"But Winthrop — I can't drink water!"

"I think you can — if I want you to."

"I won't," was in Winnie's heart to say; it did not get to her lips. With a very disturbed and unsettled face, she saw her brother quietly and carefully supply her plate — the ham and the eggs and the bread and the butter, — and then Winnie jumped up and came to his arms to cry; the other turn of feeling had come again. He let it have its way, till she had wept out her penitence and kissed her acknowledgment of it, and then she went back to her seat and her plate and betook herself to her breakfast. Before much was done with it, however, Mrs. Nettley and Mr. Inchbald came to the door; and being let in, overwhelmed them with kind reproaches and welcomes. Winnie was taken down stairs to finish her breakfast with tea and coffee; and Winthrop leaving her in hands that he knew would not forget their care of her, was free to go about his other cares, with what diligence they might require.

That same morning, before she had left her own room, Miss Haye was informed that a black girl wished to speak with her. Being accordingly ordered up, said black girl presented herself. A comely wench, dressed in the last point of neatness, though not by any means so as to set off her good accidents of nature. Nevertheless they could not be quite hid; no more than a certain air of abundant capacity, for both her own business and other people's. She came in and dropped a curtsey.

"Who are you?" said Elizabeth.

"I am Clam, ma'am."

"Clam!" said Elizabeth. "O, are you Clam? Where have you come from?"

"From the boat, last place, ma'am."

"Boat! what boat?"

"The boat what goes with wheels and comes down the river," said Clam lucidly.

"Oh! — And have you just come down?"

"We was comin' down all yesterday and last night, ma'am."

"Who were coming?"

"Mr. Winthrop Landholm, and Winifred, and me."

"Winifred and you," said Elizabeth. "And did he send you to me?"

Clam nodded. "He said he would ha' writ somethin', if he'd ha' had a piece of paper or card or anything, but he hadn't nothing."

"He would have written what?"

"Don't know — didn't say."

"Do you know who I am?"

Clam nodded again and shewed her teeth. "The lady Mr. Winthrop sent me to."

"Do you remember ever seeing me before?"

"When he was out walkin' with you in the rain," said Clam, her head first giving significant assent.

"Look here," said Elizabeth a little shortly, — "when I speak to you, speak, and don't nod your head."

To which Clam gave the prohibited answer.

"What are you sent here for now?"

"I dun' know, ma'am."

"What did Mr. Winthrop say you were to do?"

"Said I was to come here, and behave."

"Why have you come away from Mrs. Landholm?"

"Didn't," said Clam. "She went away first. She's gone to heaven."

"Mrs. Landholm! Is she dead?"

Clam nodded.

"When? — and what was the matter?"

"'Twa'n't much of anything the matter with her," said Clam; — "she took sick for two or three days and then died. It's more'n a fortnight ago."

"And they sent for Mr. Winthrop?"

"Job Underhill rode down after him as hard as he could and fetched him up on horseback."

"In time?" said Elizabeth.

"He was in time for everything but himself. It was too late for him. But all the rest of the folks had the good of his coming."

"Why what was there for him to do?" said Elizabeth.

"He finds enough to do — or he's pretty apt to —whenever he comes to a place," said Clam. "There was everybody to put in order, about. There was Mr. Landholm hardly fit to live, he was so willin' to die; and Winifred was crazy. She went and crawled under one of the beds to hide when she thought he was a comin'."

"When who was coming?"

"He — Mr. Winthrop. And Karen was takin' airs — that aint out o' the common — but I'd a little liever have him master than her mistress — she wa'n't mine, neither."

"And where was Mr. Asahel?"

"He was there — and good enough what there was of him; but he won't never stand in other folks' shoes."

"Do you say Winifred was crazy?"

"She was so feared to see her brother come home!"

"Her brother Winthrop?"

"There wa'n't no other coming," said Clam.

"Poor thing!" said Elizabeth. "And you say he has brought her down to Mannahatta?"

Clam nodded. "She don't think she's alive when he aint near her; so he's took her down to live with him. I guess it's good living with him," said Clam sagaciously. "I wish I did it."

"I must go and see her. Where is she?"

"She's wherever he's took her to."

"But where's that? — don't you know?"

"It's to his house — if you know where that is."

"Do you know what you've come here to do?" said Elizabeth after a slight pause.

Clam shook her head.

"One thing I can tell you, first of all," said Elizabeth, — "it is to mind what I say to you."

"Mr. Winthrop said I was to behave," said Clam with another glimpse of her white teeth.

"Then don't shake your head any more when I speak to you. What have you been doing at Wut-a-qut-o?"

"At Wuttle-quttle?" said Clam.

"At Wut-a-qut-o. What did you do there?"

"'Tain't the name of the place," said Clam. "They call it Shah-wee-tah."

"Wut-a-qut-o is the name of the mountain — it's all one. What have you been used to do there?"

"Set tables —" said Clam considerately.

"What did Mrs. Landholm teach you?"

"She learned me 'most everything," said Clam. "What she learned me most of all, was to have me read the Bible every day, and do nothin' wrong o' Sundays, and never say nothin' that wa'n't."

"That wasn't what?"

"That wa'n't it," said Clam. "Never to say nothin' that wa'n't the thing."

"Why, did you ever do that?" said Elizabeth.

"Maybe I did," said Clam, considering her new mistress's dressing-table. "Mis' Landholm was afeard on't."

"Well, you must be just as careful about that here," said Elizabeth. "I love truth as well as she did."

"All kinds?" said the girl.

Elizabeth looked at her, with a mouthful of answer which she did not dare to bring out. Nothing was to be made of Clam's face, except that infallible air of capacity. There was no sign of impertinent meaning.

"You look as if you could learn," she said.

"Been learnin' ever since I was big enough," said the black girl. And she looked so.

"Are you willing to learn?"

"Like nothin' better."

"Provided it's the right kind, I suppose," said Elizabeth, wholly unable to prevent her features giving way a little at the unshakable coolness and spirit she had to do with. Clam's face relaxed in answer, after a different manner from any it had taken during the interview; and she said,

"Well, I'll try. Mr. Winthrop said I was to be good; and I ain't a goin' to do nothin' to displease him, anyhow!"

"But the matter is rather to please me, here," said Elizabeth.

"Well," said Clam with her former wide-awake smile, "I guess what 'll please him 'll please you, won't it?"

"Go down stairs, and come to me after breakfast," said her mistress. "I'll let you make some new dresses for yourself the first thing. And look here, —" said she pulling a bright- coloured silk handkerchief out of a drawer, — "put that into a turban before you come up and let me see what you're up to."

Clam departed without an answer; but when she made her appearance again, the orange and crimson folds were twisted about her head in a style that convinced Elizabeth her new waiting-maid's capacity was equal to all the new demands she would be likely to make upon it.

CHAPTER XXVI.

Never his worldly lot, or worldly state torments him: Less he would like, if less his God had sent him. FLETCHER.

Winthrop had taken no little charge upon himself in the charge of his little sister. In many ways. He had a scanty purse, and it better bore the demands of one than of two; but that was only a single item. Winnie was not a charge upon his purse alone, but upon his heart and his head and his time. The demands were all met, to the full.

As much as it was possible, in the nature of Winthrop's business, his sister had him with her; and when he could not be there, his influence and power. It was trying enough for the poor child to be left alone as much as she was, for she could not always find solace in Mrs. Nettley, and sometimes could not endure her presence. Against this evil Winthrop provided as far as he might by giving Winnie little jobs to do for him while he was gone, and by setting her about what courses of self-improvement her delicate system of mind and body was able to bear. He managed it so that all was for him; not more the patching and knitting and bits of writing which were strictly in his line, than the pages of history, the sums in arithmetic, and the little lesson of Latin, which were for Winnie's own self. He knew that affection, in every one of them, would steady the nerves and fortify the will to go patiently on to the end. And the variety of occupation he left her was so great that without tiring herself in any one thing, Winnie generally found the lonely hours of her day pretty well filled up. Mrs. Nettley was a great help, when Winnie was in the mood for her company; that was not always.

His little sister's bodily and mental health was another care upon Winthrop's mind, and on his time. Disease now constantly ruffled the sweet flow of spirits which once was habitual with her. Nothing ruffled his; and his soothing hand could always quiet her, could almost always make her happy, when it was practicable for him to spare time. Very often when he had no time to give beyond what a word or a look would take from his business. But those times were comparatively few. He was apt to give her what she needed, and make up for it afterwards at the cost of rest and sleep when Winnie was abed. Through the warm summer days he took her daily and twice daily walks, down to the Green where the sea air could blow in her face fresh from its own quarter, where she and he too could turn their backs upon brickwork and pavement and look on at least one face of nature unspotted and unspoiled. At home he read to her, and with her, the times when he used to read the classics; and many other times; he talked to her and he played with her, having bought a second-hand backgammon board for the very purpose; he heard her and set her her lessons; and he amused her with all the details of his daily business and experience that he could make amusing.

If these things were a charge, it was one for which he was abundantly rewarded, every night and every morning, and knew it. But the other part of the burden, the drain upon his purse, was not so easily to be met withal. There was no helping it. Winnie's state of health made her simple wants, simple as they were, far more costly than his own had been; and he would and did supply them. He could bear to starve himself and lie hard; but Winnie would very soon starve to death; and the time when she could sleep softly on a hard bed had once been, but would never be again, literally or figuratively. Winthrop never shewed her how it was with him; not the less it was almost the ebb; and whence the flow was to come, was a point he saw not. He was not yet admitted to practise law; his slender means were almost all gathered from teaching; and he could not teach any more than he did. And this consciousness he carried about with him, to the office, to market, and to his little sister's presence. For her his face was always the same; and while she had it Winnie thought little was wanting to her life.

