"How could you get home from this place?"

"O by and by — there'll be ways — when the time comes."

"The time must come, Mrs. Nettley. You are very good — I'm very much obliged to you for coming and staying with me, — but in conscience I cannot let you stay any longer. It don't make any difference, a little sooner or later."

"Later is better, Miss Elizabeth."

"No — I shall feel more comfortable to think you are at home, than to think I am keeping you here. I would rather you should make your arrangements and choose what day you will go; and I will find some way for you to go."

"I am very sorry, Miss Elizabeth," said Mrs. Nettley most unaffectedly. "I am sure Mr. Landholm would a great deal rather I should stay."

It was the last word Elizabeth could stand. Her lip trembled, as she crossed the passage to her own room and bolted the door; and then she threw herself on her knees by the bedside and hid the quivering face in her hands.

Why should it, that kind care of his, pierce her like thorns and arrows? why give her that when he could give her no more? "But it will all be over," she thought to herself, — "this struggle like all other struggles will come to an end; meanwhile I have it to bear and my work to do. Perhaps I shall get over this feeling in time — time wears out so much. — But I should despise myself if I did. No, when I have taken up a liking on so good and solid grounds, I hope I am of good enough stuff to keep it to the end of my days."

Then came over her the feeling of forlornness, of loneliness, well and thoroughly realized; with the single gleam of better things that sprung from the promise her heart had embraced that day. True and strong it was, and her soul clung to it. But yet its real brightness, to her apprehension, shone upon a "land that is very far off;" and left all the way thereunto with but a twilight earnest of good things to come; and Elizabeth did not like looking forward; she wanted some sweetness in hand. Yet she clung to that, her one stand-by. She had a vague notion that its gleam might lead to more brightness even this side of heaven; that there might be a sort of comfort growing out of doing one's duty, and the favour of him whose service duty is. Winthrop Landholm was always bright, — and what else had he to make him so? She would try what virtue there might be in it; she would essay those paths of wisdom which are said to be 'pleasantness;' but again came the longing for help; she felt that she knew so little. Again the word 'ask' — came back to her; and at last, half comforted, wholly wearied, she rose from her long meditation by the bed-side and went towards the window.

There was such a sparkling beauty on everything outside, under the clear evening sun, that its brilliancy half rebuked her. The very shadows seemed bright, so bright were the lines of light between them, where the tall pointed cedars were casting their mantle on the grass. Elizabeth stood by the open window, wondering. She looked back to the time when she had been there before, when she was as bright, though not as pure, as all things else; and now — father and friend were away from her, and she was alone. Yet still the sun shone — might it not again some time for her? Poor child, as she stood there the tears dropped fast, at that meeting of hope and sorrow; hope as intangible as the light, sorrow a thicker mantle than that of the cedar trees. And now the sunlight seemed to say 'Ask' — and the green glittering earth responded — "and ye shall receive." Elizabeth looked; — she heard them say it constantly. She did not question the one word or the other. It seemed very sweet to her, the thought of doing her duty; and yet, — the tears which had stayed, ran fast again when she thought of Mrs. Nettley's going away and how utterly alone she should be.

She had sat down and was resting her arm on the window-sill; and Miss Haye's face was in a state of humbled and saddened gravity which no one ever saw it in before these days. As she sat there, Karen's voice reached her from the back of the house somewhere; and it suddenly occurred to Elizabeth that it might be as well for her to acquaint herself somewhat better with one of her few remaining inmates, since their number was to be so lessened. She dried her eyes, and went out with quick step through the kitchen till she neared the door of the little back porch where Karen was at work. There she paused.

The old woman was singing one of her Methodist songs, in a voice that had once very likely been sweet and strong. It was trembling and cracked now. Yet none of the fire and spirit of old was wanting; as was shewn, not indeed by the power of the notes, but by the loving flow or cadence the singer gave them. Elizabeth lingered just within the door to listen. The melody was as wild and sweet as suited the words. The first of the song she had lost; it went on —

"Till Jesus shall come, "Protect and defend me until I'm called home; "Though worms my poor body may claim as their prey, "'Twill outshine, when rising, the sun at noon-day.

"The sun shall be darkened, the moon turned to blood, "The mountains all melt at the presence of God; "Red lightnings may flash, and loud thunders may roar, "All this cannot daunt me on Canaan's blest shore.

"A glimpse of bright glory surprises my soul, "I sink in sweet visions to view the bright goal; "My soul, while I'm singing, is leaping to go, "This moment for heaven I'd leave all below.

"Farewell, my dear brethren — my Lord bids me come; "Farewell, my dear sisters —I'm now going home; "Bright angels are whispering so sweet in my ear, — "Away to my Saviour my spirit they'll bear.

"I am going — I'm going — but what do I see! —"

She was interrupted.

"Do you mean all that, Karen?" said Elizabeth, stepping without the door.

Karen stopped her song and looked round.

"Do you mean all that you are singing, Karen?"

"What I'm singing? —"

"Yes. I've been listening to you. — Do you feel and mean all those words of your hymn?"

"I don't say no words I don't mean," said Karen, going on with her work; — "anyhow, I don't mean to."

"But those words you have been singing — do you mean that you feel them all?"

Karen stood up and faced her as she answered,

"Yes!"

"Do you mean that you would rather die than live?"

"If 'twas the Lord's will, I would," said Karen, without moving her face.

"Why?"

Karen looked at her still, but her face unbent in a little bit of a smile.

"You ain't one of the Lord's people, be you, young lady?"

"I don't know —" said Elizabeth, blushing and hesitating, — "I mean to be."

"Do you mean to be one of 'em?" said Karen.

"I wish to be — yes, I mean to be, — if I can."

The old woman dried her hand which had been busy in water, and coming up took one of Elizabeth's, — looked at its delicate tints in her own wrinkled and black fingers, and then lifting a moistened eye to Elizabeth's face, she answered expressively,

"Then you'll know."

"But I want to know something about it now," said the young lady as Karen went back to her work. "Tell me. How can you wish to 'leave all for heaven,' as you were singing a moment ago?"

"I'd ha' done that plenty o' years ago," said Karen. "I'd got enough of this world by that time."

"Is that the reason?"

"What reason?" said Karen.

"Is that the reason you would like to go to heaven?"

"It's the reason why I'm willing to leave the earth," said Karen. "It hain't nothin' to do with heaven."

"Anybody might be willing to go to heaven at that rate," said Elizabeth.

"That ain't all, young lady," said Karen, working away while she spoke. "I'm not only willin' to go — I'm willin' to be there when I get there — and I'm ready too, thank the Lord!"

"How can one be 'ready' for it, Karen? — It seems such a change."

"It'll be a good change," said Karen. "Mis' Landholm thinks it is."

Elizabeth stood silent, the tears swelling; she got little light from Karen.

"You wa'n't one of the Lord's people when you come? — be you? —" said Karen suddenly, looking round at her.

"I hardly know whether I am one now, Karen, — but I mean to try."

"Tryin' ain't no use," said Karen. "If you want to be one of the Lord's people, you've only to knock, and it shall be opened to you."

"Did you never know that fail?"

"I never tried it but once — it didn't fail me then," said the old woman. "The Lord keeps his promises. — I tried it a good while — it don't do to stop knockin'."

"But I must — one must try to do something — I must try to do my duty," said Elizabeth.

"Surely!" said Karen, facing round upon her again, "but you can't help that. Do you s'pose you can love Jesus Christ, and not love to please him? 'Tain't in natur' — you can't help it."

"But suppose I don't love him, Karen?" said Elizabeth, her voice choking as she said it. "I don't know him yet — I don't know him enough to love him."

There was a little pause; and then without looking at her, Karen said in her trembling voice, a little more trembling than it was,

"I don't know, Miss 'Lizabeth — 'To them gave he power to become the sons of God, even to them that believe on his name!' — I heard a man preach that once."

The tears rushed in full measure to Elizabeth's eyes. She stood, not heeding Karen nor anything else, and the thick veil of tears hiding everything from her sight. It was a moment of strong joy; for she knew she believed in him! She was, or she would be, one of 'his people.' Her strong pillar of assurance she clasped again, and leaned her heart upon, with unspeakable rest.

She stood, till the water had cleared itself from her eyes; and then she was turning into the house, but turned back again, and went close up to the old black woman.

"Thank you, Karen," said she. "You have given me comfort."

"You hain't got it all," said Karen without looking at her.

"What do you mean?"

"Did you ever read a book called the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' young lady?"

"No."

"I ain't much like the people there," said Karen, "but they was always glad to hear of one more that was going to be a pilgrim; and clapped their hands, they did."

"Did you ever read it, Karen?"

"I hearn Mis' Landholm read it — and the Governor."

Elizabeth turned away, and she had not half crossed the kitchen when she heard Karen strike up, in a sweet refrain,

"I'll march to Canaan's land, "I'll land on Canaan's shore," —

Then something stopped the song, and Elizabeth came back to her room. She sat down by the window. The light was changed. There seemed a strange clear brightness on all things without that they had not a little while ago, and that they never had before. And her bread was sweet to her that night.

CHAPTER XIV.

Heaven doth with us as we with torches do; Not light them for themselves: for if our virtues Did not go forth of us, 'twere all alike As if we had them not. SHAKSPEARE.

Much against Mrs. Nettley's will, she was despatched on her journey homewards within a few days after. She begged to be allowed to stay yet a week or two, or three; but Elizabeth was unmoveable. "It would make no difference," she said, "or at least I would rather you should go. You ought to be there — and I may as well learn at once to get used to it."

