Tut, tut, tut! She was only a child when you went away, if you are referring to Odalite!" said Mr. Force, in a cheery tone.

"Yes, Uncle Abel, I am referring to Odalite, and speaking of the most heartbreaking disappointment that ever crushed a man," said the youth.

"Nonsense, dear lad! You know nothing of heartbreaking troubles of any sort, or you would not magnify this one! You will get over it in a month."

"It was the cherished love and hope and faith of years."

"A dream, my boy, of which this is the awakening. A dream, in which I, too, shared! Le, lad, you must know that I am just as much disappointed as you can be! It was the desire of my life that you and Odalite should marry, and in time succeed us here, and make the two great manors of Mondreer and Greenbushes into one mammoth estate. I am disappointed in this. And if I ever permitted myself to grieve over the inevitable, I should feel very sorry for myself as well as for you!"

"It was so sudden, so unexpected! Why, her last letter to me, received at Spezzia, and written not two months ago, was so kind! She must have changed very quickly," said poor Le.

"No, I think it must have been gradually. I think she was deeply infatuated before she realized her state. And then I know she struggled, poor, dear child!—struggled until she nearly broke her heart—to keep faithful to you and to please me. It was only from her suitor that I heard at last of her distress. Then, as she meekly left her fate entirely in my hands, I conquered my own ambition and told the child to follow the dictates of her own heart. What else could a father do? But even now, though she has her own way in this matter, she is not content! She frets about you, Le!"

"Oh! and this is the gentle, tender creature whom I could reproach so fiercely—dog that I was!" said Le, who seemed to feel the necessity of confession to poor Odalite's parents.

"You, Le?"

"Yes, I! When she made me understand that she had broken her engagement with me and had promised to marry that Englishman, I tell you, Uncle Abel, I went on at her like a raving maniac! Satan took possession of me! I—could bang out my own brains against the wall, when I think of it!"

"Don't! It would spoil the paper, and do nobody any good but the coroner and the undertaker! It was inevitable that you should have gone into a passion, Le! Your provocation would have upset a doctor of divinity, if it had taken him by surprise. Think no more of it, my boy! I dare say she has forgiven it!"

"She! the blessed child! She never once resented it—that is what kills me! She never opened her lips in self-defense, or self-excuse! Oh, I could beat my——"

"Pray, don't, I say! It would make a mess in a tidy parlor! I dare say she thought she was without any excuse for disappointing you and me of our pet plan, and all for the sake of that puncheon of an Englishman! But girls are weak vessels. I never knew one worth having, except my own noble wife! But perhaps she has spoiled me for appreciating any other woman, even my own daughter."

"Yes, Aunt Elfrida is the most excellent of the earth, I do believe," assented Le; but without the interest in the subject which the words might have implied.

"The most perfect woman in person, soul and spirit that ever was created!"

"Who is 'the most perfect woman in person, soul and spirit that ever was created'?" inquired a voice behind them.

Mr. Force turned and saw Col. Anglesea approaching them.

Both the gentlemen, who were seated, immediately arose.

Mr. Force presented his young relative to his guest.

The midshipman and the colonel bowed coldly and stiffly, while they eyed each other with ill-repressed antagonism.

"Who is 'the most perfect woman in person, soul and spirit that ever was created'?" again queried Col. Anglesea, as the party seated themselves around the fire.

"My wife," answered Abel Force.

Angus Anglesea threw back his head and laughed aloud—then recovering himself, said—to one who, unseen, had just joined the group: "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Force! I really could not help laughing, to hear your good husband praise you so—unconsciously—before your face! You know."

"I did not know that Elfrida was there," said Mr. Force, half offended at—he knew not what!—something that he vaguely perceived, but could not specify.

Mrs. Force had turned deadly pale, and her lips were compressed and her blue eyes glittering as she took her seat.

It was fortunate, at that moment, that Miss Meeke and the two younger girls entered the parlor, simultaneously with the ringing of the dinner bell.

Mrs. Force arose and took the arm of the young midshipman and led the way to the dining room, followed by the party.