One morning when she had it not, she was lying wearily stretched out on the couch which was hers by day and Winthrop's by night. It was early June; the sun was paying his first instalment of summer heat, and doing it as if he were behind-hand with pay-day. Winnie's attic roof gave her a full share of his benefits. The hours of the morning had worn away, when towards noon a slow step was heard ascending the stairs. It was her hostess, come up to look after her.

"All alone?" said Mrs. Nettley.

"Oh yes! —" came with most fervent breath from Winnie. Her head uneasily turned the other cheek to the pillow.

"Poor child!" said Mrs. Nettley; and every line of her careful and sympathetic face said it over again. "Poor child! — And Mr. Winthrop's been away all the morning!"

"I don't know why you call me poor," said Winnie, whose nerves could not bear even that slight touch, if it happened to touch the wrong way; — "Of course he's been away all the morning — he always is."

"And you're tired. I didn't mean poor, dear, in the way that I am poor myself; — not that poor, — I only meant, — because you were so much here all alone without your brother."

"I know what you meant," said Winnie.

"It's hot up here, isn't it," said Mrs. Nettley going to the window. "Dreadful. It's hot down stairs too. Can't we let a little air in?" —

"Don't! It's hotter with it."

Mrs. Nettley left the window and came and stood by Winnie's couch, her face again saying what her voice did not dare to say, — "Poor child!" —

"Mrs. Nettley —"

"What, my love?"

"I'm very cross —"

"No you aren't, my love! you're only tired."

"I'm very cross — I don't know what makes me so — but sometimes I feel so it seems as if I couldn't help it. I'm cross even to Winthrop. I'm very much obliged to you, but you must think I aint."

"I don't think the least thing of the kind, dearest — I know it's miserable and suffocating up here, and you can't feel — I wish I could make it better for you!"

"O it'll be better by and by — when Governor gets home and it grows cool."

"Come down and take a bit of dinner with me."

"O no, thank you, Mrs. Nettley," said Winnie brightening up, — "I don't want anything; and Governor'll be home by and by and then we'll have our dinner. I'm going to broil the chicken and get everything ready."

"Well, that'll be sweeter than anything I've got," said the good lady. — "Why, who's there? —"

Somebody there was, knocking at the door; and when the door was opened, who was there shewed herself in the shape of a young lady, very bright looking and well dressed. She glanced at Mrs. Nettley with a slight word of inquiry and passing her made her way on up to the couch.

"Is this Winifred?" she said, looking, it might be, a little shocked and a little sorrowful at the pale and mind-worn face that used to be so round and rosy; and about which the soft fair hair still clustered as abundantly as ever.

"Yes ma'am," Winifred said, half rising.

"Don't get up, — don't you know me?"

Winnie's eye keenly scanned the bright fresh face that bent over her, but she shook her head and said 'no'.

"Can't you remember my being at your house — some time ago? — me and" she stopped. "Don't you remember? We spent a good while there — one summer — it was when you were a little girl."

"O!" — said Winnie, — "are you —"

"Yes."

"I remember. But you were not so large then, either."

"I am not very large now," said her visiter, taking a chair beside Winnie's couch.

"No. But I didn't know you."

"How do you do, dear?"

"I don't know," said Winnie. "I am not very well now-a-days."

"And Mannahatta is hot and dusty and disagreeable — more than any place you ever were in before in your life, isn't it?"

"I don't care," said Winnie. "I'd rather be with Winthrop."

"And can he make up for dust and heat and bad air and all?"

The smile that broke upon Winnie's face Elizabeth remembered was like that of old time; there was a sparkle in the eyes that looked up at her, the lips had their childish play, and the thin cheek even shewed its dimple again. As she met the look, Elizabeth's own face grew grave and her brow fell; and it was half a minute before she spoke.

"But he cannot be with you a great deal of the time."

"O yes he is," said Winnie; — "he is here in the morning, and at breakfast and dinner and tea, and all the evening. And all Sundays."

"That's the best day of the week then, I suppose."

"It's always that," said Winnie. "And he takes a great many walks with me — every day almost, when it gets cool — we go down on the Green and stay there as long as it's pleasant."

Elizabeth was silent again.

"But doesn't he have studying or writing to do in the evenings? I thought he had."

"O yes," said Winnie, "but then it don't hinder him from talking to me."

"And is he good enough to make you like this place better than your beautiful country home?"

"I would rather be here," said Winnie. But she turned her face a little from her questioner, and though it remained perfectly calm, the eyes filled to overflowing. Elizabeth again paused, and then bending over her where she still lay on her couch, she pressed her own full red lips to Winnie's forehead. The salute was instantly returned upon one of her little kid gloves which Winnie laid hold of.

"You don't know how rich you are, Winifred, to have such a good brother."

"Yes I do," said Winifred. "You don't."

If there was not a rush to Elizabeth's eyes, it was because she fought for it.

"Perhaps I don't," she said quietly; — "for I never had any one. Will you go and ride with me to-morrow, Winifred?"

"Ride?" said Winifred.

"Yes. In my carriage. We'll go out of town."

"O yes! O thank you! I should like it very much."

"You don't look very strong," said Elizabeth. "How is it that you can take such long walks?"

"O Winthrop don't let me get tired you know."

"But how does he manage to help it?" said Elizabeth smiling. "Can he do everything?"

"I don't know," said Winnie. "He don't let me stand too long, and he doesn't let me walk too fast; and his arm is strong, you know; —he can almost hold me up if I do get tired."

"I have — or my father has," — said Elizabeth, "some very old, very good wine. — I shall send you some. Will you try it? I think it would make you stronger."

"I don't know whether Winthrop would let me drink it."

"Why not?"

"O he don't like me to drink anything but water and milk — he don't let me have tea or coffee — and I don't know whether he'd like wine; — but I'll ask him."

"Don't let you have tea or coffee!"

"No; we drink milk, and water."

"But don't he let you do whatever you have a mind?"

"No," said Winnie; "and I don't want to, either."

"Don't want to do what?"

"Why — anything that he don't like."

"Do you love him well enough for that — not to wish to do what he don't like, Winifred?"

"Yes!" said Winifred. "I think I do. I may wish it at first, of course; but I don't want to do it if he wishes me not."

"How did he ever get such power over you!"

"Power!" said Winnie, raising herself up on her elbow, — "why I don't know what you mean! I should think everybody would do what Winthrop likes — it isn't power."

"I wonder what is, then!" said Elizabeth significantly.

"Why it's — it's — goodness!" said Winnie, shutting her eyes, but not before they had filled again. Elizabeth bit her lips to keep her own from following company; not with much success.

"That's what it is," said Winnie, without opening her eyes; — "he always was just so. No he wasn't either, — though it almost seems as if he was, — but now he's a Christian."

If outward signs had kept inward feelings company, Elizabeth would have started. She sat still; but the lines of her face wore a look of something very like startled gravity. There was a silence of more than one minute. Winnie opened her eyes and directed them upon her still companion.

"Is he any better than he used to be?" she forced herself to say.

"Why yes," said Winnie, — "of course — he must be. He used to be as good as he could be, except that; — and now he's that too."

"What difference does 'that' make, Winifred?"

Winnie looked keenly once more at the face of her questioner.

"Don't you know what it is to be a Christian, Miss Haye?"

Elizabeth shook her head.

"You must ask Winthrop," said Winnie. "He can tell you better than I can."

"I want you to tell me. What difference, for instance, has it made in your brother?"

Winnie looked grave and somewhat puzzled.

"He don't seem much different to me," she said, — "and yet he is different. — The difference is, Miss Haye, that before, he loved us — and now he loves God and keeps his commandments."

"Don't he love you now?"

"Better than ever!" said Winnie with her eyes opening; — "why what makes you ask that?"

"Didn't he keep the commandments of the Bible before?"

"No, —not as he does now. Some of them he did, because he never was bad as some people are; — but he didn't keep them as he does now. He didn't keep the first commandment of all."

"Which is that?" said Elizabeth.

Winnie gave her another earnest look before she answered.

"Don't you know?"

"No."

"'Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy mind, and with all thy soul, and with all thy strength.'"

If Winifred's face was grave, Elizabeth's took a double shade of gravity — it was even dark for a minute, as if with some thought that troubled her. Winnie's eyes seemed to take note of it, and Elizabeth roused herself. Yet at first it was not to speak.

"When — How long ago, do you suppose," she said, "your brother was changed in this way?"

"Since — since the time I came here; — since mother died," Winnie said softly.

There was again a few minutes of absolute silence; and then Elizabeth rose to go.

"Shall I send you the wine?" she said smiling.

"I don't believe Winthrop will let me take it," Winifred said.

"Because he is good, are you bound not to get strong?" Elizabeth said with an air of slight vexation.

"No," — said Winnie, "but because he is good I must do what he says."

"I wish I liked anybody so well as that!" said Elizabeth kissing her. "Good bye, dear, — I'll come for you to-morrow. There's no objection to that, I suppose?"

"No," Winnie said laughing; and they parted.

Five minutes Winnie was alone, thinking over her visit and visiter. They were a great novelty, and very interesting. Winnie's thoughts roved with an odd mixture of admiration and pity over the beautiful dress, and fine face, and elastic step; they were bewitching; but Winnie had seen a shadow on the face, and she knew that the best brightness had never lighted it. Five minutes were all she had to think about it; then she heard a very different step on the stairs.

"I heard her go," said Mrs. Nettley, coming in, "and I had a little more time to spare; so I thought I would spend it with you; — unless you've got enough with such a gay visiter and don't want me."

"O no indeed, Mrs. Nettley, I want you just as much. Have you done dinner?"

"George isn't ready yet;" and Mrs. Nettley took Miss Haye's chair and set her knitting-needles a going. "Has she tired you with talking?"

"No — talking doesn't tire me, —and she wasn't a gay visiter, either, Mrs. Nettley — what do you mean by 'gay'?"

"O, she was handsome, and young, and 'fine feathers make fine birds' I'm sure," said Mrs. Nettley; — "wasn't she smartly dressed?"

