Elizabeth heartily wished anybody could teach her that particular lesson. She sipped her lemonade, slowly and abstractedly, busy yet with the study which Mr. Herder had broken off; while he talked benignly and kindly, to ears that did not hear. But the last of Elizabeth's glass was swallowed hastily and the glass set down.

"Mr. Herder, I have come to ask you to do something for me."

"I am honoured, Miss Elisabet'," said the philosopher bowing.

"Will you not speak of it to anybody?"

"Not speak of it!" said the naturalist. "Then it is a secret?"

The quick energetic little bend of Elizabeth's head said before her lips spoke the word, "Yes!"

"It is more honour yet," he said. "What am I to do, Miss Elisabet'?"

"Nothing, if it will be any real trouble to you, Mr. Herder. Promise me that first."

"Promise? — what shall I promise?" said Mr. Herder.

"Promise me that if what I am going to ask would be any real trouble to you or to your business, you will tell me so."

"I do not love to be troubled," said the naturalist. "It shall not be no trouble to me."

"But promise me that you will tell me, Mr. Herder."

"Suppose you was to tell me first. I cannot tell nozing till I know."

"You will not speak of it to anybody, Mr. Herder?"

"I will not speak of nozing, Miss Elisabet'."

"Mr. Herder, there is a piece of land which I want to buy; and I have come to ask you, if you can, and if you will, to buy it for me."

"Miss Elisabet'," said the naturalist looking a little surprised at his fair questioner, — "I will tell you the truth — I have no money."

"I have, Mr. Herder. But I cannot go into the market and buy for myself."

"Cer-tain-ly, you cannot do that," said Mr. Herder. "But what is it you wish to buy?"

"It is a farm, —" said Elizabeth, feeling glad that her back was to the light; — "it is a piece of land in the country — up on the Shatemuc river. I think you have been there, Mr. Herder, — it is the place where the Landholms' father lives. Wut-a-qut-o, they call it — or Shahweetah; — Wut-a-qut-o is the mountain opposite."

"Landholm!" cried the naturalist. "Is it Winthrop's place?"

Elizabeth bowed her head and answered, "His father's."

"Winthrop's place! Is that what you want, Miss Elisabet'?"

Elizabeth bowed her head again, this time without answering.

"Suppose they might not want to sell it?" said the naturalist.

"They do not — but they can't help themselves. It must be sold — they can't pay money that is owing upon it."

"Money!" — said the naturalist; — "that is de trouble of all that is in the world. I wish there was no such thing as money! It makes all the mischief."

"Or the want of it," said Elizabeth.

"No!" said the naturalist, — "it is not that! I have want money all my life, Miss Elisabet', and I have never got into no trouble at all."

"Except when you fought the duels, Mr. Herder."

"Dat was not no trouble!" said the philosopher. "There was nozing about money there; and it was not no trouble, — neizer before, neizer after."

"I have had money all my life; and it never made me any trouble."

"Ah, you have not come to the time," said Mr. Herder. "Wait, you will find it. Now you are in trouble because you want to buy this ground, and you could not do it wizout money."

"I can't do it with, unless you will help me, Mr. Herder — you or somebody."

"I could get somebody," said Mr. Herder; — "I know somebody what I could get."

"I don't know anybody who would be as good as you, sir."

"I do," said the naturalist. "Where is Mr. Haye? — is he sick?"

"No sir, — I don't wish him to know anything about it, Mr. Herder. — He is the person making the sale."

"Your father? — do you mean that Mr. Haye is the man what is selling the ground of Mr. Landholm?"

"Yes sir. And I wish to buy it."

"Then Miss Elisabet', what for do you not ask my friend Winthrop to buy it for you? He knows all business. He will do it."

"I cannot — I have not the liberty — He is not enough a friend of mine, for me to ask him such a favour."

"But Miss Elisabet', what will you do wiz all that large ground and water?"

"Buy it, — first, sir; and then I will see. I want it."

"I see you do," said the naturalist. "Well, then I shall get it for you — if I can — I hope your money will not get me in trouble."

"If you are at all afraid of that, Mr. Herder, I will find some other way —"

"I never was afraid of nozing in my life, Miss Elisabet' — only I do not know neizer how to get money, neizer how to spend it — in this way. What will Mr. Haye say to me when I go to buy all this great land of him? He will say —"

"You're not to buy it of him, Mr. Herder."