"I hope Miss Force is not indisposed," said Col. Anglesea, missing Odalite from her place at the table.

"She does not feel very well, but may perhaps join us in the drawing room," said Mrs. Force, as they all took their seats around the board.

Mr. Force sought to enliven the meal with gay conversation, but signally failed.

Col. Anglesea affected to treat the young midshipman with great condescension, but equally failed; for Le ignored and disregarded him to the verge of actual rudeness—either not hearing his remarks or else answering them in monosyllables and giving all his attention to his little cousins, Wynnette and Elva, who were seated, by their own choice, the one on his right and the other on his left.

Mrs. Force did not attempt to converse, and Miss Meeke, chilled by the social coldness around her, kept silence.

In less than an hour the uncomfortable meal was over and the party withdrew to the drawing room.

Le then arose to bid them good-night.

"No, no, Leonidas, my lad! Don't go! Not yet, at least. Wait; I have something to say to you. Excuse me, friends! Come into the library with me, Le," said Mr. Force, rising, drawing the arm of the younger man within his own and passing out.

When they reached the little book room in the rear of Mrs. Force's sitting room, and which the family dignified by the name of library, Mr. Force said:

"Sit down, Le." And taking a seat himself, pushed another to his companion.

"Now, Le," he said, when both were seated, "where were you going?"

"To Greenbushes, of course. I ought to be there to look after my property."

"Yes, yes; but Beever don't expect you to-night and has not got things ready for you; and besides it is too late. Don't leave us to-night, Le. Don't hurry away! Your doing so would hurt Odalite. She would think she had driven you away."

"Well, then, I will not go. I have hurt Odalite enough. If my going would hurt her I would stay here and stand that ruffian's insolence until he takes her away. I beg your pardon, uncle, for calling your intended son-in-law a ruffian."

"Oh, fire away, my lad! You have every right to swear! I feel like joining you."

"His insolence in laughing when you praised my aunt so much!"

"But I did not praise her above her merits. Why, just look at her, Le! Nearly forty years old, and the very handsomest woman in the country, and as noble and perfect in mind as in person!"

"Yes; and he laughed!"

"Look here, Le. You know he was a brother officer of my wife's brother, and an old friend of hers. Now, I'll tell you what, I often think that he was a rejected suitor of Lady Elfrida Glennon. And the memory of it makes him sore and sarcastic at times. Many little things in their intercourse makes me think that sometimes. Bear with him, Le, as I shall do, for Odalite's sake. Now shall we return to the drawing room?"

"If you please."



CHAPTER XVI

LE'S MYSTERIOUS MOVEMENTS

Le remained at Mondreer, only riding over to Greenbushes every day to superintend the repairs and refurnishing of his house.

He never met Odalite except at meal times, and then their chairs were so placed that neither need look in the face of the other. Odalite's seat was near the head of the table. Le's near the foot, on the same side. They merely greeted each other on entering the dining room, and that was all. Mr. and Mrs. Force treated their young relative with the most delicate consideration.

Col. Anglesea treated his defeated rival with offensive condescension.

Le tried to ignore the colonel's existence, and found his greatest comfort in the company of his little cousins. Their warm, sincere love and sympathy was as balm to his bruised heart.

The children had successfully passed their home examination by the father, and their holidays had already commenced, though it was a full week before Christmas. And thus they were able to give their sailor cousin a great deal of their society.

The mother and father did not interfere. They were glad enough of any comfort or solace they could afford Le, to occupy or amuse his mind, and keep his fingers and his scalping knife off Anglesea's hair.

The children used often to walk over with Le to Greenbushes in the morning, spend the whole day there with their cousin, and return with him in the evening.

But, in consideration for him, they never alluded to the approaching wedding. They only kept their eyes and ears open, like the sharp little foxes that they were.

One day, however, when all three were walking through the wintry woods on their way to Greenbushes, Le himself, for the first time, alluded to the subject.

"How do you like your intended brother-in-law?" he inquired.