"Yes," said Winnie, she had handsome things on; but that didn't make her gay."

"Well that was what I meant. How do you like that young lady?"

"I don't know," said Winnie. "I think I like her."

"This isn't the first of your seeing her, dear!"

"O no — she was at our house once. I've seen her before, but that was a great while ago. I didn't know her again at first."

"Then she remembered you best."

"O —" said Winnie, considering, — "she has seen Rufus and Winthrop since then."

"She's a handsome young lady, don't you think so?"

"I don't know —" said Winnie.

"Ask your brother if he don't think so."

"Why?"

"See if he don't think so."

"Which brother?"

"Your brother that's here — your brother Winthrop."

"Does he think she is?"

"Ask him," repeated Mrs. Nettley.

"I don't know why I should ask him," said Winnie turning over uneasily on her couch; — "I don't care if she is or no."

"Ay, but you might care."

"I don't know why," said Winnie.

"How would you like to have a new sister one of these days? — by and by?"

"A sister?"

Mrs. Nettley nodded.

"A sister!" said Winnie. "How should I have a sister?"

"Why such a thing might be," said Mrs. Nettley. "Did you never think of one of your brothers getting married?"

"Winthrop won't!" said Winnie, — "and I don't care what Rufus does."

"What makes you think Winthrop won't?"

"He won't!" said Winnie with flushing cheeks.

"Wouldn't you be glad? You would like anything that would make him happy."

"Happy!" said Winnie. — "Glad! — I do wish, Mrs. Nettley, you would go down stairs and leave me alone!"

Mrs. Nettley went away, in some astonishment. And before her astonishment had cooled off in her own kitchen, down came Winnie, with flushed cheeks still, and watery eyes, and a distressed face, to beg Mrs. Nettley's forgiveness. It was granted with her whole heart, and a burden of apologies besides; but Winnie's face remained a distressed face still. The chicken, broiled on Mrs. Nettley's fire, was salted with some tears; and all the simple and careful preparations for Winthrop's dinner were made more carefully than usual; but when Winthrop came home, his little sister was as far from being herself as ever.

It happened that Winthrop was very busy that day and had no time to talk, except the disjointed bits of talk that could come between the joints of the chicken; and pleasant as those bits were, they could not reach the want of poor Winnie's heart. Immediately after dinner Winthrop went out again; and she was left to get through the afternoon without help of anybody.

It had worn on, and the long summer day was drawing to its close, when Winthrop was at last set free from his business engagements and turned his face and his footsteps towards home. The day had been sultry and his toil very engrossing; but that was not the reason his footsteps flagged. They flagged rarely, but they did it now. It needed not that he should have noticed his little sister's face at dinner; his ordinary burdens of care were quite enough and one of them just now pressing. In a sort of brown study he was slowly pacing up one of the emptying business streets, when his hand was seized by some one, and Winthrop's startled look up met the round jocund well-to-do face of the German professor.

"Wint'rop! — Where are you going?"

"Home, sir," — said Winthrop returning the grasp of his friend's hand.

"How is all wiz you?"

"As usual, sir."

"Wint'rop — what is de matter wiz you?"

"Nothing! —" said Winthrop.

"I know better!" said the naturalist, — "and I know what it is, too. Here — I will give you some work to do one of these days and then I will pay you the rest."

And shaking Winthrop's hand again, the philosopher dashed on. But Winthrop's hand was not empty when his friend's had quitted it; to his astonishment he found a roll of bills left in it, and to his unbounded astonishment found they were bills to the amount of three hundred dollars.

If he was in any sort of a study as he paced the rest of his way home, it was not a brown study; and if his steps were slow, it was not that they flagged any more. It had come in time; it was just what was needed; and it was enough to keep him on, till he should be admitted to the bar and might edge off his craft from her moorings to feel the wind and tide 'that lead on to fortune.' Winthrop never doubted of catching both; as little did he doubt now of being able some time to pay back principal and interest to his kind friend. He went home with a lighter heart. But he had never let Winnie know of his troubles, and could not for the same reason talk to her of this strange relief.

Thinking so, he went up the stairs and opened the door of his and her sitting-room. The sun was down by that time, and the evening light was failing. The table stood ready for tea; Winnie had all the windows open to let in the freshening air from the sea, which was beginning to make head against the heats and steams of the city; herself sat on the couch, away from the windows, and perhaps her attitude might say, away from everything pleasant. Winthrop came silently up and put a little basket in her hand.

"Oh! —" Winnie sprang forward with an accent of joy, — "Strawberries! — Beautiful! and so sweet! O Winthrop, aren't they sweet! — how good they will be."

"I hope so," said he. "How are you?"

"O — I'm well," said Winnie. "How big they are — and fresh. They do smell so sweet, don't they, Governor?"

Winthrop thought they were not so fresh nor so sweet as those which grew in the Bright Spot under Wut-a-qut-o; but he didn't remind Winnie of that. He smiled at her, as she was picking over her basket of strawberries with an eager hand. Yet when Winnie had got to the bottom of the basket and looked up at him his face was very grave indeed.

"There's plenty for you and me, Governor," she said.

"No," said her brother.

"There is plenty, Winthrop!"

"There is only just enough for you, and you must prove that by eating them all."

"Why didn't you get some for yourself, Governor!"

He answered that by spreading for her a particularly nice piece of bread and butter and laying it on her plate alongside of the strawberries. Winnie took it in the same pleasant mood and began upon both with great zeal; but before she had got half through the strawberries something seemed to come over her recollection; and the latter part of the meal her face grew more shadowy than the growing evening. When it was over, Winthrop placed her gently on the couch, and himself put away the dishes and glasses and eatables from the table. Then he came and sat down beside her and drew her head to lean upon him. It was darkening by that time, and the air coming in more and more fresh at the windows.

"Have you been very tired to-day?"

"No — I don't know —" said Winnie doubtfully.

"We couldn't have our walk this evening — I am sorry for that — but I was kept so long with Bob Satterthwaite. He is in a great feaze about some property that he thinks is owing to him somewhere, and he has been giving me a long detail of matters and things connected with the business. — I believe that if I were in practice he would commission me to get his rights for him. And an old classmate and friend of mine, Bob Cool, was in town to-day and came to see me. He was expressing a very earnest wish that I were working on my own hook."

"Oh I wish you were!" — said Winnie.

"Patience. I shall be in a little while more, if all goes well. Mr. Cool promises I shall have all his business."

"Is that much?"

"I don't know. It seems so."

"But isn't Mr. Satterthwaite rich?"

"Yes — very."

"Then what is he in a feaze about money for?"

"He is not so rich he mightn't be richer, I suppose, Winnie. And besides, nobody likes to be cheated."

"Is Mr. Haye rich?"

"Yes! What made you think of him?"

Winnie hesitated. "She was here to-day."

"She! Who? — Clam?"

"No, not Clam."

"Who then?"

"Why — Miss Haye."

"Was she here?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"This morning. She staid a good while with me."

"It was kind of her," said Winthrop after a little pause.

There was a pause then of some length.

"Has Miss Haye's being here and talking to you, tired you, Winnie?" said her brother, the arm that was round her drawing her more near.

"No —" Winnie said; but by no means as if Miss Haye's visit had had a sprightly effect.

"Staid here a good while talking? What did she talk about?"

"O — I don't know, —" said Winnie, — "about my drinking wine, and going to ride with her."

"She is very kind. And what did you tell her?"

"I said I didn't know whether you would let me drink it. I said I would go to ride."

"I am very much obliged to Miss Haye, and very glad for you, Winnie. It will do you good."

"Would you let me drink wine, if she should send it to me?"

"Did she speak of doing that?"

"Yes."

There was a little silence.

"Would you let me take it, Winthrop?"

"I suppose I should."

"I hope she won't send it," said Winnie; "and I wish I wasn't going to ride, either."

"Why?"

"O — I'd rather stay here."

They sat a little while without speaking another word; and then Winthrop withdrawing his arm proposed to have 'some light on the subject.' Winifred sprang to get it, but he held her back, and himself got the candle and lit it and placed it on the table. The light shewed Winnie's face flushed and unresting, and of doubtful signification about the eyes. Winthrop came and took his former place and position by her side.

"How has the day been with you, Winnie?"

The tone was most gentle and kindly. Winnie hesitated and then said,

"It hasn't been good."

"What's the matter?"

"I haven't been good."

"That isn't such a new thing that you need be surprised at it, — is it?" he said gently.

"No" — under breath.

"And it isn't so strange a thing that I love you a bit the less for it."

"But it's very uncomfortable," said poor Winnie, whose voice bore her witness.

"I find it so often."

"You, Governor! — you never do!" said Winnie energetically.

"Never do what?"

"Never feel like me."

"No, Winnie — I am strong and you are weak — you are sick and I am well. I have no excuse — you have, a little."

"It don't make it a bit better," said poor Winnie. "I don't want to make any excuse. I got so cross with Mrs. Nettley to- day."

"What about?"

"O I couldn't bear to hear her talk, and I almost told her so."

"I dare say you did what you could to mend it afterwards, Winnie."

"O yes; — and she didn't think anything of it at all; but I am always doing so, Winthrop."

"You never do it to me," said her brother soothingly.

"To you! — But O Winthrop! — if I loved God enough, I never should do anything to displease him!"

She had thrown herself further into her brother's arms and at this was weeping with all her heart.

"He said once himself," said Winthrop, "'Blessed are they that mourn now, for they shall be comforted.'"

Winnie clung faster to him, with a grateful clasp, and her tears came more gently.

"We sha'n't be quit of it till we get to heaven, Winnie; — and 'the people that dwell therein,' you know, 'shall be forgiven their iniquity.' And more than that, 'white robes are given unto every one of them.' 'And they shall see the King's face, and his name shall be in their foreheads.'"

"I wish it was in mine now!" said Winnie.