"No?" said the naturalist. "Of who, then? I thought you said he was going to sell it."

"Yes, he is — but he has somebody else to do it for him. Here, Mr. Herder, — here is the advertisement; — see — don't read the first part, — all that has nothing to do with it, — here is the place. 'At the Merchant's Exchange, in the city of Mannahatta, on the first day of September, 1821, at 12 o'clock noon of that day' — and then comes the description of the place. It is to be sold at public auction."

"Auc-sion? —" said the naturalist.

"It's to be sold in public, to whoever offers to give most for it."

"O, I know that," said Mr. Herder.

"And dear Mr. Herder, all I ask of you is to be there, at 12 o'clock the first of September, and buy it for me; and let nobody know. Can you do it?"

"I can do so much," said the naturalist. "I think I can. But suppose somebody will give more than you."

"Do not suppose that, sir. I will give more than anybody."

"Are you sure you will?" said the naturalist. "Maybe you do not know."

"I do know, sir, and am sure."

"Well," said the naturalist, shaking his head, — "I do not know much about buying grounds — I do know a leetle of some things — but I do not know what sort of a lesson is this, Miss Elisabet'. But I will see if I can do it. Who is going to live up there wiz you?"

"Don't you suppose I can live alone, Mr. Herder."

"No, not there," said the naturalist. "You want some one to take care of you — de engineer, Miss Elisabet'," said he smiling.

Elizabeth made no answer; she had risen up to go; and he guided her through the halls and down the staircases, till she was in the open street again. Then, after a farewell squeeze of his hand and nod of her little head, she pulled her veil down and went homeward, more slowly than she had come.

"Do I want somebody to take care of me?" she thought. "I believe I do! An engineer? — I do not think the engine is under very good guidance — it is too strong for me — How could he know that? Oh what earthly thing would I give, for a hand wise and strong enough to lead me, and good enough that I could submit myself to!"

The wish was so deep drawn that her breast heaved with it, and starting tears made her draw her veil thicker before them. She bit her lip, and once more quickened her steps towards home.

CHAPTER III.

Then think I of deep shadows on the grass, — Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze, Where, as the breezes pass, The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways, — Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, Or whiten in the wind, — of waters blue That from the distance sparkle through Some woodland gap, — and of a sky above, Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move. LOWELL.

Finding that the old farm must pass out of his hands, Mr. Landholm made up his mind not to spend another summer of labour and of life upon it; but at once with his son Asahel to move off to the West. He stayed but to reap the standing crops of winter grain, dispose of stock, and gather up all the loose ends of business; and left the hills of the Shatemuc, to seek better fortunes on a Western level.

They passed through Mannahatta on their way, that they might have a short sight of Winthrop and Winifred and say good-bye to them. It was not so joyful a visit that anybody wished it to be a long one.

"It's pretty hard," said the farmer, "to start life anew again at my time of day; — but these arms are not worn out yet; I guess they'll do something — more or less — on a new field."

"Asahel's got strong arms, father," said Winifred, who was fain to put in a word of comfort when she could.

"Ay, and a strong heart too," said his father. "He's a fine fellow. He'll do, I guess, in the long run, — at the West or somewhere; and at the West if anywhere, they say. I'm not concerned much about him."

"There's no need, I think," said Winthrop.

"Where's Will? — and what's he doing?"

"Will has just set off for Charleston — on some agency business."

"Charleston in South Carolina?"

"Yes."

"Then he is not engineering now?"

"No."

"How long does he expect to be gone?"

"Some months — more or less; — I don't know."

"Is it a good business for him?"

"He has chosen it, — not I."

"I would sooner trust your choice," said the father. "There's one thing Rufus wants; and that is, judgment."

"He'll do yet," said Winthrop. "And I shall not leave you long at the West, father. You will come when I send for you?"

"No, my boy," said the farmer looking gratified; — "I'll live by my own hands as long as I have hands to live by; and as I said, mine haven't given out yet! No — if the Lord prospers us, we'll have a visit from you and Winnie out there, I expect — by and by, when we get things in order; — you and Winnie, and anybody else you've a mind to bring along!"

It was spoken heartily, but with a tear in the eye; and nobody answered; unless it were answer, the long breath which Winnie drew at the very idea of such a visit.