"But it will be very bad for you, Miss Elizabeth."

"I think it is right, Mrs. Nettley."

So Mrs. Nettley went; and how their young lady passed her days and bore the quietude and the sorrow of them, the rest of the household marvelled together.

"She'd die, if there was dyin' stuff in her," said Clam; "but there ain't."

"What for should she die?" said Karen.

"I'm as near dead as I can be, myself," was Clam's conclusive reply.

"What ails you, girl?"

"I can't catch my breath good among all these mountains," said Clam. "I guess the hills spiles the air hereabouts."

"Your young lady don't think so."

"No," said Clam, — "she looks at the mountains as if she'd swaller them whole — them and her Bible; — only she looks into that as if it would swaller her."

"Poor bird! she's beat down; — its too lonesome up here for her!" said Karen more tenderly than her wont was.

"That ain't no sign she'll go," said Clam. "She's as notional as the Governor himself, when she takes a notion; only there's some sense in his, and you never know where the sense of hers is till it comes out."

"The house is so still, it's pitiful to hear it," said Karen. "I never minded it when there wa'n't nobody in it — I knowed the old family was all gone — but now I hear it, seems to me, the whole day long. You can't hear a foot, when you ain't in there."

"That'll last awhile, maybe," said Clam; "and then you'll have a row. 'Tain't in her to keep still more'n a certain length o' time; and when she comes out, there'll be a firing up, I tell ye."

"The Lord 'll keep his own," said Karen rising from the table. Which sentence Clam made nothing of.

Spite of her anticipations, the days, and the weeks, sped on smoothly and noiselessly. Indeed more quietness, and not less, seemed to be the order of them. Probably too much for Elizabeth's good, if such a state of mere mind-life had been of long lasting. It would not long have been healthy. The stir of passion, at first, was fresh enough to keep her thoughts fresh; but as time went on there were fewer tears and a more settled borne-down look of sorrow. Even her Bible, constantly studied, — even prayer, constantly made over it, did not hinder this. Her active nature was in an unnatural state; it could not be well so. And it sometimes burst the bounds she had set to it, and indulged in a passionate wrestling with the image of joys lost and longed for. Meanwhile, the hot days of August were passed, the first heats of September were slowly gone; and days and nights began to cool off in earnest towards the frosty weather.

"If there ain't some way found to keep Miss Haye's eyes from cryin', she won't have 'em to do anything else with. And she'll want 'em, some day."

Clam, like Elizabeth of old, having nobody else to speak to, was sometimes driven to speak to the nearest at hand.

"Is she cryin', now?" said Karen.

"I don' know what you'd call it," said Clam. "'Tain't much like other folks' cryin'."

"Well there's a letter Anderese fetched — you'd better take it to her as soon as it'll do. Maybe it'll do her good."

"Where from?" said Clam seizing it.

"Anderese fetched it from Mountain Spring."

"Now I wish 'twas — but it ain't! —" said Clam. "I'll take it to her anyhow."

Elizabeth knew that it wasn't, as soon as she took it. The letter was from the gentleman who had been her father's lawyer in the city.

Mannahatta, Sept. 26, 1817.

"Dear madam,

"Upon arrangement of Mr. Haye's affairs, I regret to say, we find it will take nearly all his effects to meet the standing liabilities and cover the failure of two or three large operations in which Mr. Haye had ventured more upon uncertain contingencies than was his general habit in business matters. So little indeed will be left, at the best issue we can hope for, that Mrs. Haye's interest, whose whole property, I suppose you are aware, was involved, I grieve to say will amount to little or nothing. It were greatly to be wished that some settlement had in time been made for her benefit; but nothing of the kind was done, nor I suppose in the circumstances latterly was possible. The will makes ample provision, but I am deeply pained to say, is, as matters stand, but a nullity. I enclose a copy.

"I have thought it right to advertise you of these painful tidings, and am,

"Dear madam, with great respect,

"Your obedient servant,

"Dustus O. Brick."

Elizabeth had read this letter, and pondered over it by turns half the day, when a startling thought for the first time flashed into her mind. Rose's desolate condition! Less desolate than her own indeed, in so far that Rose had less strength to feel; but more desolate by far, because being as friendless she was much more helpless than herself. "What will she do, without money and friends? — for she never had any near and dear friends but father and me. Where can she live? — "

Elizabeth jumped up and ran into the house to get away from the inference. But when she had sat down in her chair the inference stood before her.

"Bring her here! — I cannot. I cannot. It would ruin my life." Then, clear and fair, stood the words she had been reading — 'Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you —'

"But there is no bed-room for her but this — or else there will be no sitting-room for either of us; — and then we must eat in the kitchen! —"

"She has neither house, nor home, nor friend, nor money. What wouldst thou, in her place? —"

Elizabeth put her face in her hands and almost groaned. She took it up and looked out, but in all bright nature she could find nothing which did not side against her. She got up and walked the room; then she sat down and began to consider what arrangements would be necessary, and what would be possible. Then confessed to herself that it would not be all bad to have somebody to break her solitude, even anybody; then got over another qualm of repugnance, and drew the table near her and opened her desk.

Shahweetah, Sept. 26, 1817.

"Dear Rose,

"I am all alone, like you. Will you come here and let us do the best we can together? I am at a place you don't like, but I shall not stay here all the time, and I think you can bear it with me for a while. I shall have things arranged so as to make you as comfortable as you can be in such straitened quarters, and expect you will come as soon as you can get a good opportunity. Whether you come by boat or not, part of the way, you will have to take the stage-coach from Pimpernel here; and you must stop at the little village of Mountain Spring, opposite Wut-a-qut-o. From there you can get here by wagon or boat. I can't send for you, for I have neither one nor the other.

"Yours truly, dear Rose,

"Elizabeth Haye."

With the letter in her hand, Elizabeth went forth to the kitchen.

"Karen, is there any sort of a cabinet-maker at Mountain Spring?"

"What's that?" said Karen.

"Is there any sort of a cabinet-maker at the village? — a cabinet-maker, — somebody that makes tables and bedsteads, and that sort of thing?"

"A furnitur' shop?" said Karen.

"Yes — something of that kind. Is there such a thing in Mountain Spring?"

Karen shook her head.

"They don't make nothin' at Mountain Spring."

"Where do the people get their tables and chairs? where do they go for them?"

"They go 'most any place," said Karen; — "sometimes they goes to Pimpernel, — and maybe to Starlings, or to Deerford; they don't go much nowheres."

"Can I get such things at Pimpernel?"

"If you was there, you could, I s'pose," said Karen.

"Could Anderese get a horse and cart at the village, to go for me?"

"I guess he can find a wagon round somewheres," said Karen. "You couldn't go in a cart handy."

"I! — no, but I want to send him, to fetch home a load of things."

"How'll he know what to get?"

"I will tell him. Couldn't he do it?"

"If he knowed what was wanted, he could," said Karen. "Me and him 'll go, Miss Lizzie, and we'll do it."

"You, Karen! I don't want to send you."

"Guess I'll do the best," said the old woman. "Anderese mightn't know what to fetch. What you want, Miss Lizzie?"

Elizabeth thought a moment whether she should ask Winthrop to send up the things for her; but she could not bear to do it.

"I want a bedstead, Karen, in the first place."

"What sort'll a one?"

"The best you can find."

"That'll be what'll spend the most money," said Karen musingly.

"I don't care about that, but the nicest sort you can meet with. And a bureau —"

"What's that?" said Karen. "I dun' know what that means."

"To hold clothes — with drawers — like that in my room."

"A cupboard?" said Karen; — "some sort like that?"

"No, no; I'll shew you what I mean, in my room; it is called a bureau. And a washstand — a large one, if you can find it. And a rocking-chair — the handsomest one that can be had."

"I know them two," said Karen. "That'll be a load, Miss Lizzie. I don't b'lieve the wagon 'll hold no more."

"The first fine day, Karen, I want you to go."

"The days is all fine, I speck, hereabouts," said Karen. "We'll start as quick as Anderese gets a wagon."

"Who's comin', Miss 'Lizabeth?" said Clam as she met her young lady coming out of the kitchen.

"I don't know — possibly Mrs. Haye. I wish all things to be in readiness for her."

"Where'll she sleep, Miss 'Lizabeth," said Clam with opening eyes.

"Here."

"Will she have this for her bedroom? — And what'll you do, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"If she comes, we will eat in the kitchen." And with the thought the young lady stepped back.

"I forgot — Karen, do you think the wagon will hold no more? Anderese must get a large one. I want a few neat chairs — plain ones — cane-bottomed, or rush-bottomed will do; I want them for this room; for if this lady comes we shall have to take this for our eating-room. I don't want a table; we can make this do; — or we can take the one I use now; but we want the chairs."

"Well, Miss Lizzie, you'll have to have 'em — we'll manage to pile 'em on someways."

And Miss Haye withdrew.

"Ain't this a start now?" said Clam after she had rubbed her knives in silence for several minutes. "Didn't I tell you so?"

"Tell what?" said Karen.

"Why! that Miss 'Lizabeth couldn't keep quiet more'n long enough to get her spunk up. What in the name of variety is she at work at now!"

"What's the matter with you?" grumbled Karen.

"Why I tell you," said Clam facing round, "them two love each other like pison!"

"That's a queer way to love," said Karen.

"They hate each other then — do you understand me? they hate so, one wouldn't thaw a piece of ice off the other's head if it was freezin' her!"

"Maybe 'tain't jus' so," said Karen.

"What do you know about it!" said Clam contemptuously.