"Stop, Winnie. — I hope it is there, — only not so bright as it will be by and by."

"But it ought to be bright now," said Winnie raising herself.

"Let it be brighter every day then," said her brother.

"I do try, Governor," said poor Winnie, — "but sometimes I think I don't get ahead at all!"

It was with great tenderness that again he put his arm round her, and drew down her head upon him, and pressed her close to his side.

"Rest! —" said he, — "and trust what is written, that 'they shall praise the Lord that seek him.' 'Wait on the Lord; be of good courage, and he shall strengthen thine heart; wait, I say, on the Lord.'"

"How much better I feel already," said poor Winnie presently.

There was a long silence. Winnie lay there still, and Winthrop was softly playing with one of her hands and striking it and stroking it against his own. The air came in fresh and cool from the sea and put the candle flame out of all propriety of behaviour; it flared and smoked, and melted the candle sideways, and threatened every now and then to go out entirely; but Winnie lay looking at Winthrop's hand which the moonlight shone upon, and Winthrop — nobody knows what he was looking at; but neither of them saw the candle. Winnie was the one to break the silence.

"What sort of a person is she, Winthrop?"

"Who?" said her brother.

"What? — O, I mean — I meant — I meant, who was here to-day, — Miss Haye."

"You have seen her, Winnie," he said after a moment's hesitation.

"Yes, but you know her. Do you think she is a person I would like?"

"I do not know."

"You don't know! —"

"But you know her, Winthrop," said Winnie a little timidly, when she found he added nothing to his former words.

"Yes."

"Don't you like her?"

"Yes."

"Then why don't you know?"

"You don't like everything that I like," said her brother.

"Why yes I do! — Don't I?"

"Not everything."

"What don't I?"

"Euripides — and Plato."

"Ah but I don't understand those," said Winnie.

Winthrop was silent. Was that what he meant? — was Winnie's instant thought. Very disagreeable. And his 'yes's' were so quiet — they told nothing. Winnie looked at her brother's hand again, or rather at Miss Haye in her brother's hand; and Winthrop pursued his own meditations.

"Governor," said Winnie after a while, "is Miss Haye a Christian?"

"No."

Winnie asked no more; partly because she did not dare, and partly because the last answer had given her so much to think of. She did not know why, either, and she would have given a great deal to hear it over again. In that little word and the manner of it, there had been so much to quiet and to disquiet her. Undoubtedly Winnie would have done anything in the world, that she could, to make Miss Haye a Christian; and yet, there was a strange sort of relief in hearing Winthrop say that word; and at the same time a something in the way he said it that told her her relief had uncertain foundation. The 'no' had not been spoken like the 'yes' — it came out half under breath; what meaning lurked about it Winnie could not make out; she puzzled herself to think; but though she could not wish it had been a willing 'no,' she wished it had been any other than it had. She could not ask any more; and Winthrop's face when he went to his reading was precisely what it was other evenings. But Winnie's was not; and she went to bed and got up with a sore spot in her heart, and a resolution that she would not like Miss Haye, for she would not know her well enough to make sure that she could.

END OF VOL. I.

PRINTED BY BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ.



COLLECTION

OF

BRITISH AUTHORS

VOL. CCCLII.

THE HILLS OF THE SHATEMUC

BY

ELIZABETH WETHERELL.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. II.



THE

HILLS OF THE SHATEMUC

BY

ELIZABETH WETHERELL,

AUTHOR OF "THE WIDE WIDE WORLD."



AUTHOR'S EDITION.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

LEIPZIG

BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ

1856.



THE HILLS OF THE SHATEMUC.

VOL. II.

CHAPTER I.

Ha, ha! what a fool honesty is! and trust, his sworn brother, a very simple gentleman! WINTER'S TALE.

Poor Winnie held to her resolution, though half unconsciously and quite involuntarily. She did not enjoy her ride, and therefore did not seem to enjoy it; for it was not in her nature to seem other than she was. Neither did she take or shew any but a very qualified pleasure in Miss Haye's company; and for this reason or for others Miss Haye made her visits few.

But this did not a bit help the main question; and in the want of data and the absence of all opportunity for making observations, Winnie had full chance to weary herself with fancies and fears. She could not get courage enough to say anything about Miss Haye again to her brother; and he never spoke of her. There was no change in him; he was always as careful of his little sister; always bestowed his time upon her in the same way; was always at home in the evenings. Unless when, very rarely, he made an arrangement that she should spend one with Mrs. Nettley and Mr. Inchbald. These times were seldom; and Winnie generally knew where he was going and that it was not to Mr. Haye's. But she was not sure of the integrity of her possession of him; and that want of security opened the sluice-gates to a flood-tide of wearisome possibilities; and Winnie's nervous and morbid sensibilities made the most of them. It was intolerable, to think that Winthrop should love anybody as he did her; that he should love anybody better, happily for Winnie, never entered her imaginings. She could not endure to think that those lips, which were to her the sweetest of earthly things, should touch any other cheek or mouth but her own. They were hers. It was bitter as wormwood to think that his strong arm could ever hold and guide another as it held and guided his little sister. "But guide? — she'd never let him guide her!" — said Winnie in a great fit of sisterly indignation. And her thoughts would tumble and toss the matter about, till her cheek was in a flush; she was generally too eager to cry. It wore upon her; she grew thinner and more haggard; but nobody knew the cause and no one could reach the remedy.

With all this the end of summer came, and Rufus. He came to establish himself under Mr. Haye's direction. "For the time," — as Winthrop told Winnie, when she asked him if Rufus was going to turn merchant. And when she asked him further "what for?" — he answered that Rufus was a spice merchant and dealt in variety. With the end of autumn came Winthrop's admission to the bar.

And Winnie drew a mental long breath. Winthrop was a lawyer himself, and no longer in a lawyer's office. Winthrop had an office of his own. The bark was shoved from the shore, with her sails set; and Winnie, no more than her brother, doubted not that the gales of prosperity would soon fill them. Rufus was greatly amused with her.

"You think it's a great thing to be a lawyer, don't you?" said he one night.

"I think it's a great thing to be such a lawyer as Governor will be," said Winnie.

At which Rufus laughed prodigiously.

"I think it's a great thing to be such a governor as this lawyer will be," he said when he had recovered himself. "Nothing less, Governor! You have your title beforehand."

"'Once a judge always a judge,'" said Winthrop. "I am afraid if you reverse the terms, so you will the conclusion."

"Terms!" said Rufus. "You will be governor of this state, and I shall be your financial secretary — on any terms you please. By the way — what keeps you from Haye's now-a-days? Not this girl?"

"No," said Winthrop.

It was that same 'no' over again. Winnie knew it, and her heart throbbed.

"What then? I haven't seen you there since I've been in town."

"How often are you there yourself?"

"O! — every evening almost. What keeps you?"

"Duty —" said Winthrop.

"But what sort of duty! What on earth can hinder your coming there as you used to do, to spend a rational hour now and then?"

"My dear sir, it is enough for any man to know his own duty; it is not always possible for him to know that of another man."

"And therefore I ask you!" said Rufus.

"What?"

"Why! — what's your reason for keeping away."

"In brief — my engagements."

"You've nothing to do with briefs yet," said Rufus; "have the goodness to enlarge a little. You've not been more busy lately than you were a while ago."

"Yes I have."

"Yes, I suppose you have," — said Rufus meditatively. "But not so much more as to make that a reason?"

"If my reasons were not only 'as plenty' but as precious, as blackberries," said his brother, "you could not shew more eagerness for them."

"I am afraid the blackberries would be the more savoury," said Rufus laughing a little. "But you didn't use to make such a hermit of yourself, Winthrop."

"I don't intend to be a hermit always. But as I told you, duty and inclination have combined to make me one lately."

Winnie could not make much of this conversation. The words might seem to mean something, but Winthrop's manner had been so perfectly cool and at ease that she was at a loss to know whether they meant anything.

Winthrop's first cause was not a very dignified one — it was something about a man's horse. Winnie did not think much of it; except that it was his first cause, and it was gained; but that she was sure beforehand it would be. However, more dignified pieces of business did follow, and came fast; and at every new one Winnie's eyes sparkled and glistened, and her nervous troubles for the moment laid themselves down beneath joy, and pride in her brother, and thankfulness for his success. Before many months had passed away, something offered that in better measure answered her wishes for his opportunity.

Their attic room had one evening a very unwonted visiter in the shape of Mr. Herder. Beside Mr. Inchbald and his sister, Rufus was the sole one that ever made a third in the little company. Winthrop's friends, for many reasons, had not the entrance there. But this evening, near the beginning of the new year, there came a knock at the door, and Mr. Herder's round face walked in rounder than ever.

"Good evening! — How is all wiz you, Wint'rop? — and you? — I would not let no one come up wiz me — I knew I should find you."

"How did you know that, Mr. Herder?"

"O! — I have not looked so long for strange things on the earth — and in the earth — that I cannot find a friend — de most strange thing of all."

"Is that your conclusion, Mr. Herder? I didn't know you had quite so desperate an opinion of mankind."

"It is not despairate," said the naturalist; — "I do not despair of nobody. Dere is much good among de world — dere might be more — a good deal. I hope all will be good one day — it will be — then we shall have no more trouble. How is it wiz you, Wint'rop?"

"Nothing to complain of, Mr. Herder."

"Does he never have nozing to complain of?" said the naturalist turning to Winnie.

"He never thinks he has," said Winnie. She had answered the naturalist's quick eye with a quick smile, and then turned on Winthrop a look that spoke of many a thing he must have passed over to make her words good. Mr. Herder's eye followed hers.

"How is everything with you, Mr. Herder?"

"It is well enough," said the naturalist, — "like the common. I do not complain, neizer. I never have found time to complain. Wint'rop, I am come to give you some work."

"What do you want me to do, sir?"

"I do not know," said the naturalist; — "I do not know nozing about what is to be done; but I want you to do something."