"What! that British beer barrel? I mean that English gentleman? I hate him! I detest him! I loathe him! I abhor him! And if there is any stronger word in the English or any other language, I that him!" exclaimed Wynnette, clenching her fist and grinding her teeth.

"I say my prayers three times a day not to hate him; but, oh, dear!" sighed little Elva.

"And I'll tell you what it is, Le. She hates him worse than I do," added Wynnette.

"My child! 'She?' Who?" exclaimed Le, starting, and coming to a dead halt.

"Why, Odalite."

"Wynnette, do you know what you are saying, dear?" demanded Le, in great agitation.

They had now reached Chincapin Creek bridge, and all had come to a stop.

"Do you know what you are saying, Wynnette?" anxiously repeated Le.

"Yes, indeed I do. And I know it is true. Odalite hates and scorns and loathes Col. Anglesea!" said the child, speaking in her intense way, with doubled fist, set teeth and gleaming eyes.

"Did she tell you so?"

"Why should she tell me? No; she never did. But all the same I would pledge my immortal soul upon it that she does."

"Why do you think so, then?"

"Why? Now, Le, where are your eyes and your common sense? I tell you disgust and abhorrence take possession of Odalite the minute he approaches her, and stick out all over her like the spikes on a hedgehog. Bah! bah! Tchut! Tchis!" hissed the intense little creature.

"My Lord, if I thought so!"

"You had better think so. I tell you I believe if she is made to marry that beat—I mean that person—something awful will happen."

"'Made' to marry, my dear Wynnette! Why, she wants to do so."

"She don't! she don't! she don't!"

"But she told me so herself."

"I don't care what she told you. She don't."

"My dear, please to remember that Odalite never tells what is not true. And she told me that she wanted to marry Anglesea."

"Yes, I know. She told me so, too, not ten minutes before you came home. But how can I believe she does when I see that it is breaking her poor heart, and crazing her brain, and killing her? Tell me that."

"Oh, child! I can tell you nothing!" groaned Le. "I am even more mystified than you are! That this girl, who is truth itself, should insist that she wants to marry a man whose very presence fills her with loathing, is a mystery I cannot fathom!"

The children were by this time seated on a log at the end of the bridge—the same log on which, two weeks before, Odalite had been seated when she was surprised by Col. Anglesea.

Le stood near them, leaning with his back against the railings and his head bowed in deep thought.

Suddenly he started, and threw his hand to his head.

"What's the matter, Le?" inquired little Elva, while Wynnette stared.

"A remembered dream, or vision, that came to me three times on my homeward voyage," replied the young man, gravely.

"Oh, tell us!" exclaimed both the children in duet, with all their childish interest in the marvelous excited to the highest pitch.

"It is a vision of midnight on midocean—the blackness of darkness above, below, around, beneath. Suddenly into this opaque darkness glows a spark of red light. It increases, spreads, and shoots upward, revealing—a ship on fire! Showing the deck crowded with dark figures! Only one fearfully distinct form—the form of Odalite. She stands on the top of the bulwarks, clothed in white raiment, with her arms raised on high, her face turned upward, her hair streaming!—flames around and above her, the ocean beneath. I heard her call to me, speak to me:

"'Le, I do not want to leave you, but see! I must take the water to escape the fire!'

"And suddenly, as if the burning ship were swallowed up in the midnight sea, the vision vanished. Three times I had this vision, children. And it troubled me, but in the excitement of my home-coming I forgot it until now. Now I remember it, and receive it as a warning."

"I can read it! I can read it!" said Wynnette, with her weird, eldritch look and tone. "I can read it, and it is just what I believed before I heard of it! Odalite is driven somehow, by some one or something, not only to marry, but want to marry, Anglesea to save herself from some evil! Oh! I feel it even in my bones! And if she is driven quite into the marriage, I tell you there will be some awful tragedy like that of the Bride of Lammermoor! Anglesea will be found in the morning with his wizen slit—I mean with his throat cut—and Odalite will be sitting in the ashes gibbering and mopping and mowing like an idiot!"

"Oh! oh! oh!" cried little Elva, covering her face with her hands and shivering through all her small frame.