Winthrop heard it; but through the long weeks of summer he could give her nothing more of country refreshment than the old walks on the Green and an occasional ride or walk on the opposite shore of one or the other of the rivers that bordered the city. Business held him fast, with a grip that he must not loosen; though he saw and knew that his little sister's face grew daily more thin and pale, and that her slight frame was slighter and slighter. His arm had less and less to do, even though her need called for more. He felt as if she was slipping away from him. August came.

"Winnie," said he one evening, when he came home and found her lying on her couch as usual, — "how would you like to go up and pay Karen a visit?"

"Karen?" — said Winnie, — "where?"

"At home. — At Wut-a-qut-o."

"Wut-a-qut-o!" said Winnie; — "is Karen there? I thought Shahweetah was sold."

"It isn't sold yet — it won't be till September — and Karen is there yet, keeping house with her brother Anderese."

"Anderese! — is old Anderese there?" said Winnie. "O I should like to go, Governor!" she said raising herself on her elbow. "Can we?"

"Yes, if you like. Hildebrand Cowslip is down here with his father's sloop — how would you like to go up in her?"

"In the sloop? — O how good!" said Winnie bringing her thin hands together. "Can we? But dear Governor, you can't be away?"

"Yes — just as well as not. There isn't much doing in August — everybody takes a resting time; and so you and I will, Winnie," said he, bending down to kiss her.

Winnie looked up at him gratefully and lovingly with her wistful large eyes, the more expressive from the setting of illness and weakness in the face.

"I'd like you to have a rest, dear Governor."

He stood stroking back the ringlets from the thin blue-veined temple.

"Wouldn't it do you good to see Wut-a-qut-o again?"

"O I am sure it would! — And you too, wouldn't it?"

"I am good enough already," said Winthrop looking down at her.

"Too good," said Winnie looking up at him. "I guess you want pulling down!"

She had learned to read his face so well, that it was with a pang she saw the look with which he turned off to his work. A stranger could not have seen in it possibly anything but his common grave look; to Winnie there was the slight shadow of something which seemed to say the "pulling down" had not to be waited for. So slight that she could hardly tell it was there, yet so shadowy she was sure it had come from something. It was not in the look merely — it was in the air, — it was, she did not know what, but she felt it and it made her miserable. She could not see it after the first minute; his face and shoulders, as he sat reading his papers, had their usual calm stability; Winnie lay looking at him, outwardly calm too, but mentally tossing and turning.

She could not bear it. She crawled off her couch and came and sat down at his feet, throwing her arms around his knee and looking up at him.

"Dear Governor! — I wish you had whatever would do you good!"

"The skill of decyphering would do me a little good just now," said her brother. She could detect nothing peculiar in look or word, though Winnie's eyes did their best.

"But somehow I don't feel as if you had," she went on to say.

"Where is your faith?" — he said quietly, as he made a note in the margin of the paper he was reading. Winnie could make nothing of him.

"Governor, when shall we go?"

"Hildebrand moves his sloop off to-morrow afternoon."

"And shall we go to-morrow?"

"If you don't object."

Winnie left the floor, clapping her hands together, and went back to her couch to think over at large the various preparations which she must make. Which pleasant business held her all the evening.

They were not large preparations, however; longer to think of than to do; especially as Winthrop took upon himself the most of what was done. One or two nick-nackeries of preparation, in the shape of a new basket, a new book, and a new shawl, seemed delightful to Winnie; though she did not immediately see what she might want of the latter in August.

"We shall find it cooler when we get under the shadow of Wut- a-qut-o, Winnie," said her brother; and Winnie was only too glad of a pretext to take the pretty warm wrapper of grey and blue worsted along.

She did not want it when they set out, the next afternoon. It was very warm in the streets, very warm on the quays; and even when the sloop pushed her way slowly out and left the quays at her back, there was little air stirring and the August sun beat down steadily on river and shore.

"This don't look much like gettin' up to Cowslip's Mill this night," said the skipper. "Ain't it powerful!"

"The wind is coming off from the South," said Winthrop.

"Yes, I felt some little puffs on my cheek," said Winnie.