"I hope you will give me something more to go to work upon, sir. What is the matter?"

"It is not my matter," said the naturalist; — "I did never get in such a quarrel but one, and I will never again in anozer — it is my brother, or the man who married my sister — his name is Jean Lansing."

"What is the matter with him?"

"Dere is too many things the matter wiz him," said Mr. Herder, "for he is sick abed — that is why I am here. I am come to tell you his business and to get you to do it."

"I shall think I am working for you, Mr. Herder," Winthrop said, as he tied up a bundle of papers which had been lying loose about the table.

"Have you got plenty to do?" said the naturalist, giving them a good-humoured eye.

"Can't have too much, sir. Now what is your brother's affair?"

"I do not know as I can tell you," said the other, his bright jovial face looking uncommonly mystified, — "it seems to me he does not know very well himself. He does not know that anybody has done nozing, but he is not satisfied."

"And my business is to satisfy him?"

"If you can do that — you shall be satisfied too!" said the naturalist. "He does not know that any one has wronged him: but he thinks one has."

"Who?"

"Ryle — John Ryle. He was Mr. Lansing's partner in business for years — I do not know how many."

"Here?"

"In Mannahatta — here — they were partners; and Ryle had brothers in England, and he was the foreign partner and Lansing was here, for the American part of the business. Well, they were working togezer for years; — and at the end of them, when they break up the business, it is found that Ryle has made himself money, and that my brother has not made none! So he is poor, and my sister, and Ryle is rich."

"How is that?"

"It is that way as I tell you; and Ryle has plenty, and Lansing and Theresa they have not."

"But has Mr. Lansing no notion how this may have come about?"

"He knows nozing!" said the naturalist, — "no more than you know — except he knows he is left wizout nozing, and Ryle has not left himself so. Dat is all he knows."

"Can I see Mr. Lansing?"

"He is too sick. And he could tell you nozing. But he is not satisfied."

"Is John Ryle of this city?"

"He is of this city. He is not doing business no more, but he lives here."

"Well, we can try, Mr. Herder," said Winthrop, tapping his bundle of papers on the table, in a quiet wise that was a strong contrast to the ardent face and gestures of the philosopher. It was the action, too, of a man who knew how to try and was in no doubt as to his own power. The naturalist felt it.

"What will you do, Wint'rop?"

"You wish me to set about it?"

"I do. I put it in your hands."

"I will try, Mr. Herder, what can be done."

"What will you do first?" said the naturalist.

"File a bill in equity," said Winthrop smiling.

"A bill? — what is that?"

"A paper setting forth certain charges, made on supposition and suspicion only, to which charges they must answer on oath."

"Who will answer?"

"Ryle and his brothers."

"Dere is but one of them alive."

"Well, Ryle and his brother, then."

"But what charges will you make? We do not know nozing to charge."

"Our charges will be merely on supposition and suspicion — it's not needful to swear to them."

"And they must swear how it is?"

"They must swear to their answers,"

"That will do!" said the naturalist, looking 'satisfied' already. "That will do. We will see what they will say. — Do you do nozing but write bills all night, every night, and tie up papers? — you do not come to my room no more since a long time."

"Not for want of will, Mr. Herder. I have not been able to go."

"Bring your little sister and let her look at my things some time — while you and me we look at each other. It is good to look at one's friend sometime."

"I have often found it so, Mr. Herder. I will certainly bring Winnie if I can."

"Do you not go nowhere?" said the naturalist as if a thought had struck him. "What is de reason that I do not meet you at Mr. Haye's no more?"

"I go almost nowhere, sir."

"You are wrong," said the naturalist. "You are not right. Dere is more will miss you than me; and there is somebody there who wants you to take care of her."

"I hope you are mistaken, sir."

"She wants somebody to take care of her," said Mr. Herder; "and I do not know nobody so good as you. I am serious. She is just as afraid as ever one should take care of her, and poor thing she wants it all the more. She will not let your brother do it neizer."

"Do you think he is trying, Mr. Herder?" Winthrop said coolly.

"I believe he would be too glad! he looks at her so hard as he can; but she will not look at the tops of his fingers. She does not know what she shall do wiz herself, she is so mad wiz her father's new wife."

"What has she been doing?" Winthrop asked.

"Who, Rose? — she has not done nozing, but to marry Elisabet's father, and for that she never will forgive her. I am sorry — he was foolish man. — Wint'rop, you must not shut yourself up here — you will be directly rich — you must find yourself a wife next thing."

"Why should a lawyer have a wife any more than a philosopher?" said Winthrop.

"A philosopher," said Mr. Herder, with the slightest comical expression upon his broad face, — "has enough for him to do to take care of truth — he has not time to take care of his wife too. While I was hunting after de truth, my wife would forget me."

"Does it take you so long for a hunt?"

"I am doing it all de time," said the naturalist; "it is what I spend my life for. I live for that."

The last words were spoken with a quiet deliberation which told their truth. And if the grave mouth of the other might have said 'I live for truth' too, it would not have belied his thoughts. But it was truth of another kind.

Winnie watched the course of this piece of business of Mr. Herder's with the most eager anxiety. That is, what there was to watch, for proceedings were slow. The very folio pages of that 'Bill,' that she saw Winthrop writing, were scrolls of interest and mysterious charm to Winnie's eyes, like nothing surely that other eyes could find in them. Certainly not the eyes of Mr. Ryle and his lawyer. Winnie watched the bill folded up and superscribed, standing over her brother with her hand on his shoulder.

"What is that about, now, Governor? — what is it to do?"

"It charges Mr. Ryle and his brother with malpractices, Winnie — with dealing unfairly by Mr. Lansing."

"But you don't know that they have done anything?"

"They can shew it, in that case; and the object of this bill is to make them shew one thing or the other, by their answer."

"And, dear Governor, how soon will they answer?"

"In forty days, Winnie, they must."

Winnie drew a breath of patience and impatience, and went back to her seat.

But before the forty days were gone by, Winthrop came home one night and told Winnie he had got the answer; and smiled at her face of eagerness and pleasure. Winnie thought his smiles were not very often, and welcomed every one.

"But it is not likely this answer will settle the question, Winnie," he remarked.

"O no, I suppose not; but I want to know what they say."

So they had supper; and after supper she watched while he sat reading it; as leaf after leaf was turned over, from the close-written and close-lying package in Winthrop's hand to the array of pages that had already been turned back and lay loose piled on the table; while Winthrop's pencil now and then made an admonitory note in the margin. How his sister admired him! — and at last forgot the bill in studying the face of the bill-reader. It was very little changed from its old wont; and what difference there might be, was not the effect of a business life. The cool and invariable self-possession and self-command of the character had kept and promised to keep him himself, in the midst of these and any other concerns, however entangling or engrossing. The change, if any, was traceable to somewhat else; or to somewhat else Winnie laid it, — though she would not have called it a change, but only an added touch of perfection. She could not tell, as she looked, what that touch had done; if told, perhaps it might be, that it had added sweetness to the gravity and gravity to the sweetness that was there before. How Winnie loved that broad brow, and the very hand it rested on! All the well-known lines of calmness and strength about the face her eye went over and over again; she had quite forgotten Mr. Ryle; and she saw Winthrop folding up the voluminous "answer," and she hardly cared to ask what was in it. She watched the hands that were doing it. They seemed to speak his character, too; she thought they did; calmness and decision were in the very fingers. Before her curiosity had recovered itself enough to speak, Mr. Herder came in.

They talked for awhile about other things; and then Winthrop told him of the answer.

"You have it!" cried the naturalist. "And what do they say?"

'Nothing, fully and honestly."

"Ah ha! — And do they grant — do they allow anything of your charges, that you made in your bill?"

"Yes — in a vague and unsatisfactory way, they do."

"Vague —?" said the naturalist.

"Not open and clear. But the other day in the street I was stopped by Mr. Brick —"

"Who is Brick?" said Mr. Herder.

"He is Ryle's lawyer. He stopped me a few days ago and told me there was one matter in the answer with which perhaps I would not be satisfied — which perhaps I should not think sufficiently full; but he said, he, who had drawn the answer, knew, personally, all about it; and he assured me that the answer in this matter granted all, and more, than I could gain in any other way; and that if I carried the proceedings further, in hopes to gain more for my client, the effect would only be an endless delay."

"Do they offer to give him something?" said the naturalist.

"The answer does make disclosures, which though, as I said, vague and imperfect, still promise to give him something."

"And you think it might be more?"

"Brick assures me, on his own knowledge, that by going on with the matter we shall only gain an endless lawsuit."

"What do you think, Wint'rop?"

"I want you to give this paper to Mr. Lansing, and ask him what he thinks. Ask him to read it, and tell him what Brick says; and then let him make up his mind whether we had better go on or not."

"I do not care for nobody's mind but yours," said the naturalist.

"Let us have Mr. Lansing's first."

So Mr. Herder carried away the answer to Mr. Lansing, and in a few days came back to report progress.

"He has read it," said Mr. Herder, "and he says he do not make anything of it at all. He leaves the whole thing wiz you."

"Does he understand what is hinted at by these half disclosures?"

"He says he does not understand nozing of it — he knows not what they mean — he does not know whether to go on, whether to stop here. He says, and I say, you judge and do what you please."

"I confess, Mr. Herder, that Mr. Brick's kind warning has made me suspicious of his and his principal's good faith; and my will would be to go on."

"Go on, then!" said the naturalist — "I say so too — go on! I do not trust that Brick no more than you do; and Mr. Ryle, him I do not trust. Now what will you do next?"

"Take exceptions to the answer, where it seems to be insufficient, and make them answer again."

"Exception —?" said the naturalist.