"What do you, perhaps?" suggested Karen.

"I know my young lady," said Clam rubbing her knives, "and I know t'other one. There ain't but one person in this world that can make Miss 'Lizabeth keep her fire down — but she does have an idee of mindin' him."

"Who's that?" said Karen.

"Somebody you don't know, I guess," said Clam.

"If 'twas all true, she wouldn't want her here," said Karen.

"It's all true," said Clam, — "'cept the last. You don't know nothin', Karen. We'll see what a time there'll be when she comes. Eat in here! —"

"She's eat in here afore now — and I guess she can again," said old Karen, in a tone of voice which spoke her by no means so discomposed as Clam's words would seem to justify.

Perhaps Elizabeth herself had a thought or two on the close quarters which would be the infallible result of Mrs. Haye's seizure of the old 'keeping-room.'

The twenty-seventh, spite of Karen's understanding of the weather, was a rainy day. The twenty-eighth, Karen and Anderese went to Pimpernel on their furniture hunting, and came back at night with the articles, selected somewhat in accordance with a limited experience of the usual contents of a cabinet-maker's warehouse. The very next day, Elizabeth set Anderese to foisting out and putting together her little old boat, the Merry-go-round. Putting together, literally; she was dropping to pieces from the effects of years and confinement. Anderese was hardly equal to the business; Elizabeth sent for better help from Mountain Spring, and watched rather eagerly the restoring of her favourite to strength and beauty. Watched and pressed the work, as if she was in a hurry. But after tightening and caulking, the boat must be repainted. Elizabeth watched the doing of that; and bargained for a pair of light oars with her friend the workman. He was an old, respectable- looking man, of no particular calling, that appeared.

"Where was this here boat built?" he inquired one day as he was at work and Elizabeth looking on.

"It was built in Mannahatta."

"A good while ago, likely?"

"Yes, it was."

"Did this here belong to old Squire Landholm?"

"No."

"'Twa'n't fetched here lately, I guess, was it?"

"No — it has lain here a long time."

"Who did it belong to, then?"

"It belonged to me."

"Is it your'n now?" said the man looking up at her.

"No," said Elizabeth colouring, — "it is not; but it belongs to a friend of mine."

"Was you ever in these parts before?"

"Some time ago."

"Then you knew the old family, likely?"

"Yes, I did."

"There was fine stuff in them Landholms," said the old man, perhaps supplied with the figure by the timber he was nailing, — "real what I call good stuff — parents and children. There was a great deal of good in all of 'em; only the boys took notions they wouldn't be nothin' but ministers or lawyers or some sort o' people that wears black coats and don't have to roll up their trowsers for nothin'. They were clever lads, too. I don't mean to say nothin' agin 'em."

"Do you know how they're gettin' on?" he asked after a pause on his part and on Elizabeth's.

"I believe Asahel is with his father, — gone West."

"Ay, ay; but I mean the others — them two that went to College. I ha'n't seen Rufus for a great spell — I went down and fetched up Winthrop when his mother died."

"Will you have paint enough to finish that gunwale?"

"Guess so," said the old man looking into his paint-pot. "There's more oil in the bottle. What be them two doing now? Winthrop's a lawyer, ain't he?"

"Yes."

"Well, he's made a smart one, ha'n't he? — ain't he about as smart as any one they've got in Mannahatta?"

"I'm not a judge," said Elizabeth, who could not quite keep her countenance. "I dare say he is."

"He was my favourite, always, Winthrop was, — the Governor, as they called him. Well — I'd vote for him if he was sot up for that office — or any other office — if they'd do it while I'm above ground. Where is he now? — in Mannahatta?"

"Yes."

"Where's t'other one — the oldest — Rufus — where's he?"

"I don't know where he is. How soon will this do to be put in the water, Mr. Underhill?"

"Well — I guess it'll want somethin' of a dryin' fust. You can get along without it till next week, can't you?"

"Next week! and this is Tuesday! —"

"Yes — will you want it afore that? It hadn't ought to be put in the water one day afore Monday — if you want it to look handsome — or to wear worth speakin' of."

Miss Haye was silent, and the old man's brush made long sweeps back and forward over the shining gunwale.

"You see," Mr. Underhill went on, "it'll be all of night afore I get the bottom of this here done. — What's Rufus doin'? is he got to be a minister yet?"

"No."

"Another lawyer?"

"No."

"What is he then?"

"I don't know — I believe he was an engineer."

"An engineer?" said the old man standing up and looking at her. "Do you mean he's one o' them fellers that sees to the ingines on the boats? — that ain't much gettin' up in the world. I see one o' them once — I went to Mannahatta in the boat, just to see what 'twas — is Rufus one o' them smutty fellers standing over the fires there?"

"Not at all; it's a very different business, and as respectable as that of a clergyman or lawyer."

"There ain't anything more respectable than what his father was," said Mr. Underhill. "But Rufus was too handsome — he wanted to wear shiny boots always."

Elizabeth walked off.

So it was not till the early part of October that the little boat was painted and dried and in the water; and very nice she looked. Painted in the old colours; Elizabeth had been particular about that. Rose in the meantime had been heard from. She was coming, very soon, only staying for something, it wasn't very clearly made out what, that would however let her go in a few days. Elizabeth threw the letter down, with the mental conclusion that it was "just like Rose;" and resolved that her arms should be in a good state of training before the 'few days' were over.

"Who's goin' in this little concern?" said Mr. Underhill as he pushed it into the water. "Looks kind o' handsome, don't it?"

"Very nice!" said Elizabeth.

"That old black feller ain't up to rowin' you anywhere, is he? I don't believe he is."

"I'll find a way to get about in her, somehow."

"You must come over and see our folks — over the other side. My old mother's a great notion to see you —" said he, pulling the boat round into place, — "and I like she should have what she's a fancy for."

"Thank you," said Elizabeth; with about as much heed to his words as if a coney had requested her to take a look into his burrow. But a few minutes after, some thought made her speak again.

"Have you a mother living, sir?"

"Ay," he said with a little laugh, "she ain't a great deal older than I be. She's as spry in her mind, as she was when she was sixteen. Now — will you get into this?"

"Not now. Whereabouts do you live?"

"Just over," he said, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder and across the river, — "the only house you can see, under the mountain there — just under Wut-a-qut-o. 'Tain't a very sociable place and we are glad to see visiters."

He went; and Elizabeth only waited to have him out of sight, when she took gloves and oars and planted herself in the little 'Merry-go-round.'

"My arms won't carry me far to-day," she thought, as she pushed away from the rocks and slowly skimmed out over the smooth water. But how sweet to be dappling it again with her oar-blades, — how gracefully they rose and fell — how refreshing already that slight movement of her arms — how deliciously independent and alone she felt in her light carriage. Even the thrill of recollection could not overcome the instant's pleasure. Slowly and lovingly Elizabeth's oars dipped into the water; slowly and stealthily the little boat glided along. She presently was far enough out to see Mr. Underhill's bit of a farmhouse, sitting brown and lone at the foot of the hill, close by the water's edge. Elizabeth lay on her oars and stopped and looked at it.

"Go over there! Ridiculous! Why should I? —"

"And why shouldn't I?" came in another whisper. "Do me no harm — give them some pleasure. It is doing as I would be done by."

"But I can't give pleasure to all the old women in the land," she went on with excessive disgust at the idea.

"And this is only one old woman," went on the other quiet whisper, — "and kindness is kindness, especially to the old and lonesome. —"

It was very disagreeable to think of; Elizabeth rebelled at it strongly; but she could not get rid of the idea that Winthrop in her place would go, and would make himself exceedingly acceptable; she knew he would; and in the light of that idea, more than of any other argument that could be brought to bear, Elizabeth's conscience troubled her. She lay still on her oars now and then to think about it; she could not go on and get rid of the matter. She pondered Winthrop's fancied doing in the circumstances; she knew how he would comport himself among these poor people; she felt it; and then it suddenly flashed across her mind, "Even Christ pleased not himself;" — and she knew then why Winthrop did not. Elizabeth's head drooped for a minute. "I'll go," — she said to herself.

Her head was raised again then, and with a good will the oars made the little boat go over the water. She was elated to find her arms so strong, stronger now than they had been five minutes ago; and she took her way down towards the bottom of the bay, where once she had gone huckleberrying, and where a rich growth of wood covered the banks and shewed in one or two of its members here and there already a touch of frost. Here and there an orange or reddish branch of maple leaves — a yellow-headed butternut, partly bare — a ruddying dogwood or dogwood's family connection, — a hickory shewing suspicions of tawny among its green. A fresh and rich wall-side of beauty the woody bank was. Elizabeth pulled slowly along, coasting the green wilderness, exulting in her freedom and escape from all possible forms of home annoyance and intrusion; but that exulting, only a very sad break in a train of weary and painful thoughts and remembrances. It was the only break to them; for just then sorrowful things had got the upper hand; and even the Bible promises to which she had clung, and the faith that laid hold of them, and the hopes that grew out of them, could not make her be other than downcast and desponding. Even a Christian life, all alone in the world, with nobody and for nobody, seemed desolate and uncheering. Winthrop Landholm led such a life, and was not desolate, nor uncheered. — "But he is very different from me; he has been long a traveller on the road where my unsteady feet have but just set themselves; he is a man and I am a woman!" — And once Elizabeth even laid down her oars, and her head upon the hands that had held them, to shed the tears that would have their own peculiar way of comfort and relief. The bay, and the boat, and the woody shore, and the light, and the time of year, all had too much to say about her causes of sorrow. But tears wrought their own relief; and again able to bear the burden of life, Elizabeth pulled slowly and quietly homewards.