"Glad to hear it," said the sloop master, a tall, bony, ill- set-together specimen of a shore and water man; — "there ain't enough now to send an egg-shell along, and I'd like to shew you a good run, Mr. Landholm, since you're goin' along with me. She looks smart, don't she?"

"If she'll only work as well," said Winthrop. "Hild', you haven't got much cargo aboard."

"Only as much as'll keep her steady," answered the skipper. "'Seems to me nobody ain't a wantin' nothin' up our ways. I guess you're the heaviest article on board, Winthrop; — she never carried a lawyer before."

"Are lawyers heavy articles?" said Winnie laughing.

"'Cordin' to what I've heern, I should say they be; ain't they, squire? — considerable, — especially when they get on folks's hands. I hope you're a better sort, Winthrop, — or ain't there much choice in 'em?"

"You shall try me when you get into trouble," said Winthrop.

"Is this Mr. Cowslip's old sloop?" said Winnie.

"She don't look old, does she?" inquired Mr. Hildebrand.

"But I mean, is it the same he used to have? — No, she looks very handsome indeed."

"She's the old one though," said the skipper, "the same old Julia Ann. What's the use o' askin' ladies' ages? — she's just as good as when she was young; and better dressed. I've had the cabin fixed up for you, Mr. Landholm, — I guess it'll be pretty comfortable in there."

"It's a great deal pleasanter here," said Winnie. "There comes the wind! — that was a puff! —"

"Well we're ready for it," said the skipper.

And stronger puffs came after, and soon a steady fair southerly breeze set up the river and sent the Julia Ann on before it. Straight up the river their course lay, without veering a point for miles. The sun was lowering towards the horizon and the heat was lessening momently, even without the south breeze which bade it be forgotten; and the blue waters of the river, so sluggish a little while ago, were briskly curling and rippling, and heading like themselves for Wut-a- qut-o.

Winnie sat still and silent in the shadow of the huge sail. Winthrop was standing close beside her, talking with the skipper; but he knew that his little sister had hold of his hand and had laid her unbonneted head against his arm; and when the skipper left him he stooped down to her.

"What do you think of it, Winnie?"

"O Winthrop! — how delicious! — Aren't you glad it is such beautiful world?"

"What are you thinking of in particular?"

"O everything. It isn't down here like Wut-a-qut-o, but everything is so delicious — the water and the shore and the sunshine and the wind! —"

"Poor Winnie," said her brother stroking her hair, — "you haven't seen it in a good while."

She looked up at him, a glance which touchingly told him that where he was she wanted nothing; and then turned her eyes again towards the river.

"I was thinking, Governor, that maybe I shall never go up here again."

"Well Winnie? —"

"I am very glad I can go this time. I am so much obliged to you for bringing me."

"Obliged to me, Winnie!"

He had placed himself behind his little sister, with one hand holding her lightly by each shoulder; and calm as his tone was, perhaps there came a sudden thought of words that he knew very well —

"There fairer flowers than Eden's bloom, "Nor sin nor sorrow know; "Blest seats! through rude and stormy seas "I onward press to you." —

For he was silent, though his face wore no more than its ordinary gravity.

"Governor," said Winnie half turning her head round to him, "I wish these people were not all round here within hearing, so that we could sing. — I feel just like it."

"By and by, Winnie, I dare say we can."

"How soon do you think we shall get to Wut-a-qut-o."

"Before morning, if the wind holds."

The wind held fair and rather strengthened than lost, as the evening went on. Under fine headway the Julia Ann swept up the river, past promontory and bay, nearing and nearing her goal. Do her best, however, the Julia Ann could not bring them that night to any better sleeping advantages than her own little cabin afforded; and for those Winthrop and Winnie were in no hurry to leave the deck. After the skipper's hospitality had been doubtfully enjoyed at supper, and after they had refreshed themselves with seeing the sun set and watching the many-coloured clouds he left behind him, the moon rose in the other quarter and threw her 'silver light' across the deck, just as duskiness was beginning to steal on. The duskiness went on and shrouded the hills and the distant reaches of the river in soft gloom; but on board the Julia Ann, on her white sails and deck floor where the brother and sister were sitting, and on a broad pathway of water between them and the moon, her silver light threw itself with brightening and broadening power. By and by Mr. Hildebrand's two or three helpers disposed of themselves below deck, and nobody was left but Mr. Hildebrand himself at the helm.