In answer to which Winthrop went into explanations at some length; from which at least this much was clearly made out by Mr. Herder and Winnie, — that the cause would come to a hearing probably in May, before Chancellor Justice; when Winthrop and Mr. Brick would stand openly pitted against each other and have an opportunity of trying their mutual strength, or the strength of their principles; when also it would, according to the issue of said conflict, be decided whether the Ryles must or not reply to Winthrop's further demands upon them.

"And this Chancellor Justice — is he good man?" said Mr. Herder.

"As good a man as I want to argue before," said Winthrop. "I ask no better. All is safe in that quarter."

That all was safe in another quarter, both Mr. Herder and Winnie felt sure; and both looked eagerly forward to May; both too with very much the same feeling of pride and interest in their champion.

Winnie's heart jumped again at hearing a few days after, that Mr. Satterthwaite had put his affairs into Winthrop's hands; partly, Winthrop said he supposed, out of friendship for him, and partly out of confidence in him. It was rather a mark of the former, that he insisted upon paying a handsome retaining fee.

"Now where's Mr. Cool and his affairs?" said Winnie.

"I suppose Mr. Cool is at Coldstream, where he keeps 'cool' all the year round, I understand."

"But he promised to put his affairs into your hands."

"Then he'll do it. Perhaps they keep cool too."

"I wish May would be here," said Winnie.

Winthrop was at the table one evening, — while it still wanted some weeks of the May term, — writing, as usual, with heaps of folio papers scattered all about him; writing fast; and Winnie was either reading or looking at him, who was the book she loved best to study; when Rufus came in. Both looked up and welcomed him smilingly; but then Winthrop went on with his writing; while Winnie's book was laid down. She had enough else now to do. Rufus took a seat by the fire and did as she often did, — looked at Winthrop.

"Are you always writing?" said he somewhat gloomily.

"Not always," said Winthrop. "I sometimes read, for variety."

"Law papers?"

"Law papers — when I can't read anything else."

"That's pretty much all the time, isn't it?"

"O no," said Winnie; — "he reads a great deal to me — we were reading a while ago, before you came in — we read every evening."

Rufus brought his attention round upon her, not, as it seemed, with perfect complacency.

"What time does this girl go to bed?"

How Winnie's face changed. Winthrop answered without stopping his pen. —

"When she is tired of sitting up — not until then."

"She ought to have a regular hour — and an early one."

"You are an adviser upon theory, you see," said Winthrop going on with his writing; — "I have the advantage of practice."

"I fancy any adviser would tell you the same in this case," said the elder brother somewhat stiffly.

"I can go now," Winifred said rising, and speaking with a trembling lip and a tremulous voice, — "if you want to talk about anything."

She lit a candle and had got to the door, when her other brother said,

"Winnie! —"

Winnie stopped and turned with the door in her hand. Winthrop was busy clearing some books and papers from a chair by his side. He did not speak again; when he had done he looked up and towards her; and obeying the wish of his face, as she would have done had it been any other conceivable thing, Winnie shut the door, set her candle down, and came and took the chair beside him. But then, when she felt his arm put round her, she threw her head down upon him and burst into a fit of nervously passionate tears. That was not his wish, she knew, but she could not help it.

"Mr. Landholm," said Winthrop, "may I trouble you to put out that candle. We are not so extravagant here as to burn bedlights till we want them. — Hush, Winnie, —" softly said his voice in her ear and his arm at the same time.

"Absurd!" said Rufus, getting up to do as he was bid.

"What?" said his brother.

"Why I really want to talk to you."

"I am really very willing to listen."

"But I do not want to talk to anybody beside you."

"Winnie hears everything that is said here, Will," said the younger brother gravely, at the same time restraining with his arm the motion he felt Winnie made to go.

"It don't signify!" said Rufus, getting up and beginning to walk up and down the room gloomily.

"What doesn't signify?"

"Anything! —"

The steps were quicker and heavier, with concealed feeling. Winthrop looked at him and was silent; while Rufus seemed to be combating some unseen grievance, by the set of his lip and nostril.

"What do you think Haye has done?" — he broke out, like a horse that is champing the bit.

"What?" said Winthrop.

"He has sued me."

"Sued you!" exclaimed Winthrop, while even Winnie forgot her tears and started up. Rufus walked.

"What do you mean, Will?"

"I mean he has sued me!" — said Rufus stopping short and facing them with eyes that for the moment had established a natural pyrotechny of their own.

"How, and what for?"

"How? — by the usual means! What for? — I will tell you!"

Which he sat down to do; Winthrop and Winnie both his most earnest auditors.

"You know it was Haye's own proposition, urged by himself, that I should go into business with him. Nobody asked him — it was his own doing; it was his declared purpose and wish, unsolicited by me or my father or by anybody, to set me forward in his own line and put me in the way of making my fortune! — as he said."

Winthrop knew it, and had never liked it. He did not tell Rufus so now; he gave him nothing but the attention of his calm face; into which Rufus looked while he talked, as if it were the safe, due, and appointed treasury in which to bestow all his grievances and passionate sense of them.

"Well! — you know he offered, a year ago or more, that by way of making a beginning, I should take off his hands some cotton which he had lying in storage, and ship it to Liverpool on my own account; and as I had no money, I was to pay him by drawing bills in his favour upon the consignees."

"I remember very well," said Winthrop.

"Well sir! — the cotton reached Liverpool and was found good for nothing!"

"Literally?"

"Literally, sir! — wasn't worth near the amount of my bills, which of course were returned — and Haye has sued me for the rest!"

Rufus's face looked as if a spark from it might easily have burnt up the whole consignment of cotton, if it had happened to be in the neighbourhood.

"How was the cotton? — damaged?"

"Damaged? — of course! — kept in vaults here till it was spoiled; and he knew it!"

"For what amount has he sued you?" said Winthrop when Rufus had fed his fire silently for a couple of minutes.

"For more than I can pay — or will! —"

"How much does that stand for, in present circumstances?"

"How much? A matter of several hundreds!"

"How many?"

"So many, as I should leave myself penniless to pay, and then not pay. You know I lost money down there."

"I know," said his brother.

Winifred brought her eyes round to Winthrop; and Winthrop looked grave; and Rufus, as before, fiery; and there was a silence this time of more than two minutes.

"My dependence is on you, Governor," Rufus said at last.

"I wish I could help you, Will."

"How can I get out of this scrape?"

"You have no defence in law."

"But there must be a defence somewhere!" said Rufus drawing himself up, with the whole spirit of the common law apparently within him, energizing the movement.

"The only hope of relief would be in the equity courts."

"How there?" said Rufus.

Winthrop hesitated.

"A plea of fraud — alleging that Mr. Haye has overreached you, putting off upon you goods which he knew to be worthless."

"To be sure he did!" said Rufus. "Knew it as well as he does now. It was nothing but a fraud. An outrageous fraud!"

Winthrop made no answer, and the brothers paused again, each in his meditations. Winnie, passing her eyes from one to the other, thought Winthrop looked as if his were very grave.

"I depend upon you, Governor," the elder brother said more quietly.

"To do what?"

"Why! —" said Rufus firing again, — "to do whatever is necessary to relieve me! Who should do it?"

"I wish you could get somebody else, Will," said the other.

"I am sorry I cannot!" said Rufus. "If I had the money I would pay it and submit to be trodden upon — I would rather take it some ways than some others — but unhappily necessity is laid upon me. I cannot pay, and I am unwilling to go to jail, and I must ask you to help me, painful as it is."

Winthrop was silent, grave and calm as usual; but Winnie's heart ached to see how grave his eye was. Did she read it right? He was silent still; and so was Rufus, though watching for him to speak.

"Well!" said Rufus at last getting up with a start, "I will relieve you! I am sorry I troubled you needlessly — I shall know better than to do it again! —"

He was rushing off, but before he reached the door Winthrop had planted himself in front of it.

"Stand out of my way."

"I am not in it. Go back, Will."

"I won't, if you please. — I'll thank you to let me open the door."

"I will not. Go back to your seat, Rufus — I want to speak to you."

"I was under the impression you did not," said Rufus, standing still. "I waited for you to speak."

"It is safe to conclude that when a man makes you wait, he has something to say."

"You are more certain of it when he lets you know what it is," said Rufus.

"Provided he knows first himself."

"How long does it take you to find out what you have to say?" said Rufus, returning to his ordinary manner and his seat at once. The fire seemed to have thrown itself off in that last jet of flame.

"I sometimes find I have too much; and then there is apt to be a little delay of choice."

"A delay to choose? — or a choice of delay?" said Rufus.

"Sometimes one and sometimes the other."

One or the other seemed still in force with Winthrop's present matter of speech, for he came before the fire and stood mending it, and said nothing.

"Winthrop," said Rufus gravely, "have you any particular reason to decline doing this business for me?"

Winthrop hesitated slightly, and then came forth one of those same "no's," that Winnie knew by heart.

"Have you any particular reason to dislike it?"

"Yes. They were my friends once."

"But is your friendship for them stronger than for anybody else?"

"It does not stand in the way of my duty to you, Will."

"Your duty to me, —" said the other.

"Yes. I cannot in this instance call it pleasure."

It was the turn of Rufus to hesitate; for the face of his brother expressed an absence of pleasure that to him, in the circumstances, was remarkable.

"Then you do not refuse to undertake this job for me?"

"I will do what I can," said Winthrop, working at a large forestick on the fire. How Winnie wished he would let it alone, and place himself so that she could see him.

"And don't you think there is good prospect of our succeeding?"

"If Chancery don't give it you, I'll take it to the Court of Errors," said Winthrop, arranging the log to his satisfaction, and then putting the rest of the fire in order.

"I'm sorry to give you trouble, Governor," his brother said thoughtfully.

"I'm sorry you've got it to give, Will."

But Rufus went on looking into the fire, and seeming to get deeper into the depths of something less bright as he looked.

"After all I am much the most to be pitied," he began. "I thought to-day, Governor — I did not know what would become of me!"

"I can tell you that beforehand," said his brother. "You will become, exactly, what you choose to make yourself."