Looking behind her as she neared the rocks, to make sure that she was approaching them in a right direction, she was startled to see a man's figure standing there. Startled, because it was not the bent-shouldered form of Mr. Underhill, nor the slouching habit of Anderese; but tall, stately and well put on. It was too far to see the face; and in her one startled look Elizabeth did not distinctly recognize anything. Her heart gave a pang of a leap at the possibility of its being Winthrop; but she could not tell whether it were he or no; she could not be sure that it was, yet who else should come there with that habit of a gentleman? Could Mr. Brick? — No, he had never such an air, oven at a distance. It was not Mr. Brick. Neither was it Mr. Herder; Mr. Herder was too short. Every nerve now trembled, and her arms pulled nervously and weakly her boat to the shore. When might she look again? She did not till she must; then her look went first to the rocks, with a vivid impression of that dark figure standing above them, seen and not seen — she guided her boat in carefully — then just grazing the rocks she looked up. The pang and the start came again, for though not Winthrop it was Winthrop's brother. It was Rufus.

The nervousness and the flutter quieted themselves, almost; but probably Elizabeth could not have told then by the impulse of what feeling or feelings it was, that she coolly looked down again and gave her attention so steadily and minutely to the careful bestowment of her skiff, before she would set foot on the rocks and give her hand and eye to the person who had been waiting to claim them. By what impulse also she left it to him entirely to say what he was there for, and gave him no help whatever in her capacity of hostess.

"You are surprised to see me," said Rufus after he had shaken the lady's hand and helped her on shore.

"Rather. I could not imagine at first who it might be."

"I am glad to find you looking so well," said the gentleman gravely. "Very well indeed."

"It is the flush of exercise," said Elizabeth. "I was not looking well, a little while ago; and shall not be, in a little time to come."

"Rowing is good for you," said Rufus.

"It is pleasant," said Elizabeth. "I do it for the pleasantness, not for the goodness."

"Rather severe exercise, isn't it?"

"Not at all!" said Elizabeth a little scornfully. "I am not strong-armed just now — but it is nothing to move a boat like that."

"Some ladies would not think so."

They had been slowly moving up the path towards the house. As they reached the level of the grassy garden ground, where the path took a turn, Rufus stopped and faced about upon the river. The fair October evening air and light were there, over the water and over the land.

"It is beautiful!" he said somewhat abstractedly.

"You are not so fond of it as your brother, Mr. Landholm," said Elizabeth.

"What makes you think so?"

There was quick annoyance in his tone, but Miss Haye was not careful.

"Am I wrong? Are you as fond of it?"

"I don't know," said Rufus. "His life has been as steadily given to his pursuits as mine has to mine."

"Perhaps more. But what then? I always thought you loved the city."

"Yes," Rufus said thoughtfully, — "I did; — but I love this too. It would be a very cold head and heart that did not."

Elizabeth made no reply; and the two enjoyed it in silence for a minute or two longer.

"For what do you suppose I have intruded upon you at this time, Miss Haye?"

"For some particular purpose — what, I don't know. I have been trying to think."

"I did not venture to presume upon making an ordinary call of civility."

What less are you going to do? — thought Elizabeth, looking at him with her eyes a little opened.

"I have been — for a few months past — constantly engaged in business at the South; and it is but a chance which permitted me to come here lately — I mean, to Mannahatta — on a visit to my brother. I am not willing to let slip any such opportunity."

"I should think you would not," said Elizabeth, wondering.

"There I heard of you. — Shall we walk down again?"

"If you please. I don't care whether up or down."

"I could not go home without turning a little out of my way to pay this visit to you. I hope I shall be forgiven."

"I don't know what I have to forgive, yet," said Elizabeth.

He was silent, and bit his lip nervously.

"Will you permit me to say — that I look back with great pleasure to former times passed in your society — in Mannahatta; — that in those days I once ventured to entertain a thought which I abandoned as hopeless, — I had no right to hope, — but that since I have heard of the misfortunes which have befallen you, it has come back to me again with a power I have not had the strength to resist — along with my sympathy for those misfortunes. Dear Miss Haye, I hope for your forgiveness and noble interpretation, when I say that I have dared to confess this to you from the impulse of the very circumstances which make it seem most daring."

"The misfortunes you allude to, are but one," said Elizabeth.

"One — yes, — but not one in the consequences it involved."

"At that rate of reckoning," said Elizabeth, "there would be to such a thing as one misfortune in the world."

"I was not thinking of one," said Rufus quietly. "The actual loss you have suffered is one shared by many — pardon me, it does not always imply equal deprivation, nor the same need of a strong and helping friendly hand."

Elizabeth answered with as much quietness, —

"It is probably good for me that I have care on my hands — it would be a weak wish, however natural, to wish that I could throw off on some agent the charge of my affairs."

"The charge I should better like," said Rufus looking at her, — "the only charge I should care for, — would be the charge of their mistress."

An involuntary quick movement of Elizabeth put several feet between them; then after half a minute, with a flushed face and somewhat excited breathing, she said, not knowing precisely what she said,

"I would rather give you the charge of my property, sir. The other is, you don't very well know what."

"My brother would be the better person to perform the first duty, probably," Rufus returned, with a little of his old- fashioned haughtiness of style.

Elizabeth's lips parted and her eye flashed, but as she was not looking at him, it only flashed into the water. Both stood proudly silent and still. Elizabeth was the first to speak, and her tone was gentle, whatever the words might be.

"You cannot have your wish in this matter, Mr. Landholm, and it would be no blessing to you if you could. I trust it will be no great grief to you that you cannot."

"My grief is my own," said Rufus with a mixture of expressions. "How should that be no blessing to me, which it is the greatest desire of my life to obtain, Miss Haye?"

"I don't think it is," said Elizabeth. "At least it will not be. You will find that it is not. It is not the desire of mine, Mr. Landholm."

There was silence again, a mortified silence on one part, — for a little space.

"You will do justice to my motives?" he said. "I have a right to ask that, for I deserve so much of you. If my suit had been an ungenerous one, it might better have been pressed years ago than now."

"Why was it not?" said Elizabeth.

It was the turn of Rufus's eyes to flash, and his lips and teeth saluted each other vexedly.

"It would probably have been as unavailing then as now," he replied. "I bid you good evening, Miss Haye. I ask nothing from you. I beg pardon for my unfortunate and inopportune intrusion just now. I shall annoy you no more."

Elizabeth returned his parting bow, and then stood quite still where he left her while he walked up the path they had just come down. She did not move, except her head, till he had passed out of sight and was quite gone; then she seated herself on one of the rocks near which her boat was moored, and clasping her hands round her knees, looked down into the water. What to find there? — the grounds of the disturbance in which her whole nature was working? it lay deeper than that. It wrought and wrought, whatever it was — the colour flushed and the lips moved tremulously, — her brow knit, — till at last the hands came to her eyes and her face sunk down, and passionate tears, passionate sobbing, told what Elizabeth could tell in no other way. Tears proud and humble — rebelling and submitting.

"It is good for me, I suppose," she said as she at last rose to her feet, fearing that her handmaid might come to seek her, — "my proud heart needed to be brought down in some such way — needed to be mortified even to this. Even to this last point of humiliation. To have my desire come and mock me so and as it were shake my wish in my face! But how could he think of me? — he could not — he is too good — and I am a poor thing, that may be made good, I suppose —"

Tears flowed again, hot and unbidden; for she was walking up to the house and did not want anybody to see them. And in truth before she was near the house Clam came out and met her half way down the path.

"Miss 'Lizabeth, — I don' know as you want to see nobody —"

"Who is there for me to see?"

"Well — there's an arrival — I s'pect we'll have to have supper in the kitchen to-night."

CHAPTER XV.

With weary steps I loiter on, Though always under altered skies; The purple from the distance dies, My prospect and horizon gone. TENNYSON.

Whether or not Elizabeth wanted to see anybody she did not say — except to herself. She walked into the house, fortified with all the muniments of her spirit for the meeting. It was a quiet one on the whole. Rose cried a good deal, but Elizabeth bore it without any giving way; saving once or twice a slight twinkling of lip and eye, instantly commanded back. Rose had all the demonstration to herself, of whatever kind. Elizabeth sat still, silent and pale; and when she could get free went and ordered supper.

The supper was in Mrs. Landholm's old kitchen; they two alone at the table. Perhaps Elizabeth thought of the old time, perhaps her thoughts had enough to do with the present; she was silent, grave and stern, not wanting in any kind care nevertheless. Rose took tears and bread and butter by turns; and then sat with her face in her handkerchief all the evening. It seemed a very, very long evening to her hostess, whose face bespoke her more tired, weary, and grave, with every succeeding half hour. Why was this companion, whose company of all others she least loved, to be yet her sole and only companion, of all the world? Elizabeth by turns fretted and by turns scolded herself for being ungrateful, since she confessed that even Rose was better for her than to be utterly alone. Yet Rose was a blessing that greatly irritated her composure and peace of mind. So the evening literally wore away. But when at last Rose was kissing her hostess for good night, between sobs she stammered, "I am very glad to be here Lizzie, — it seems like being at home again."

Elizabeth gave her no answer besides the answering kiss; but her eyes filled full at that, and as soon as she reached her own room the tears came in long and swift flow, but sweeter and gentler and softer than they had flowed lately. And very thankful that she had done right, very soothed and refreshed that her right doing had promised to work good, she laid herself down to sleep.