"See, you have frightened the child, Wynnette! You should not say such wild, extravagant things, my dear!" said Le, rebukingly.

"I said it to fetch you! I mean I said it to make an impression on you!" retorted Wynnette.

"Oh, Le! can't you be Young Lochinvar and carry her off from the wedding?" pleaded little Elva.

"Hardly, my darling!

"'The fair Ellen of Young Lochinvar'

was willing to be carried off, and Odalite is not, which makes all the difference, you know!"

"Oh, but she would be glad afterward!" persisted Elva.

"Oh, hush, Elf! He won't try it! The age of chivalry is past!" indignantly replied Wynnette.

"We will walk on," said Le.

And they resumed their tramp toward Greenbushes, where they arrived in about another hour, and where they spent the day, returning home in the evening.

"Oh, Le! Sweet, dear, darling Le! won't you please carry off Odalite, just like Young Lochinvar did fair Ellen? Oh, please, Le! It would be so easy! You could have George saddled and brought round to the front door. George is the fastest and the strongest horse in the stables, and you could snatch her up and run out with her and be in the saddle and away before folks could get over their surprise. And she would be glad afterward! I know she would! Weren't the Sabine women glad afterward that the Roman youth had carried them away?" argued Elva, fresh from her school history. "And, Le, you could do it very easily!"

"Yes, I could, very easily," grimly assented the youth.

"And you will, won't you?"

"No, my precious! It would not do! Not in these days, darling! With all the examples of romance, poetry and history to inspire me, I must not do it! If I were to attempt such a feat, I would be a felon, not a hero, my pet."

"Then I wish you were a felon!" was the astounding conclusion of Elva, as she passed him by and entered the house.

From this day Le watched Odalite more closely, and he discovered that, on all occasions when she was in company with Anglesea, she treated him with open contempt, except when her father was present; then indeed she seemed to put constraint upon herself and to treat her betrothed with decent respect. Was this done to avert any suspicions of the real state of her feelings from her father's mind?

From this day, also, Le was often absent on errands that took him from the neighborhood and sometimes kept him over night. And when interrogated by his uncle, or any member of the family, as to the business that called him away, he would give evasive answers.

But all noticed that Le's spirits were much improved, so that he was more like the ruddy, jubilant Le that he had been in the past, than at any other time since his return home. He walked with a light step, spoke in a brisk tone, sang snatches of sea songs and winked knowingly at the wondering children.

Meantime the wedding came on apace.



CHAPTER XVII

ROSEMARY HEDGE

"Oldfield, December 20, 18—.

"Sukey: I saw Miss Sibby Bayard's Gad go by the house this morning on the mule, with a bag of wheat before him, taking it to old Killman's mill to be ground, and I know she is going to have hot biscuits for supper out of the new wheat; so I want you to come and bring Rosemary with you, and we will walk over there and take tea with her. You ride Jo, and take the child up behind you, and let the boy walk. Dolly."

"Sukey" was Miss Grandiere, a tall, handsome and dignified maiden lady of about forty years of age. She had a shapely head, regular features, fair complexion, blue eyes and brown hair, brushed away from her forehead, and twisted into a roll on the top of her head.

She wore a plain, dark, calico gown, made with a short waist, tight sleeves, and long, narrow skirt, and a plain, white, muslin handkerchief around her neck, and pinned firmly across her bosom.

She stood upon the rudest sort of porch, built of rough pine boards, and shaded by hop vines, now withered under the wintry air.

Yet homely as were her attire and surroundings, it seemed as inappropriate for any one to call the stately Susannah Grandiere "Sukey," as it is for some writers to refer to England's magnificent Elizabeth as "Queen Bess."

Beside this dignified dame stood a very dainty, delicate and pathetic-looking little girl of about twelve years of age, who leaned half fondly, half lazily against the lady's side.

She was Miss Grandiere's niece, shadow and worshiper. Her name was Rosemary Hedge, and she was the only and orphan child of Miss Grandiere's widowed sister, Mrs. Dorothy Hedge, the writer of the note.