"That is what you always say," returned Rufus a little cynically.

"That is what I have found in my own practice," said Winthrop. He put up the tongs and took his old seat by Winnie. Rufus looked still into the fire.

"I am thrown out of this employment now," he said; — "I am disgusted with it — and if I were not, there is no way for me to follow it with advantage."

"I am not sorry for that, Will. I never liked it for you, nor you for it."

"I have nothing to do. — I am a loose pin in the Mosaic of society — the pattern is all made up without me."

"What pin has got your place?" said Winthrop.

"What do you mean?"

"Simply, that as in the nature of things there cannot be too many pins, a pin that is out of place must be such by a derelict of duty."

"What is my place?"

"If my word would set you in it, I would tell you."

"Tell me, and perhaps it will."

"I should bid you return to your engineer's work and serve God in it."

"Very poor chance for serving God or man, in that work," said Rufus. "Or myself."

"And no chance at all so long as you are doing nothing."

"I cannot bear to compare myself with you," — Rufus went on moodily.

"Compare yourself with yourself, Will, — the actual with the possible, — and then go forward."

"What is possible in an engineer's life!" said Rufus.

"Everything is possible, in any place where Providence has put you, for the future at least. And the firm purpose of serving God in it, will dignify for the present any life.

"'A man that looks on glass "'On it may stay his eye; "'Or, if he pleaseth, through it pass, "'And then the heaven espy!'"

Rufus met the grave slight smile on his brother's face, and his eye watered.

"You are better than I am," he said with one of very different meaning.

"If that be true to-day, Will, don't let it be true to- morrow."

They wrung each other's hands, and the elder brother went soberly away.

CHAPTER II.

An't be any way, it must be with valour; for Policy I hate: I had as lief be a Brownist as a politician. TWELFTH NIGHT.

The family at No. 11 on the Parade, were seated at breakfast one morning towards the latter end of May; the old trio, only with Elizabeth and Rose in each other's places.

"What is the reason Winthrop Landholm don't come here any more?" said the latter lady.

"I don't know," said Mr. Haye, when the silence had threatened the failure of any answer at all.

"What's the reason, Lizzie?"

"I don't know! — how should I?"

"I am sure I can't tell," said Rose, "but I didn't know but you did. I wish you'd ask him to come again, Mr. Haye — do you know how he is getting up in the world?"

"I know how cotton is falling," said Mr. Haye, swallowing his tea and the newspaper apparently both at the same time.

"Cotton! —" said Rose. "Now Mr. Haye, just put down that paper and listen to me; — do you know how Winthrop Landholm is holding his head up?"

"No," said Mr. Haye, looking at the pretty little head which was holding itself up, over against him.

"Well, he is. You didn't hear what Mr. Satterthwaite was saying about him last night, did you?"

"I didn't hear Mr. Satterthwaite say anything."

"Well he says he's had quite a great cause come on, now, just a few days ago —"

"Who has? Mr. Satterthwaite?"

"Why no, Mr. Haye! — of course! — I mean Mr. Landholm has — a cause that he was to argue, you know — that's what I mean — before Chancellor Justice — and Mr. Satterthwaite says he did it splendidly! — he said everybody stood and looked; — and the Chancellor gave him everything he asked for — made all his exceptions, he said, whatever that means —"

"Allowed his exceptions," said Elizabeth.

"O you could listen when Mr. Satterthwaite was speaking of Winthrop Landholm!"

"Mr. Satterthwaite don't often have so good a subject. I listened certainly, and was very much interested; — the only time I ever remember Mr. Satterthwaite's saying anything I cared to hear."

"Well, now, Mr. Haye, why isn't it just as well to say 'made an exception,' as 'allowed an exception'? I don't think 'allowed an exception' is good English."

"It is good law English, I suppose, Rose."

"Well, I don't care — at any rate, he said the Chancellor allowed every one of Mr. Landholm's exceptions, — suppose you understand it; — and wouldn't allow a single thing to Mr. Brick; and Mr. Brick was the lawyer on the other side; and Mr. Satterthwaite said it was a great triumph for Mr. Landholm."

"Dustus O. Brick?" said Mr. Haye.

"Yes," said Elizabeth.

"I don't know," said Rose; "he said Mr. Brick, — or the noted Mr. Brick — I suppose that's the man."

"Dustus O. Brick!" said Mr. Haye — "he's one of the best men in the bar, and a very clever man too; a distinguished lawyer; there's no one more thought of."

"That's what Mr. Satterthwaite said, — he said so, — he said it was a great triumph for Mr. Landholm; — and now Mr. Haye, won't you ask him to come here again as he used to?"

"Who?"

"Winthrop Landholm."

"What for?"

"Why I want to see him — and so do you, Mr. Haye. Now Mr. Haye, won't you? — Though I don't know but Elizabeth would be the best one to ask him."

"Why?" dryly said the master of the house.

"I guess he'd be more likely to come."

"If I thought so, and it were my part to do it, I certainly should ask him," said Elizabeth. "There isn't any person so pleasant as he to take his place, among all that come here."

"You were glad of what Mr. Satterthwaite told us last night weren't you?" said Rose with a sinister smile.

"Very glad!"

"Did you ever hear Mr. Satterthwaite go on so about anybody? One would have thought Mr. Landholm was his own brother. I wonder if that was for your sake, Lizzie?"

"I presume it was for his own sake," said Elizabeth. "I should think anybody who had the privilege of being Mr. Landholm's friend, would know how to value it."

"You would value it, for instance, I suppose?"

"I have no doubt I should."

"It seems to me you are a little too sure of valuing it," said Mr. Haye, — "for a young lady who has not that privilege."

Elizabeth's cheeks burned on the instant, but her eye was steady, and it looked full on her father while she asked him,

"Why, sir?"

"It is not worth while for you to like other people faster than they like you?"

"Why not?" — said Elizabeth, her cheek and eye both deepening in their fire, but her look as steady and full, — "Why not? — if it should happen that I am less likeable than they?"

"Pshaw!" said Mr. Haye.

"If I were to gauge the respect and esteem I give others, by the respect and esteem they might be able to give me, — I should cut off maybe the best pleasures of my life."

"Are respect and esteem the best pleasures of your life?" said Rose satirically.

"I have never known any superior to them," said Elizabeth. But she brought, as she spoke, her eye of fire to bear upon her cousin, who gave way before it and was mum.

"And what may respect and esteem lead to?" said Mr. Haye.

"I don't know," said Elizabeth. "And I don't care — even to ask."

"Suppose they are not returned?"

"I have supposed that in the first place," she answered.

"At that rate you might be over head and ears in your regard for several people at once, none of whom cared a straw for you," said Mr. Haye.

"When I find several, men or women, that deserve the sort of respect and esteem I am talking of," said Elizabeth — "I am not talking of a common kind, that you can give common people — I shall be in a new world!"

"And have you this sort of 'respect and esteem' for Mr. Winthrop Landholm?" said her father.

"That's another question," said Elizabeth, for the first time dropping her eye and speaking more quietly; — "I was talking of the general principle."

"And I am asking of the particular instance. Have you this respect and esteem for this particular person of your acquaintance?"

"I never gave it to many people in my life," said Elizabeth, colouring again somewhat. "He has as fair a share of it as most have."

"A little more?" said Mr. Haye smiling.

This time the answer she flashed at him was of proud and indignant bar to any further questioning — with her eyes only; her lips did not move.

"Does he know it, Elizabeth?"

"Know what, sir?"

"This favour you have expressed for him."

"I have expressed nothing but what I would express for any one to whom I thought it due."

"But I ask, does he know it?"

"I feel injured, father, by your asking me such questions! — I presume he does not know, since he has not had the honour of being told!"

The air with which this was given was regal.

"I wouldn't tell him, Lizzie," said her father quietly.

But at the insinuation conveyed in these words, Elizabeth's mood took another turn.

"I will tell whomsoever it may concern to know, at any time when I see occasion," she answered. "It is not a thing to be ashamed of; and I will neither do nor think anything I am unwilling to own."

"You had better reform public opinion in the first place," said Mr. Haye dryly.

"Why?" she said with startling quickness.

"It is apt to hold rather light of young ladies who tell their minds without being asked."

"How can you speak so, father! — I said, when I saw occasion — it seems I have very much misjudged in the present instance."

"And as that might happen again," said Mr. Haye, "it is just as safe, on the whole, that the person in question does not come here any more. I am glad that I have advertised his place for sale."

"What!" exclaimed Elizabeth and Rose both at once.

"Hush — don't fire at a man in that way. His father's place, I should say."

"What have you done to it?" said Elizabeth.

"Advertised it for sale. You don't hear me as well as you do Mr. Satterthwaite, it seems."

"How come you to have it to sell?"

"Because it was mortgaged to me — years ago — and I can't get either principal or interest; so I am taking the best way I can to secure my rights."

"But Mr. Landholm was your friend?"

"Certainly — but I am a better friend to myself. Can't do business with your friends on different principles from those you go upon with other people, Lizzie."

Elizabeth looked at him, with eyes that would have annihilated a large portion of Mr. Haye's principles, if they had been sentient things. Rose began a running fire of entreaties that he would have nothing to do with Shahweetah, for that she could not bear the place. Elizabeth brought her eyes back to her plate, but probably she still saw Mr. Haye there, for the expression of them did not change.

"I'm not going to have anything to do with the place, Rose," said Mr. Haye — "further than to get it off my hands. I don't want to live there any more than you do. All I want to do is to pay myself."

"Father," said Elizabeth looking up quietly, "I'll buy it of you."

"You!" said Mr. Haye, — while Rose went off into a succession of soft laughs.

"Do you care who does it, so that you get the money?"

"No, — but what will you do with it?"

"Find a way, in time, of conveying it back to its right owners," said Rose. "Don't you see, Mr. Haye?"