But her eyes had hardly closed when the click of her door- latch made them open again. Rose's pretty night-cap was presenting itself.

"Lizzie! — aren't you afraid without a man in the house?"

"There is a man in the house."

"Is there?"

"Yes. Anderese — Karen's brother."

"But he is old."

"He's a man."

"But aren't you ever afraid?"

"It's no use to be afraid," said Elizabeth. "I am accustomed to it. I don't often think of it."

"I heard such queer noises," said Rose whispering. "I didn't think of anything before, either. May I come in here?"

"It's of no use, Rose," said Elizabeth. "You would be just as much afraid to-morrow night. There is nothing in the world to be afraid of."

Rose slowly took her night-cap away and Elizabeth's head went down on her pillow. But her closing eyes opened again at the click of the latch of the other door.

"Miss 'Lizabeth! —"

"Well, Clam? —"

"Karen's all alive, and says she ain't goin' to live no longer."

"What! —"

"Karen."

"What's the matter?"

"Maybe she's goin', as she says she is; but I think maybe she ain't."

"Where is she?" said Elizabeth jumping up.

"In here," said Clam. "She won't die out of the kitchen."

Elizabeth threw on her dressing-gown and hurried out; thinking by the way that she had got into a thorn forest of difficulties, and wishing the daylight would look through. Karen was sitting before the fire, wrapped up in shawls, in the rocking-chair.

"What's the matter, Karen?"

Karen's reply was to break forth into a tremulous scrap of her old song, —

"'I'm going, — I'm going, — I'm going, —'"

"Stop," said Elizabeth. "Don't sing. Tell me what's the matter."

"It's nothin' else, Miss Lizzie," said the old woman. "I'm goin' — I think I be."

"Why do you think so? How do you feel?"

"I don't feel no ways, somehow; — it's a kinder givin' away. I think I'm just goin', ma'am."

"But what ails you, Karen?"

"It's time," said Karen, jerking herself backwards and forwards in her rocking-chair. "I'm seventy years and more old. I hain't got no more work to do. I'm goin'; and I'm ready, praise the Lord! They're most all gone; — and the rest is comin' after; — it's time old Karen was there."

"But that's no sign you mayn't live longer," said Elizabeth. "Seventy years is nothing. How do you feel sick?"

"It's all over, Miss Lizzie," said the old woman. "Its givin' away. I'm goin' — I know I be. The time's come."

"I will send Anderese for a doctor — where is there one?"

Karen shivered and put her head in her hands, before she spoke.

"There ain't none — I don't want none — there was Doctor Kipp to Mountain Spring, but he ain't no' count; and he's gone away."

"Clam, do speak to Anderese and ask him about it, and tell him to go directly, if there is any one he can go for. — What can I do for you, Karen?"

"I guess nothin', Miss Lizzie. — If the Governor was here, he'd pray for me; but it ain't no matter — I've been prayin' all my life — It's no matter if I can't pray good just right now. The Lord knows all."

Elizabeth stood silent and still.

"Shall I — would you like to have me read for you?" she asked somewhat timidly.

"No," said Karen — "not now — I couldn't hear. Read for yourself, Miss Lizzie. I wish the Governor was here."

What a throbbing wish to the same effect was in Elizabeth's heart! She stood, silent, sorrowful, dismayed, watching Karen, wondering at herself in her changed circumstances and life and occupation; and wondering if she were only going down into the valley of humiliation, or if she had got to the bottom. And, almost thinking Karen to be envied if she were, as she said, 'going.'

"What's the matter?" said Rose and her night-cap at the other door.

"Karen don't feel very well. Don't come here, Rose."

"What are you there for?"

"I want to be here. You go to bed and keep quiet — I'll tell you another time."

"Is she sick?"

"Yes — I don't know — Go in, Rose, and be quiet!"

Which Rose did. Clam came back and reported that there was no doctor to be sent for, short of a great many miles. Elizabeth's heart sunk fearfully. What could she and her companions do with a dying woman? — if she were really that. Karen crept nearer the fire, and Clam built it up and made it blaze. Then she stood on one side, and her young mistress on the other.

"Go to bed, Miss 'Lizabeth," said Clam. "I'll see to her."

But Elizabeth did not move so much as an eyelid.

"I don't want nothin'," said Karen presently. "Miss Lizzie, if you see the Governor — tell him —"

"Tell him what?"

"Tell him to hold on, — will you? — the way his mother went and the way he's a goin'. Tell him to hold on till he gets there. Will you tell him?"

"Certainly! I will tell him anything you please."

Karen was silent for a little space, and then began again.

"Is't your way?"

Elizabeth's lips moved a little, but they closed and she made no answer.

"Mis' Landholm went that way, and Governor's goin', and I'm goin' too.

"'I'm going, — I'm going, — I'm —'"

"Do you feel better, Karen?" said Elizabeth interrupting her.

"I'm goin' — I don' know how soon axactly, Miss Lizzie — but I feel it. I am all givin' away. It's time. I've seen my life all through, and I'm ready. I'm ready — praise the Lord. I was ready a great while ago, but it wa'n't the Lord's time and now if he pleases, I'm ready."

"Wouldn't you feel better if you were to go to your own room and lie down?"

Karen made no answer for some time and then only was half understood to say that "this was the best place." Elizabeth did not move. Clam fetched a thick coarse coverlid and wrapping herself in it, lay down at full length on the floor.

"Go to bed, Miss 'Lizabeth, — I'm settled. I'll see to her. I guess she ain't goin' afore mornin'."

"You will go to sleep, Clam, and then she will have nobody to do anything for her."

"I'll wake up once in a while, Miss 'Lizabeth, to see she don't do nothin' to me."

Elizabeth stood another minute, thinking bitterly how invaluable Winthrop would be, in the very place where she knew herself so valueless. Another sharp contrast of their two selves; and then she drew up a chair to the fire and sat down too; determined at least to do the little she could do, give her eyes and her presence. Clam's entreaties and representations were of no avail. Karen made none.

They watched by her, or at least Elizabeth did, through hour after hour. She watched alone, for Clam slept and snored most comfortably; and Karen's poor head much of the time rested in her hands. Whether conscious or unconscious, she was very quiet; and her watcher trimmed the fire and mused with no interruption. At first with much fear and trembling; for she did not know how soon Karen's prophecy might come true; but as the night wore on and no change was to be seen or felt, this feeling quieted down and changed into a very sober and sad review of all the things of her own life, in the past and in the future. The present was but a point, she did not dwell on it; yet in that point was the sweetest and fairest thing her mind had in possession; her beginning of a new life and her hold of the promise which assured her that strength should not be wanting to live it until the end. She did look over her several present duties and made up her mind to the self- denying and faithful performance of them; but then her longing came back, for a human hand to hold her and help her on the journey's way. And her head bowed to the chair-back; and it was a good while before she recollected again to look at the fire or at her charge in front of it.

Karen's attitude was more easy; and Elizabeth excessively fatigued, with pain as well as weariness, felt inclined to steal off to bed and leave her door open, that she might readily hear if she was wanted. But it occurred to her that Winthrop for his own ease never would have deserted his post. She dismissed the thought of sleep and rest; and disposed herself to wear out the remnant of the night as she had begun it; in attendance on what she was not sure needed her attendance.

A longer night Elizabeth never knew, and with fear in the first part and watching in the last part of' it, the morning found her really haggard and ill. But Karen was no worse; and not knowing what to think about her, but comforting herself with the hope that at least her danger was not imminent, Elizabeth went to bed, coveting sleep inexpressibly, for its forgetfulness as well as its rest. But sleep was not to be had so promptly.

"Miss 'Lizabeth! —" And there stood Clam before her opening eyes, as fresh and as black as ever, with a clean turban in the last state of smartness.

"What is the matter?"

"Where will you have breakfast? Karen ain't goin' at all at present. Where will you have it?"

"Nowhere."

"Will I clear her out of the kitchen?"

"No! — let her alone. Mrs. Haye's woman may see to breakfast in her mistress's room — I don't want anything — but sleep. Let Karen have and do just what she wants."

"Won't Clam do as much!" — said the toss of the clean turban as its owner went out of the room. And the issue was, a very nice little breakfast brought to Miss Haye's bed-side in the space of half an hour. Elizabeth was waked up and looked dubious.

"You want it," said her handmaid. "The Governor said you was to take it."

"Is he here!" exclaimed Elizabeth, with an amount of fire in eye and action that, as Clam declared afterwards, "had like to have made her upset everything." But she answered demurely,

"He ain't here just yet. I guess he's comin', though."

Elizabeth's eye went down, and an eye as observant if not so brilliant as her own, watched how the pink tinge rose and mounted in the cheeks as she betook herself to the bread and coffee. "Ain't she eatin' her breakfast like a good child!" said Clam to herself. "That put her down."

And with a "Now you'll sleep —" Clam carried off the breakfast tray, and took care her mistress should have no second disturbance from anybody else. Elizabeth only heard once or twice in the course of the day that nothing was wanted from her; so slept her sleep out.

It was slept out at last, and Elizabeth got up and began to dress. Or rather, took her dressing-comb in hand and planted herself in front of the window, and there forgot what she had to do. It was a fine afternoon of October, late in the day. It was very fair outside. The hills touched here and there in their green with a frost-spot — yellow, or tawny, or red; the river water lying very calm; and a calm sky over-head; the air as pure as though vapours and mists were refined away for ever. The distant trees of the woodland shewed in round distinct masses of foliage, through such an atmosphere; the rocky shore edge cut sharp against the water; the nearer cedars around the home valley seemed to tell their individual leaves. Here and there in some one of them a Virginia creeper's luxuriant wreaths were colouring with suspicious tokens of crimson. Not in their full brilliancy yet, the trees and the vine-leaves were in fair preparation; and fancy could not imagine them more fair than they looked that afternoon.