Rosemary was a slight, tiny, fragile creature, with a mere slip of a figure, and mites of hands and feet. She had a thin face, a pale rose complexion, large, light blue eyes, and black hair, which she wore as children do now—partly banged across her forehead, but mostly hanging down her shoulders. She was clothed in a prim, blue, calico gown, with a short waist, high neck, tight sleeves, and a skirt all the way down to her feet, which were shod in coarse leather shoes over home-knit, gray stockings.

The child was looking up to her aunt in great anxiety while the latter read the letter brought by the negro boy, Dan, who stood, torn hat in hand, holding the bridle of a short, fat, white cob, Jovial by name, commonly called "Jo."

"Is it for me to go home? Oh, Aunt Sukey, is it for me to go home?" uneasily inquired the little girl, as the lady folded the letter.

"No, child, no," soothingly replied the lady. "It is only to ask us both to ride four miles, and walk one, for the sake of eating 'Hot Biscuits,' in capital letters, for supper."

"She say—Miss Dolly say—how you and Miss Ro'mery mus' ride Jo, and me to lead him," here explained the ragged negro boy.

"Just like my poor sister Hedge! Well, it does not matter much. I was thinking about going over to Oldfield to-day; but all the horses here being at work, I had to give it up. Anyhow, I had certainly made up my mind to go down on the bay, before the great Force wedding, for as the ceremony is to be performed at All Faith Church, it will be much more convenient to attend it from Oldfield than from here. Are the ladies at Oldfield invited to the wedding, do you know, Dan?"

"Oh, Lor'! yes'm. Ebrybody is 'wited, an' de church all dessicated full o' holly an' ebbergreens, like Chris'mas!"

"Decorated, you mean, Dan."

"Yes'm, desecrated."

"Now then, Dan, give the horse some water, and let him rest while you get something to eat. We have just now done dinner, and the servants are taking theirs in the kitchen. Aunt Moll will give you yours, and by the time you have finished we shall be ready to start. Come, Rosemary."

And taking her niece by the hand, Miss Grandiere stepped from the porch into a plainly furnished bedchamber, which was her own private apartment—sitting room by day, bedroom by night—and which she shared with her favorite niece whenever the little girl happened to be staying with her, which was, indeed, most of the time.

"Aunt Sukey's room" was the best bedchamber in the farmhouse, being on the first floor, in the rear of the building, and opening upon the vine-shaded porch on the outside, and into the common hall on the inside.

On a line with the porch was the best parlor, and on the other side of the hall there was a front dining room and a back sitting room.

Although "Aunt Sukey's room" was the best, it was a very plain apartment, with whitewashed walls and bare floor.

On each side of the door, as you entered from the porch, was a window, making the place very light and cheerful. This was the east side. On the south side was an open fireplace, with a bright, oak-wood fire burning in it, defended by a wire fender. Above it was a mantelpiece, adorned by a fine engraving of the Nativity in a plain, wooden frame, and flanked by two brass candlesticks. In the corner was a triangular cupboard with glass doors reaching from floor to ceiling, and filled with a collection of rare old china which would have been the envy and despair of a wealthy and fashionable collector; for one of Aunt Sukey's grandfathers and two of her uncles and one of her brothers had been captains of East India merchantmen.

On the west side stood a high, old-fashioned chest of drawers, whose top was covered with a fair, white, linen cloth, and adorned by an old-time looking glass mounted on its own box of small dressing drawers. On each side of this glass were two round bandboxes of blue paper, containing two poke bonnets, as common then as now.

Finally, on the north side of the room, with its head against the wall, stood the pride of the chamber—a four-post, mahogany bedstead with white, dimity curtains, and with a full, high, feather bed and bolsters and pillows heaped up, and covered—the bed with a homemade, blue-and-white counterpane, and the bolster and pillows by cases of homespun white linen.

All along the walls of the room, between every piece of furniture, stood plain, chip-bottom pine chairs. In the middle of the room, as being in constant use, was a chip-bottom rocker and a child's low chair of the same material. A large spinning wheel stood in the corner between the window and the fireplace, and before it stood a negro girl, spinning. This was Miss Sukey's own maid, Henny.