"Now we can sing!" exclaimed Winnie, when one or two turns of her head had made her sure of this; and to Winthrop's surprise she struck up the very words part of which had been in his own remembrance.

"'Jerusalem! my happy home — "'Name ever dear to me — "'When shall my labours have an end, "' In joy and peace in thee!"'

Winnie's voice was as sweet and clear as a bird's, if weakness left it not much stronger; that of her brother was deep, mellow, and exceeding fine; it was no wonder that the skipper turned his head and forgot his tiller to catch the fulness of every note. When the last had sounded, there was nothing to be heard but the rippling of water under the sloop's prow; the sails were steady and full, the moonlight not more noiseless; the wind swept on with them softly, just giving a silent breath to their cheeks; the skipper held his tiller with a moveless hand.

"What next, Winnie?" her brother whispered. The soft gurgle of the water had been heard for several minutes.

"How fond Karen is of that hymn," said Winifred. "Governor, do you think I shall live long in this world?"

She was leaning, half lying, upon Winthrop, with his arm round her. Her voice had put the question in precisely the same tone that it had given the remark.

"Why do you ask me that, Winnie?"

"Because — sometimes I think I sha'n't, — and I want to know what you think."

"You will live, I am sure, dear Winnie, till God has done for you all he means to do; — till he has fitted his child for heaven; — and then he will take her."

"I know that," said Winifred with a grateful half look up at him; — "but I mean — you know I am not well quite, and weak, and I don't think I get any better; — don't you think that it won't take a very great while, very likely?"

"How would you feel, Winnie, if you thought that was so?"

"I do think it sometimes — pretty often," — said Winnie, "and it don't make me feel sorry, Governor."

"You think heaven is better than earth."

"Yes, —and then — that's one good thing of my sickness — it don't seem as if I ever could do much if I lived, so it matters the less."

"Nobody knows how much he does, who does his duty," said Winthrop.

"Why I can't do anything at all!" said Winnie.

"Every talent that isn't buried brings something into the treasury," said Winthrop.

"Yes — that's pleasant," said Winnie; — "but I don't know what mine is."

"The good that people do unconsciously is often more than that they intend."

"Unconsciously! — But then they don't know whether they do it or not?"

"It don't hurt them, not to know," said her brother smiling.

"But what sort of good-doing is that, Winthrop?"

"It only happens in the case of those persons whose eye is very single; — with their eye full of the light they are reflecting, they cannot see the reflection. But it is said of those that 'their works do follow them.'"

Winnie was tearfully silent, thinking of the ingathering of joy there would be for one that she knew; and if Winthrop's arm was drawn a little closer round her little figure, perhaps it was with a like thought for her. How bright the moonlight shone!

"That's pleasant to think, Governor, — both parts of it," said Winifred softly, beating his hand slightly with one of her own. He was silent.

"Now won't you sing something else? — for I'm tired," she said, nestling her head more heavily on his breast.

And he sang again. —

"'Vain are all terrestrial pleasures, "' Mixed with dross the purest gold; "'Seek we then for heavenly treasures, "'Treasures never growing old. "'Let our best affections centre "'On the things around the throne; "'There no thief can ever enter, — "'Moth and rust are there unknown.

"'Earthly joys no longer please us, "'Here would we renounce them all, "'Seek our only rest in Jesus, "'Him our Lord and Master call. "'Faith, our languid spirits cheering, "'Points to brighter worlds above; "'Bids us look for his appearing, "'Bids us triumph in his love.

"'Let our lights be always burning, "'And our loins be girded round, "'Waiting for our Lord's returning, "'Longing for the joyful sound. "'Thus the christian life adorning, "'Never need we be afraid, "'Should he come at night or morning, "'Early dawn, or evening shade."'

The air was slow, tender, and plaintive, and borne by the deep voice over all the breadth of the moon-lit river. Winnie's breath was fuller drawn; the skipper held his, and forgot his helm; and in every pause of the song, the sweet interlude was played by the water under the sloop's prow.

"Governor —" said Winnie, when the bubbling water had been listened to alone for a while.

"What?"

"Do you think those words are quite true?"

"Those words of the hymn?"

"Yes — some of them. I think you like that hymn better than I do. 'Earthly joys no longer please us'; — do you think that is right? — They please me."