"So bright without! — and so dark within!" — Elizabeth thought. "When will it end — or is it only beginning? Such a flood of brightness was over me a little while ago, — and now, there is one burden in one room, and another in another room, and I myself am the greatest burden of all. Because my life has nothing to look forward to — in this world — and heaven is not enough; I want something in this world. — Yes, I do. — Yet Winthrop Landholm has nothing more than I have, in this world's things, and he don't feel like me. What is the reason? Why is his face always so at rest, — so bright — so strong? Ah, it must be that he is so much better than I! — he has more, not of this world's things; religion is something to him that it is not to me; he must love his Master far better than I do. — Then religion might be more to me. — It shall be — I will try; — but oh! if I had never seen another Christian in all my life, how well his single example would make me know that religion is a strong reality. What a reward his will be! I wonder how many besides me he will have drawn to heaven — he does not dream that he has ever done me any good. Yet it is pleasant to owe so much to him — and it's bitter! —"

"You'll tire yourself with lookin', Miss 'Lizabeth," said Clam behind her. "Mannahatta ain't so far off as that."

Elizabeth started a little from her fixed attitude and began to handle her dressing-comb.

"'Taint so far folks can't get here, I guess."

"Clam!" — said her mistress facing about.

"Well, Miss Lizzie —"

"Go and take care of Karen. I don't want you."

"She don't want me," said Clam. "And you've had no dinner."

"Do as I tell you. I shall not have any."

With this spur, Elizabeth was soon dressed, and then walked into Mrs. Haye's room. Rose apparently had had leisure for meditation and had made up her mind upon several things; but her brow changed as her cousin came in.

"Lizzie — Why you've been up all night, Emma says."

"That's nothing. I have been down all day."

"But what's the matter with this old woman?"

"I don't know. She don't know herself."

"But Emma said she thought she was dying?"

"So she did. I don't know whether she is right or not."

"Dying! — is she!" said Rose with a little scream.

"I don't know. I hope not, so soon as she thinks. She is no worse to-night."

"But what are you going to do?"

"Nothing — more than I have done."

"But are you going to stay here?"

"Stay here, Rose! —"

"Yes — I mean — who's going to take care of her? And isn't she your cook?"

A curious quick gleam of a laugh passed over Elizabeth's face; it settled graver than before.

"Clam can cook all you and I want."

"But who's going to take care of her?"

"I have sent for help, and for a doctor."

"Haven't you sent for a doctor before! Why Lizzie!"

"I sent early this morning. The messenger had to go a number of miles."

"And isn't there anybody about the house but Clam and Emma?"

"Anderese is here. I sent somebody else."

"What use is an old thing like that about a place?"

Elizabeth was silent. The cloud gathered on Rose's face, and as if that it might not cast its shadow on her cousin, she looked out of the window. Then Clam came in.

"Where'll supper be, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"Is Karen in the kitchen?"

"Oh! — I won't have tea in there!" said Rose with one of her old little screams.

"Let it be here, Clam."

"What'll it be, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"Anything you please."

"There's nothing in the house to be pleased with," said Clam; "and you've had no dinner."

"Bread and butter and tea — and boil an egg."

"That would be pleasant," said Clam, capacity and fun shining out of every feature; — "but Karen's hens don't lay no eggs when she ain't round."

"Bread and butter and tea, then."

"Butter's gone," said Clam.

"Bread and cold meat, then."

"Fresh meat was all eat up days ago; and you and Mis' Haye don't make no 'count of ham."

Elizabeth got up and went out to Anderese and despatched him to Mountain Spring after what forage he could find. Then from a sense of duty went back to her cousin. Rose was looking out of the window again when she came in, and kept silence for a little space; but silence was never Rose's forte.

"Lizzie — what makes you live in such a place?"

"It was the pleasantest place I could find," said her cousin, with a tone of suppressed feeling.

"It's so lonely!" said Rose.

"It suited me."

"But it isn't safe," said Rose. "What if something happened to you, with nobody about, — what would you do?"

"It has not been a subject of fear with me," said Elizabeth. "I haven't thought about it."

"Who comes to see you here? anybody?"

"No. Who should come?" said Elizabeth sternly. "Whom should I want to see?"

"Don't you want to see anybody, ever? I do. I don't like to be in a desert so."

Elizabeth was silent, with a set of the lips that told of thoughts at work.

"Doesn't Winthrop Landholm come here?"

"No!"

"I'm not used to it," said Rose whimpering, — "I can't live so. It makes me feel dreadfully."

"Whom do you want to see, Rose?" said Elizabeth, with an expression that ought to have reminded her companion whom she was dealing with.

"I don't care who — any one. It's dreadful to live so, and see nothing but the leaves shaking and the river rolling and this great empty place."

"Empty!" said Elizabeth, with again a quick glancing laugh. "Well! — you are yourself yet! But at any rate the leaves don't shake much to-day."

"They did last night," said Rose. "I was so frightened I didn't know what to do, and with no man in the house either, good for anything — I didn't sleep a wink till after one o'clock."

"Was your sleep ever disturbed by anything of more importance than the wind?"

"I don't know what you mean," said Rose in tears. "I think you're very unkind! —"

"What would you like me to do, Rose?"

"Let's go away from here."

"Where?"

"I don't care — to Mannahatta."

"What do you want to do in Mannahatta?"

"Why, nothing, — what everybody does — live like other people. I shall die here."

"Is the memory of the best friend you ever had, so little worth, Rose, that you are in a hurry to banish it your company already?"

"I don't know what you mean," said Rose, with one of her old pouts and then bursting into fresh weeping. "I don't know why one should be miserable any more than one can help. I have been miserable enough, I am sure. Oh Lizzie! — I think you're very unkind! —"

Elizabeth's face was a study; for the fire in her eyes shone through water, and every feature was alive. But her lips only moved to tremble.

"I won't stay here!" said Rose. "I'll go away and do something. I don't care what I do. I dare say there's enough left for me to live upon; and I can do without Emma. I can live somehow, if not quite as well as you do."

"Hush, Rose, and keep a little sense along with you," said Elizabeth.

"There must be enough left for me somehow," Rose went on, sobbing. "Nobody had any right to take my money. It was mine. Nobody else had a right to it. It is mine. I ought to have it."

"Rose! —"

Rose involuntarily looked up at the speaker who was standing before her, fire flashing from eye and lip, like the relations of Queen Gulnare in the fairy story.

"Rose! — do not dare speak to me in that way! — ever again! — whatever else you do. I will leave you to get back your senses."

With very prompt and decided action, Miss Haye sought her rowing gloves in her own room, put them on, and went down to the rocks where the Merry-go-round lay. She stopped not to look at anything; she loosened the boat and pushed out into the water. And quick and smartly the oars were pulled, till the skiff was half way over the river towards Mr. Underhill's house. Suddenly there they stopped. Elizabeth's eyes were bent on the water about two yards from the stern of the boat; while the paddles hung dripping, dripping more and more slowly, at the sides, and the little skiff floated gently up with the tide. But if Elizabeth's eyes were looking into nature, it was her own; her face grew more settled and grave and then sorrowful every minute; and at last the paddle-handles were thrown across the boat and her arms and her head rested upon them. And the little skiff floated gently up stream.

It had got some distance above Mr. Underhill's, when its mistress lifted her head and looked about, with wet eyelashes, to see where she was. Then the boat's head was turned, and some steady pulling brought her to the gravelly beach in front of Mr. Underhill's house. Its owner was luckily there to help her out.

"Well, I declare that's clever of you," said he, as he grasped the bow of the little vessel to draw it further up. "I didn't much expect you'd come when I asked you. Why you can row, real smart."

"I don't see how I am going to get out, Mr. Underhill."

"Step up on there, can't you — I'll hold her, — can you jump?" —

"But Mr. Underhill, that's going to do no good to my boat. —"

"What aint? —"

"That gravel — grating and grinding on it, as the tide makes."

"'Twon't do nothin' — it'll just stay still so. Well, you go in and speak to mother, and I'll see to her. I didn't know you could row so smart, — real handsome!"

"I learnt a good while ago," said Elizabeth. "I'll not be gone long, Mr. Underhill."

Up the neglected green slope she ran, wondering at herself the while. What new steps were these, which Miss Haye was not taking for her own pleasure. What a strange visit was this, which her heart shrank from more and more as she neared the house door.

The house was tenanted by sundry younger fry of the feminine gender, of various ages, who met Elizabeth with wonder equal to her own, and a sort of mixed politeness and curiosity to which her experience had no parallel. By the fireside sat the old grandam, very old, and blind, as Elizabeth now perceived she was. Miss Haye drew near with the most utter want of knowledge what to do or say to such a person, — how to give the pleasure she had come to give. She hoped the mere fact of her coming and presence would do it, for to anything further she felt herself unequal. The old lady looked up curiously, hearing the noise of entering feet and a stranger's among them.

"Will you tell your grandmother who I am," Elizabeth asked, with a shy ignorance how to address her, and an exceeding reluctance to it.

"Grand'ma," said the eldest girl, "here is Miss Haye, — the young lady from Shahweetah — she's here."

The old woman turned her sightless eyes towards her visiter, got up and curtseyed.

"Don't do that," said Elizabeth, taking a seat near her. "Mr. Underhill asked me some time ago to come and see his mother."