Miss Susannah Grandiere did not live in her own house, although she was a woman of ample means and might have done so. She divided her time about equally between the two farmhouses—Grove Hill, the home of her married sister, Mrs. William Elk, where she was staying at present; and Oldfield, the home of her married brother, Thomas Grandiere, and also of their widowed sister, Mrs. Dorothy Hedge, to which she had just been invited.

These two places were always familiarly referred to by their respective owners as "Up in the Forest" and "Down on the Bay"—Grove Hill being "Up in the Forest," and Oldfield "Down on the Bay."

In both these farmhouses there was a room set apart and known as "Aunt Sukey's room," and her treasures, her Lares and Penates, were about equally divided between them.

These rooms, however, when unoccupied, were at the disposal of any visitor who might be staying at either house during the absence of Miss Grandiere.

But whether Aunt Sukey sojourned at Oldfield or at Grove Hill, her quaint, little orphan niece, Rosemary, was always her inseparable companion—an arrangement that was not displeasing to the widowed mother, who said in her heart:

"If anything should happen to me, Sukey will take care of Rosemary." Or, "If Sukey should never marry, Rosemary will be her heiress."

Even the negroes said:

"Miss Ro'm'ry is mo' like Miss Sukey's own chile dan Miss Dolly's darter, anyways."

They had now been staying "Up in the Forest" ever since harvest, and their manner of life was quaint enough, especially in the evenings.

When the day was nearly spent, and the family supper was over, and Uncle Billy had gone out to see that barn and stable and sheepfold were well secured, and all else right outside, and when Aunt Molly had gone her rounds in poultry yard and dairy, and was putting her children to bed, then Aunt Sukey, Rosemary and the negro girl, Henny, would retire into Aunt Sukey's room, to utilize the lingering light of the short winter day by working at whatever tasks were on hand, for never did holiday begin until the candle should be lighted.

It was some homely, country work always. And Aunt Sukey would probably be knitting. Rosemary sewing together scraps for a patchwork quilt and the negro girl, Henny, seated on a stool, would be engaged in winding off the yarn from a "jack" into balls.

It was usually little Rosemary who would give the signal for stopping work, by saying, in pleading tones:

"Aunt Sukey, ain't it most time to let down the blinds and light the candle?"

Whereupon the negro girl would set her reel jack in the corner, and untie and drop the paper blinds before the two windows, and light the tallow dip on the mantelpiece.

Rosemary would roll up her "pieces," and put away her work in a little homemade chip basket, which she would hang upon its own nail.

Last of all, Aunt Sukey would draw her knitting needle from its sheaf, roll up the half-finished stocking, and put it away in a workbag hanging on a hook, near the chimney corner.

And then began the dissipations of the evening. Innocent enough dissipations, though they were howled at by some folks.

Aunt Sukey would resume her seat in the rocker.

Henny would set a little table near her mistress, and place on it the lighted candle and a pair of snuffers.

Rosemary would bring out from the top drawer of the bureau a hoarded and treasured volume, and lay it beside them.

Then, when all were seated—the lady in her rocker, the child on a little chair at her feet, and the negro girl on the floor in the corner of the chimney—Aunt Sukey would open the book, and begin where she left off the night before, and go on with the fortunes of "Evelina," "Camilla," "Clarissa Harlowe," or "Amanda Fitzallen," as the case might be; novels, which, however excellent in themselves, would scarcely be read in these days, though in those they were "devoured," so much so that if one of them appeared in any house, it was sure to go the round of the whole county, and be read to rags before it got home again, if it ever did. In this respect the neighborhood was a free, unorganized, irresponsible circulating library.

Aunt Sukey bought some books, lent some, and borrowed some, but never kept any.

So evening after evening she would read to her attentive hearers, while little Rosemary's large, blue eyes grew larger and larger with wonder and interest, and Henny's attention relaxed, and her head drooped lower and lower, as she nodded over the fire, until there seemed some danger of her falling into it.