"It is only by comparison that they can be true, Winnie, certainly; — except in the case of those persons whose power of enjoyment is by some reason or other taken away."

"But you like that hymn very much?"

"Yes. Don't you?"

"I like part of it very much, and I like the tune; but I like to be able to say all the words of a hymn. How sweet that was! — Governor, don't you think it would be pleasant to stay here all night?"

"Singing?"

"No — but talking, and sleeping."

"I am afraid it would sadly hinder to-morrow's talk, and oblige you to sleep instead."

"Then I'll go right away. Do you think we shall be at Wut-a- qut-o in the morning?"

"If the wind holds."

By Winthrop's care and management the little cabin was made not absolutely uncomfortable, and Winnie's bed was laid on the floor between door and window so that she could sleep without being smothered. He himself mounted guard outside, and sleeping or waking kept the deck for the whole night.

"Governor," said Winnie cautiously putting her head out at the door, just as the summer dawn was growing into day, — "Governor! — are we there?"

"We are here."

"Where?"

"Lying at Cowslip's Mill."

"Oh! —"

The rest of Winnie's joyous thought was worked into her shoes and dress and bonnet-strings, and put away in her bag with her night-cap. How fast it was all done! and she pushed open her cabin door and stood on the deck with Winthrop.

Yes — there was the green wooded shore — how fresh to her eyes! — There was Mr. Cowslip's brown old house and mill; there was the old stage road; and turning, there two miles off lay Shahweetah, and there rose up Wut-a-qut-o's green head. And with a sob, Winnie hid her face in Winthrop's arms. But then in another minute she raised it again, and clearing away the mute witnesses of joy and sorrow, though it was no use for they gathered again, she looked steadily. The river lay at her feet and stretched away off up to Shahweetah, its soft gray surface unbroken by a ripple or an eddy, smooth and bright and still. Diver's Rock stood out in its old rough outline, till it cut off the west end of Shahweetah and seemed to shut up the channel of the river. A little tiny thread of a north wind came down to them from Home, over the river, with sweet promise. And as they looked, the morning light was catching Wut-a-qut-o's grave head, and then hill-top after hill-top, and ridge after ridge of the high mountain land, till all of them were alight with the day's warm hues, while all beneath slept yet in the greys of the dawn. The brother and sister stood side by side, perfectly silent; only Winnie's tears ran, sometimes with such a gush that it brought her head down, and sobs that could be heard came to Winthrop's ears. They stood till they were hailed by the old miller.

"Ha! Winthrop — glad to see ye! how do you do? Haven't seen your face this great while. Winnie? is it? — Glad to see ye! She's growed a bit. Come right along into the house — we'll have something for breakfast by and by, I expect. I didn't know you was here till five minutes ago — I was late out myself — ain't as spry as I used to be; — Come!" —

"Oh Governor, let's go straight home!" said Winnie.

"There's time enough yet, Mr. Cowslip, for your purposes. What o'clock do you suppose it is?"

"Well, I s'pose it's somewhere goin' on to six, ain't it?"

"It has left five. We can breakfast with Karen yet, Winnie."

"Oh do, Governor!"

"If you'll give us a boat instead of a breakfast, Mr. Cowslip, we will thank you just as much, and maybe take your hospitality another time."

"But won't you stop and take just a mouthful first? you'd better."

"No thank you. We shall have to take it up there; and two breakfasts a day don't agree with me."

With some sorrow on Mr. Cowslip's part, this was submitted to. The boat was got out; Hildebrand dropped into it and took the oars, "guessing he wouldn't mind going himself;" and Winthrop and Winnie sat close together in the stern. Not to steer; for Hildebrand was much too accustomed an oarsman to need any such help in coasting the river for miles up and down.

CHAPTER IV.

Away, away, from men and towns, To the wild wood and the downs — To the silent wilderness Where the soul need not repress Its music, lest it should not find An echo in another's mind. SHELLEY.

Winnie drew a breath of gratification, as the oars began to dimple the still water and the little boat rounded out from behind the wharf and headed up the river; the very same way by which Winthrop had taken Mr. Haye's two young ladies once long before. The tide was just at the turn, and Hildebrand made a straight run for the rocks.

"How pleasant it is to hear the oars again!" Winnie said. Winthrop said nothing.