"I've heerd of ye," said the old woman. "'Siah was over to your place, makin' of a boat, or mendin', or somethin', he telled me. I'm glad to see ye. How did ye come across?"

"In a boat — in the boat he mended for me."

"Have you got somebody to row ye over?"

"I rowed myself over."

"Why did ye? — ain't ye afeard? I wouldn't ha' thought! 'Siah said she was a slim handsome girl, as one would see in the country."

"Well, I can row," said Elizabeth colouring; for she had an instant sense that several pairs of eyes not blind were comparing the report with the reality.

"Be you the owner of Shahweetah now?"

"Yes."

"I heerd it was so. And what's become of the old family?"

"They are scattered. Mr. Landholm is gone West, with one of his sons; the others are in different places."

"And the girl is dead, ain't she?"

"Winnie? — yes."

Elizabeth knew that!

"The mother was gone first — to a better place. She had a fine lot o' children. Will was a pictur; — the farmer, he was a fine man too; — but there was one — the second boy — Winthrop, — he was the flower of the flock, to my thinkin'. I ha'n't seen him this great while. He's been here since I lost my sight, but I thought I could see him when I heerd him speak."

There was silence. Elizabeth did not feel inclined to break it.

"Do you know him, maybe?" the old woman said presently. Winthrop had made himself pleasant there! —

"Yes."

"Is he lookin' as well as he used to?"

"Quite as well, I believe."

"Is he gettin' along well?"

"Yes — I believe so — very well."

"Whatever he does 'll prosper, I believe," said Mrs. Underhill; "for the Lord knoweth the way of the righteous. Is that a way you have any knowledge of, young lady?"

"Not much —" said Elizabeth hesitating.

"'Siah says he 'spects you're rich."

"What makes him think so?"

"He says that's what he 'spects. Does the hull Shahweetah farm belong to you?"

"Yes."

"It's a good farm. Who's goin' to take care of it for you?"

"I don't know, yet."

"I 'spose you'll be gettin' married, one of these days, and then there'll be some one to do it for you. Be you handsome, particular, as 'Siah says?"

Elizabeth coloured exceedingly, and a tittering laugh, somewhat boisterous, ran round the group of spectators and listeners, with a murmured "Oh Grand'ma! —"

"Whisht!" — said the old woman; — "I'm not talkin' like you. I'm old and blind. I can't see for myself, and I want to know. She can tell me."

"Father telled ye already," said the eldest girl.

"I can tell better from what she says," said Mrs. Underhill, turning her face towards her visiter. "What does she say? Be you uncommon fair and handsome? — or not more than the common?"

The red deepened on Elizabeth's cheek and brow, but she answered, not without some hesitation,

"I believe — more than the common."

A little glimpse of a smile stole over the old woman's face.

"Handsome, and rich. Well — Be you happy too, young lady, above the common?"

"I have learned, ma'am, that that depends upon right-doing; — so I am not always happy."

"Have you learned that lesson?" said the old woman. "It's a good one. Let me see your hand?"

Elizabeth drew near and gave it.

"It's a pretty hand," — said the old woman. "It's soft — it hain't done much work. It feels rich and handsome. Don't you give it to no one who will help you to forget that the blessing of God is better than silver and gold."

"Thank you. I will not."

"Be you a servant of the Lord, young lady?"

"I hope I am, Mrs. Underhill," Elizabeth answered with some hesitation. "Not a good one."

The old woman dropped her hand and fell back in her chair, only saying, for Elizabeth had risen,

"Come and see me again — I'll be pleased to see ye."

"If I do! —" thought Elizabeth as she ran down to her boat. The free air seemed doubly free. But then came the instant thought, — "Winthrop Landholm would not have said that. How far I am — how far! — from where he stands!" —

She walked slowly down to the water's edge.

"Mr. Underhill," she said as she prepared to spring into the boat which he held for her, — "I have forgotten, while I was at the house, what I partly came for to-night. We are out of provisions — have you any eggs, or anything of any kind, to spare?"

"Eggs?" — said Mr. Underhill, holding the boat, — "what else would you like along of eggs?"

"Almost anything, that is not salt meat."

"Chickens? — we've got some o' them."

"Very glad of them indeed, — or fresh meat."

"Ha'n't got any of that just to-day," said the old farmer shaking his head. "I'll see. The boat won't stir — tide's makin' yet. You'll have a pull home, I expect."

He went back to the house, and Elizabeth stood waiting, alone with her boat.

There was refreshment and strength to be had from nature's pure and calm face; so very pure and calm the mountains looked down upon her and the river smiled up. The opposite hill-tops shone in the warm clear light of the October setting sun, the more warm and bright for the occasional red and yellow leaves that chequered their green, and many tawny and half turned trees that mellowed the whole mountain side. Such clear light as shone upon them! such unearthly blue as rose above them! such a soft and fair water face that gave back the blue! What could eyes do but look; what could the mind do but wonder, and be thankful; and wonder again, at the beauty, and grow bright in the sunlight, and grow pure in that shadowless atmosphere. The sharp cedar tops on Shahweetah were so many illuminated points, and further down the river the sunlight caught just the deep bend of the water in the bay; the rest was under shadow of the western hills. All was under a still and hush, — nothing sounded or moved but here and there a cricket; the tide was near flood and crept up noiselessly; the wind blew somewhere else, but not in October. Softly the sun went down and the shadows stole up.

Elizabeth stood with her hands pressed upon her breast, drinking in all the sights and sounds, and many of their soft whisperings that only the spirit catches; when her ear was caught by very dissimilar and discordant notes behind her, — the screaming of discomposed chickens and the grating of Mr. Underhill's boots on the gravel.

"Here's chickens for ye," said the farmer, who held the legs of two pair in his single hand, the heads of the same depending and screaming in company, — "and here's three dozen of fresh eggs — if you want more you can send for 'em. Will you take these along in the Merry-go-round?"

"If you please — there is no other way," said Elizabeth. "Wait — let me get in first, Mr. Underhill — Are they tied so they can't get loose?"

"La! yes," said the old man putting them into the bow of the boat, — "they can't do nothin'! I'll engage they won't hurt ye. Do you good, if you eat 'em right. Good bye! — it's pretty nigh slack water, I guess — you'll go home easy. Come again! — and you shall have some more fowls to take home with ye!" —

Elizabeth bowed her acknowledgments, and pulled away towards home, over the bright water, wondering again very much at herself and her chickens. The dark barrier of the western hills rose up now before her, darkening and growing more distant — as she went all the way over the river home. Elizabeth admired them and admired at herself by turns.

Near the landing, however, the boat paused again, and one oar splashed discontentedly in the water and then lay still, while the face of its owner betrayed a struggle of some sort going on. The displeased brow, and the firm-set lips, said respectively, 'I would not,' and 'I must;' and it was five minutes good before the brow cleared up and the lips unbent to their usual full free outline; and the oars were in play once more, and the Merry-go-round brought in and made fast.

"Well, Miss 'Lizabeth!" said Clam who met her at the door, — "where have you been! Here's Mis' Haye been cryin' and the tea-kettle singing an hour and a half, if it isn't two hours."

"Has Anderese come home?"

"Yes, and supper's ready, and 'taint bad, for Mis' Landholm learned me how to do fresh mutton and cream; and it's all ready. You look as if you wanted it, Miss 'Lizabeth. My! —"

"There are some eggs and chickens down in the boat, Clam"

"In what boat, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"In mine — down at the rocks."

"Who fetched 'em?"

"I did, from Mr. Underhill's. You may bring them up to the house."

Leaving her handmaid in an excess of astonishment unusual with her, Elizabeth walked into her guest's room, where the table was laid. Rose sat yet by the window, her head in her handkerchief on the window-sill. Elizabeth went up to her.

"Rose —"

"What?" said Rose without moving.

"Rose — look up at me —"

The pretty face was lifted at her bidding, but it was sullen, and the response was a sullen "Well —"

"I am very sorry I spoke to you so — I was very wrong. I am very sorry. Forgive me and forget it — will you?"

"It was very unkind!" — said Rose, her head going down again in fresh tears.

"It was very unkind and unhandsome. What can I say more, but that I am sorry? Won't you forget it?"

"Of course," said Rose wiping her eyes, — "I don't want to remember it if you want to forget it. I dare say I was foolish —"

"Then come to supper," said Elizabeth. "Here's the tea — I'm very hungry."

CHAPTER XVI.

And Phant'sie, I tell you, has dreams that have wings, And dreams that have honey, and dreams that have stings, Dreams of the maker, and dreams of the teller, Dreams of the kitchen, and dreams of the cellar. BEN JONSON.

A few days more passed; days of sameness in the house, while Autumn's beautiful work was going on without, and the woods were changing from day to day with added glories. It seemed as if the sun had broken one or two of his beams across the hills, and left fragments of coloured splendour all over. The elm trees reared heads of straw-colour among their forest brethren; the maples shewed yellow and red and flame-colour; the birches were in bright orange. Sad purple ashes stood the moderators of the Assembly; and hickories of gold made sunny slopes down the mountain sides. All softened together in the distance to a mellow, ruddy, glowing hue over the whole wood country.

The two cousins sat by the two windows watching the fading light, in what used once to be the 'keeping-room' — Mrs. Haye's now. Elizabeth had been long looking out of the window, with a fixed, thoughtful, sorrowful, gaze. Rose's look was never fixed long upon anything and never betrayed her thoughts to be so. It wavered now uneasily between her cousin and the broad and bright hills and river — which probably Mrs. Haye did not see.