Elizabeth favoured her with a look which effectually spiked that little gun, for the time, and turned her attention again to her father.

"Do you care who buys it of you, so that you get the money?"

"Why, no — but you don't want such a piece of property, Lizzie."

"I want just such a piece of property."

"But my child, you can't manage it. It would be an absurd spending of your money. There's a farm of two or three hundred acres — more, — besides woodland. What could you do with it?"

"Trust me to take care of my own. May I have it, father?"

"Mr. Haye! —" Rose put in, pouting and whimpering, — "I wish you'd tell Lizzie she's not to look at me so! —"

"Will you sell it to me?" pursued Elizabeth.

"If you'll promise it shall not go back to the original owners in any such way as Rose hinted."

"Are those your terms of sale?" said Elizabeth. "Because, though I may not choose to submit myself to them, I can find you another purchaser."

"What do you want of a great piece of land like that?"

"Nothing; I want the land itself."

"You can't do anything with it."

"It don't signify, if it all grows up to nettles!" said Elizabeth. "Will you take the money of me and let me take the land of you?"

"Hum —" said Mr. Haye, — "I think you have enlightened me too much this morning. No — I'll find a more disinterested purchaser; and let it teach you to take care of your eyes as well as your tongue."

Rose bridled. Mr. Haye got up leisurely from the breakfast- table and was proceeding slowly to the door, when his path was crossed by his daughter. She stood still before him.

He might well tell her to take care of her eyes. They glowed in their sockets as she confronted him, while her cheek was as blanched as a fire at the heart could leave it. Mr. Haye was absolutely startled and stood as still as she.

"Father," she said, "take care how you drive me too far! You have had some place in my heart, but I warn you it is in danger. — If you care for it, I warn you! — "

She was gone, like a flash; and Mr. Haye after casting a sort of scared look behind him at his wife, went off too; probably thinking he had got enough for one morning.

No doubt Elizabeth felt so for her part. She had gone to her own room, where she put herself on a low seat by the window and sat with labouring breath and heaving bosom, and the fire in her heart and in her eyes glowing still, though she looked now as if it were more likely to consume herself than anybody else. If herself was not present to her thoughts, they were busy with nothing then present; but the fire burned.

While she sat there, Clam came in, now one of the smartest of gay-turbaned handmaidens, and began an elaborate dusting of the apartment. She began at the door, and by the time she had worked round to Elizabeth at the window, she had made by many times a more careful survey of her mistress than of any piece of furniture in the room. Elizabeth's head had drooped; and her eyes were looking, not vacantly, but with no object in view, out of the window.

"I guess you want my friend here just now, Miss 'Lizabeth," said Clam, her lips parting just enough to show the line of white between them.

"Whom do you mean by your friend?"

"O — Governor Landholm, to be sure — he used to fix everybody straight whenever he come home to Wuttle Quttle."

Elizabeth passed over the implication that she wanted 'fixing,' and asked, "How? —"

"I don' know. He used to put 'em all in order, in less'n no time," said Clam, going over and over the dressing-table with her duster, as that piece of furniture kept her near her mistress. "Mis' Landholm used to get her face straight the minute his two feet sounded outside the house, and she'd keep it up as long as he stayed; and Winifred stopped to be queer and behaved like a Christian; and nobody else in the house hadn't a chance to take airs but himself."

"What sort of airs did he take?" said Elizabeth.

"O I don' know," said Clam; — "his sort; — they wa'n't like nobody else's sort."

"But what do you mean by airs?"

"Can't tell," said Clam, — "nothin' like yours, Miss 'Lizabeth, — I take a notion to wish he was here, once in a while — it wouldn't do some folks no harm."

"Didn't his coming put you in order too?"

Clam gave a little toss of her head, infinitely knowing and satisfied at the same time, and once more and more broadly shewed the white ivory between her not unpretty parted teeth.

"I think you want putting in order now," said her mistress.

"Always did," said Clam with a slight arch of her eyebrows, — "always shall. Best get him to manage it, Miss 'Lizabeth — he can do it quicker'n anybody else — for me, — and I dare say he would for you."

"I don't believe you ever were put in order," said Elizabeth, — "to stay."

"I didn't use to do a wrong thing as long as he was in the house!" said Clam. "Didn't want to. — You wouldn't neither, if you was in the house with him."

"What do you mean by Mrs. Landholm's getting her face straight when he came? — was'nt it always so?"

"'Twa'n't always so," said Clam, — "for when he come, half the wrinkles went away, and the grey hairs all turned black again."

There came such a pang to Elizabeth's heart, such a gush to her eyes, that she hid her face on her knees and heard nothing of what her handmaid said for a long time after. If Clam talked, she had the talk all to herself; and when Elizabeth at last raised her head, her handmaiden was standing on the other side of the fireplace looking at her, and probably making up her mind that she wanted 'fixing' very much. There was no further discussion of the subject, however; for Miss Haye immediately called for her bonnet and veil, wrapped herself in a light scarf and went out. The door had hardly closed upon her when the bell rang again, and she came running up-stairs to her room.

"Clam, get me the newspaper."

"What news, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"All the newspapers — every one you can find; — yesterday's and to-day's, or the day before."

Much wondering, Clam hunted the house and brought the fruits of her search; and much more wondering, she saw her mistress spend one hour in closely poring over the columns of page after page; she who never took five minutes a day to read the papers. At last a little bit was carefully cut from one of those Clam had brought up, and Elizabeth again prepared herself to go forth.

"If it had been Mr. Winthrop, now, who was doing that," said Clam, "he'd have took off his hat most likely, and sat down to it. How you do look, Miss 'Lizabeth!"

"Mr. Winthrop and I are two different people," said Elizabeth, hurriedly putting on the one glove she had drawn off.

"Must grow a little more like before you'll be one and the same," observed Clam.

Elizabeth let down her veil over her face and went out again.

With a quick nervous step she went, though the day was warm, making no delay and suffering no interruption; till she reached the University where Professor Herder made his daily and nightly abode. The professor was attending one of his classes. Elizabeth asked to be shewn to his room.

She felt as if she was on a queer errand, as she followed her conductor up the wide stone stairs and along the broad corridors, where the marks were evidently of only man's use and habitation, and now and then a man's whistle or footstep echoed from the distance through the halls. But she went on swiftly, from one corridor to another, till the guide opened a door and she stepped out from the public haunts of life to a bit of quite seclusion.

It was a pleasant enough place that Mr. Herder called home. A large, airy, light, high-ceiled apartment, where plainly even to a stranger's eye, the naturalist had grouped and bestowed around him all the things he best liked to live among. Enormous glass cases, filled with the illustrations of science, and not less of the philosopher's investigating patience, lined all the room; except where dark-filled shelves of books ran up between them from the floor to the ceiling. A pleasant cloth-covered table, with books and philosophical instruments, stood towards one side of the room, a little table with a lamp at the other; and scattered about, all over, were big stout comfortable well-worn leather arm-chairs, that said study and learning sat easy there and often received visits of pleasure in that room. Elizabeth felt herself as little akin to pleasure as to learning or study, just then. She put herself in one of the great leather chairs, with a sense of being out of her element — a little piece of busy, bustling, practical life, within the very palings of science and wisdom.

She sat and waited. But that pulse of busy life beat never the cooler for all the cool aspect of the place and the grave shade of wisdom that lingered there; nay, it throbbed faster and more flutteringly. She got up to try the power of distraction the glass cases might hold; but her eye roved restlessly and carelessly over object and object of interest that withheld its interest from her; and weariedly she went back to her arm-chair and covered her face with her hands, that her mind might be at least uninterruptedly busy in its own way.

It must have been very busy, or the quick little step of the German professor must have been very soft withal; for he had come within a few feet of her before he knew who she was or she knew that he was there.

"Miss Elisabet'!" he exclaimed with a most good-humoured face of wonderment, — "I never was so honoured before! How did you get in my arm-chair?"

Elizabeth jumped up and shook hands with him, laughing in very relief to see him come.

"How did I get here? — I came up through the sun, Mr. Herder."

"I have asked you to come in better time," said the naturalist, — "that is, better for you — dis is very good time for me. I have nozing to do, and I will give you lesson in whatever you want."

"No sir, — I am come to give you a lesson, Mr. Herder."

"Me? Well, I will take it," said the naturalist, who began at the same time to run about his room and open closet doors and jingle glasses together, apparently on his own business, — "I like always to take lessons, — it is not often that I have such a teacher. I will learn the best I can — after I have got you some lemonade. I have two lemons here, — somevere, — ah! — "

"I don't want it, Mr. Herder."

"I cannot learn nozing till you have had it," said Mr. Herder bringing his lemons and glasses to the table; — "that sun is beating my head what was beating yours, and it cannot think of nozing till I have had something to cool him off. —"

Elizabeth sat still, and looked, and thought, with her heart beating.

"I did not know what was in my room when I see you in my chair wiz your head down — you must be study more hard than me, Miss Elisabet' — I never put my head down, for nozing."

"Nor your heart either, I wonder?" thought Elizabeth.

"I was studying, Mr. Herder, — pretty hard."

"Is that what you are going to give me to study?" said the naturalist.

"Not exactly — it was something about it. I want you to do something for me, Mr. Herder, — if I may ask you, — and if you will be so very kind as to take some trouble for me."

"I do not like trouble," said the naturalist shaking his head good-humouredly over a squeeze of his lemon; — "dere is no use in having trouble — I get out of it so soon as I can — but I will get in it wiz pleasure for you, Miss Elisabet' — what you tell me — if you will tell me if that is too much sucker."

"To take trouble, and to be in trouble, are not quite the same thing, Mr. Herder," said Elizabeth, having at the moment a vivid realization of the difference.

"I thought trouble was trouble," said the naturalist, finishing the preparing his own glass of lemonade. "If you will lesson me to find trouble is no trouble — Miss Elisabet' — I will thank you much for that."