Swiftly they pulled up, dappling the smooth grey water with falling drops from the oar-blades, and leaving behind them two lines of spreading wavelets that tracked the boat's way. Cowslip's Mill fell into the distance, and all that shore, as they pulled out into the middle of the river; then they drew near the old granite ridge of Diver's Rock on the other side. The sun had got so low down as that now, and the light of years ago was on the same grey bluffs and patches of wood. It was just like years ago; the trees stood where they did, ay, and the sunlight; the same shadows fell; and the river washed the broken foot of the point with, it might be, the very same little waves and eddies. And there, a mile further on, Wut-a- qut-o's high green side rose up from the water. Winnie had taken off her bonnet and sat with her head resting upon Winthrop's side or arm, her common position whenever she could get it. And she sat and looked, first at one thing and then at another, with quiet tears running and some times streaming down her face. Then the boat struck off from Diver's Rock and pushed straight over for the rocks of Shahweetah. As it neared them, the dear old trees stood forth more plainly to view, each one for itself; and the wonted footholds, on turf and stone, could be told and could be seen, apart one from the other. Poor Winnie could not look at them then, but she put her head down and sobbed her greeting to them all.

"Winnie," — said Winthrop softly, and she felt his arm closer drawn around her, — "you must not do that."

It mattered little what Winthrop asked Winnie to do; she never failed to obey him. She stopped crying now, and in another moment was smiling to him her delight, through the drops that held their place yet in her eyes and on her cheeks.

The little boat was shoved in to the usual place among the rocks and the passengers got out.

"What's the fare, Hild'? — sloop and all?"

The skipper stood on the rocks and looked into the water.

"Will you let me come to you to clear me out, the first time I get into trouble?"

"Yes."

"Then we're square!" he said, preparing to jump back into his boat.

"Then hasn't come," said Winthrop; "let's keep things square as we go along."

"All right," said the skipper. "Couldn't take nothin' from you the first time, Governor."

And Hildebrand after giving Winthrop's hand a shake, into which there went a sort of grateful respect which he would never have yielded to one who had laid any manner of claim to it, dropped into his seat again and pushed off. Winthrop and Winnie turned their steps slowly towards the house.

Very slowly; for each step now was what they had come for. How untravelled the road was!

"How it looks as if we didn't live here, Governor," Winnie said with half a sigh.

"Old Karen and Anderese don't come this way very often," replied her brother.

"Governor, I am very sorry it has got to be sold!"

They walked a few more steps up the rocky path in silence.

"O Governor, look at that great limb of that cedar tree — all dragging! What a pity."

"Broken by the wind," said Winthrop.

"How beautifully the ivy hangs from that cedar — just as it did. Dear Governor, won't you get a saw while you're here, and take off the branch and make it look nice again? — as nice as it can; — and there's the top of that little white pine!" —

"Winter-killed," said Winthrop.

"Won't you put it in order, as you used to do, this one time more?"

"If I can get a saw, I will, Winnie, — or a hatchet."

"I'm sorry we can't do it but this one time more," said Winnie, with a second and a better defined sigh, as they reached the house level. "O how funny it looks, Governor! how the grass has run up! and how brown it is! But the cedars don't change, do they?"

"It is August, Winnie," was all Winthrop's remark.

The front of the house was shut up; they went round. Old Anderese was cutting wood at the back of the house; but without stopping to enlighten him, Winthrop passed on and led Winnie into the kitchen. There the kitchen fire was burning as of yore, and on the hearth before it stood Karen, stooping down to oversee her cooking breakfast. At Winthrop's voice she started and turned. She looked at them; and then came a long and prolonged "Oh! —" of most mingled and varied tone and expression; hands and eyes keeping it company.

"Karen, we have come to see you."

In perfect silence she shook the hand of each, and then sat down and threw her apron over her face. Winnie stood still and sobbed; Winthrop walked off.

"Oh, dear," said the old woman presently rising and coming up to Winnie, — "what's made ye come to see me again? What did you come for, dear?"

The tone was wondering and caressing, and rejoicing, all in a breath. Winnie dried her eyes and answered as well as she could.

"Why we wanted to see the old place again, Karen, and to see you; and Governor thought it would do me good to be in the country a little while; and he couldn't come before, and so we have come up now to stay a few days. And we've brought things to eat, so you needn't be troubled about that."