"How long are you going to stay here, Lizzie?"

"I don't know."

"How is that old woman?"

"I don't know. There don't seem to be much difference from one day to another."

"What ails her?"

"I don't know. I suppose it is as the doctor says, — that there is a general breaking up of nature."

"Is she going to live long?"

"I don't know. He said probably not."

"Well, who's going to take care of her?"

"She is taken care of. There is a woman here from Mountain Spring, to do all that is necessary."

"Why must we stay here, Lizzie? — it's so dismal."

"We mustn't — I must."

"Why?"

"I would rather — and I think it is right."

"To take care of that old woman?"

"No — I can't do much for her — but I can see that she is taken care of."

"But how would she have done if you had never come here?"

"I don't know. I don't know what that has to do with it, seeing that I am here."

"You wouldn't stay for her now, if she wasn't somebody's old nurse."

Elizabeth did not answer.

"But how long do you mean to stay here, Lizzie? — any how?"

"Till I must go — till it is less pleasant here than somewhere else."

"And when will you think that?"

"Not for a good while."

"But when, Lizzie?"

"I don't know. I suppose when the cold weather comes in earnest."

"I'm sure it has come now!" said Rose shrugging her shoulders. "I'm shivering every morning after the fire goes out. What sort of cold weather do you mean?"

"I mean snow and ice."

"Snow and ice — And then you will go — where will you go?" said Rose discontentedly.

"I suppose, to Mannahatta."

"Will you go the first snow?"

"I cannot tell yet, Rose."

There was a pause. Elizabeth had not stirred from her position. Her head rested yet on her hand, her eyes looked steadily out of the window.

"It will seem so lonely there!" said Rose whimpering.

"Yes! — more lonely than here."

"I meant in the house. But there one can get out and see some one."

"There isn't a soul in Mannahatta I care to see."

"Lizzie! —"

"Not that I know of."

"Lizzie! — Mr. Landholm?"

"I mean, not one that I am like to see."

"What do you go to Mannahatta for, then?" said Rose unbelievingly.

"One must be somewhere, to do something in the world."

"To do what?"

"I don't know — I suppose I shall find my work."

"Work? — what work?" — said Rose wonderingly.

"I don't know yet, Rose. But everybody has something to do in the world — so I have, — and you have."

"I haven't anything. What have we to do, except what we like to do?"

"I hope I shall like my work," said Elizabeth. "I must like it, if I am to do it well."

"What do you mean? — what are you talking of, Lizzie?"

"Listen to me, Rose. Do you think that you and I have been put in this world with so many means of usefulness, of one sort and another, and that it was never meant we should do anything but trifle away them and life till the end of it came? Do you think God has given us nothing to do for him?"

"I haven't much means of doing anything," said Rose, half pouting, half sobbing. "Have you taken up your friend Winthrop Landholm's notions?"

There was a rush to Elizabeth's heart, that his name and hers, in such a connection, should be named in the same day; but the colour started and the eyes flushed with tears, and she said nothing.

"What sort of 'work' do you suppose you are going to do?"

"I don't know. I shall find out, Rose, I hope, in time."

"I guess he can tell you, — if you were to ask him," said Rose meaningly.

Elizabeth sat a minute silent, with quickened breath.

"Rose," she said, leaning back into the room that she might see and be seen, — "look at me and listen to me."

Rose obeyed.

"Don't say that kind of thing to me again."

"One may say what one has a mind to, in a free land," said Rose pouting, — "and one needn't be commanded like a child or a servant. Don't I know you would never plague yourself with that old woman if she wasn't Winthrop's old nurse?"

Elizabeth rose and came near to her.

"I will not have this thing said to me!" she repeated. "My motives, in any deed of charity, are no man's or woman's to meddle with. Mr. Landholm is most absolutely nothing to me, nor I to him; except in the respect and regard he has from me, which he has more or less, I presume, from everybody that has the happiness of knowing him. Do you understand me, Rose? clearly?"

Another answer was upon Rose's tongue, but she was cowed, and only responded a meek 'yes.' Elizabeth turned and walked off in stately fashion to the door of the kitchen. The latch was raised, and then she let it fall again, came back, and stood again with a very different face and voice before her guest.

"Rose," she said gravely, "I didn't speak just in the best way to you; but I do not always recollect myself quickly enough. You mustn't say that sort of thing to me — I can't bear it. I am sorry for anything in my manner that was disagreeable to you just now."

And before Rose had in the least made up her mind how to answer her, Elizabeth had quitted the room.

"She ain't goin' never!" said Clam, meeting and passing her mistress as she entered the kitchen. "I don't believe! She's a goin' to stay."

Karen sat in her wonted rocking-chair before the fire, rocking a very little jog on her rockers. Elizabeth came up to the side of the fireplace and stood there, silent and probably meditative. She had at any rate forgotten Karen, when the old woman spoke, in a feebler voice than usual.

"Is the Governor comin'?"

"What, Karen?" said Elizabeth, knowing very well what she had asked, but not knowing so well the drift and intent of it.

"Is the Governor comin'? will he be along directly?"

"No — I suppose not. Do you want to see him, Karen?"

"I'd like to see him," said the old woman covering her eyes with her withered hand. "I thought he was comin'."

"Perhaps something may bring him, some day. I dare say you will see him by and by — I don't know how soon."

"I'll see him there," said the old woman. "I can't stay here long."

"Why, you don't seem any worse, Karen, do you? Aren't you going to be well again?"

"Not here," said the old woman. "I'm all goin' to pieces. I'll go to bed to-night, and I won't get up again."

"Don't say that, Karen; because I think you will."

"I'll go to bed," she repeated in a rather plaintive manner. "I thought he'd be here."

It touched Elizabeth acutely; perhaps because she had so near a fellow feeling that answered Karen's, and allowed her to comprehend how exceedingly the desire for his presence might grow strong in one who had a right to wish for it. And she knew that he would reckon old Karen his friend, whatever other people would do.

"What can I do for you, Karen?" she said gently. "Let me be the best substitute I can. What can I do for you, that he could do better?"

"There can't nobody do just the Governor's work," said his old nurse. "I thought he'd ha' been here. This'll be my last night, and I'd like to spend it hearin' good things."

"Would you like me to send for anybody," said Elizabeth.

"Could ye send for him?" said Karen earnestly.

"Not in time. No, Karen, — there'd be no time to send a message from here to Mannahatta and get him here to-night."

She jogged herself back and forward a little while on her rocking-chair; and then said she would go to bed. Elizabeth helped her into the little room, formerly Asahel's, opening out of the kitchen, which she had insisted Karen should take during her illness; and after she was put to bed, came again and asked her what she should do for her. Karen requested to have the Bible read.

Elizabeth set open the kitchen door, took a low seat by Karen's bedside, and established herself with her book. It was strange work to her, to read the Bible to a person who thought herself dying. She, who so lately had to do with everything else but the Bible, now seated by the bedside of an old black woman, and the Bible the only matter in hand between the two. Karen's manner made it more strange. She was every now and then breaking in upon the reading, or accompanying it, with remarks and interjections. Sometimes it was "Hallelujah!" — sometimes, "That's true, that's true!" — sometimes, and very often, "Praise the Lord!" Not loud, nor boisterous; they were most of the time little underbreath words said to herself, words seemingly that she could not help, the good of which she took and meant for nobody else's edification. They were however very disagreeable and troublesome to Elizabeth's ears and thoughts; she had half a mind to ask Karen to stop them; but the next sighing "That's true!" — checked her; if it was such a comfort to the old woman to hold counsel with herself, and Elizabeth could offer nothing better, the least she could do was to let her alone. And then Elizabeth grew accustomed to it; and at last thoughts wandered a little by turns to take up their new trade of wondering at herself and at the new, unwonted life she seemed beginning to lead. There was a singular pleasantness in what she was doing; she found a grave sweet consciousness of being about the right work; but presently to her roving spirit the question arose whether this, — this new and certainly very substantial pleasure, — were perhaps the chief kind she was hereafter to look forward to, or find in this life; — and Elizabeth's heart confessed to a longing desire for something else. And then her attention suddenly came back to poor Karen at her side saying, softly, "Bless the Lord, O my soul!" — Elizabeth stopped short; she was choked.

At this juncture Clam noiselessly presented herself.

"He's come, Miss 'Lizabeth."

The start that Miss Haye's inward spirits gave at this, was not to be seen at all on the outside. She looked at Clam, but she gave no sign that her words had been understood. Yet Elizabeth had understood them so well, that she did not even think at first to ask the question, and when she did, it was for form's sake, who had come? Probably Clam knew as much, for she only repeated her words.

"He's come. What'll I do with him, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"Where is he?"

"He ain't come yet — he's comin'."

"Coming when? And what do you mean by saying he is come?"

"I don't mean nothin' bad," said Clam. "He's just a comin' up the walk from the boat — I see him by the moon."

"See who it is, first, before you do anything with him; and then you can bring me word."

Elizabeth closed her book however, in some little doubt what she should do with herself. She knew, — it darted into her mind, — that it would please Winthrop to find her there; that it would meet his approbation; and then with the stern determination that motives of self-praise, if they came into her head should not come into her life, she hurried out and across the kitchen and hid her book in her own room. Then came out into the kitchen and stood waiting for the steps outside and for the opening of the door.

"You are come in good time," she said, as she met and answered Winthrop's offered hand.

"I am glad I am in time," he said.

"Karen has been wishing for you particularly to-night — but I don't know that that is any sign, except to the superstitious, that she is in particular danger."