"Ye needn't," said old Karen. "Anderese and me'd find something for you to eat, in all the wide country — do ye think we wouldn't? And how are you, dear," said she scanning Winnie's pale face; — "are ye ever yet any stronger?"

Winnie shook her head smiling and answered, "Not much."

"I see ye ain't. Well — ye're the Lord's child. He'll do what he will with his own. Where did ye come from, dear?"

"Up from Mr. Cowslip's mill," said Winnie. "We came in his sloop last night."

"The sloop!" said Karen. "Why then ye haven't had anything to eat! — and what was I thinking of! Sit down, dear — take your own chair, till I get the other room fit for ye; and you shall have breakfast jus' so soon I can make it. Where's the Governor gone to?"

He came in; and Karen's face grew bright at the sight of him. All the while she was getting the breakfast he stood talking with her; and all the while, her old face kept the broad gleam of delight that had come into it with his entering the kitchen. With what zeal that breakfast was cooked for him; with what pleasure it was served. And while they were eating it, Karen sat in the chimney corner and looked at them, and talked.

"And isn't the place sold then, Governor?"

"Not yet, Karen — in a few weeks it will be."

"And who's goin' to buy it?"

"I don't know."

"And ye ain't goin' fur to buy it yourself?"

"No Karen — I am not rich enough to keep a country house."

"You had ought to have it," said Karen. "It don't belong to nobody else but you. And you don't know who's a goin' to have it, Governor?"

"I don't know."

"'Tain't likely they'll let the old woman stay in her corner, whoever they'll be," said Karen. "Well — 'tain't fur now to the end, — and then I'll get a better place where they won't turn me out. I wish I was there, Governor."

"'There' will be better at the end of your way, Karen, than at any other time."

"Ay — O I know it, dear; but I get so impatient, days, — I want to be gone. It's better waiting."

"Perhaps you'll have something yet to do for us, Karen," said Winnie.

"Ye're too fur off," said the old woman. "Karen's done all she can for ye when she's took care of ye this time. But I'll find what I have to do — and I'll do it — and then I'll go!" — she said, with a curious modulation of the tones of her voice that came near some of the Methodist airs in which she delighted. "Governor'll take care o' you, Winnie; and the Lord'll take care o' him!"

Both brother and sister smiled a little at Karen's arrangement of things; but neither contradicted her.

"And how do you manage here, Karen, all alone? — do you keep comfortable?"

"I'm comfortable, Mr. Winthrop," she said with half a smile; — "I have lived comfortable all my life. I seem to see Mis' Landholm round now, times, jus' like she used to be; and I know we'll be soon all together again. I think o' that when I'm dreary."

She was a singular old figure, as she sat in the corner there with her head a little on one side, leaning her cheek on her finger, and with the quick change of energetic life and subdued patience in her manner.

"Don't get any dinner for us, Karen," said Winthrop as they rose from table. "We have enough for dinner in our basket."

"Ye must take it back again to Mannahatta," said Karen. "Ye'r dinner'll be ready — roast chickens and new potatoes and huckleberry pie — the chickens are just fat, and ye never see nicer potatoes this time o' year; and Anderese don't pick very fast, but he'll have huckleberries enough home for you to eat all the ways ye like. And milk I know ye like'm with, Governor."

"Give me the basket then, Karen, and I'll furnish the huckleberries."

"He'll do it — Anderese'll get 'em, Mr. Winthrop, — not you."

"Give me the basket! — I would rather do it, Karen. Anderese has got to dig the potatoes."

"O yes, and we'll go out and spend the morning in the woods, won't we, Governor?" said his sister.

The basket and Winnie were ready together and the brother and sister struck off into the woods to the north of the house. They had to cross but a little piece of level ground and sunshine and they were under the shade of the evergreens which skirted all the home valley. The ground as soon became uneven and rocky, broken into little heights and hollows, and strewn all over with a bedding of stones, large and small; except where narrow foot-tracks or cowpaths wound along the mimic ravines or gently climbed the hilly ridges. Among these stones and sharing the soil with them, uprose the cedars, pines, hemlocks, and a pretty intermingling of deciduous trees; not of very tall or vigorous growth, for the land favoured them not, but elegant and picturesque in varied and sweet degree. That it pleased those eyes to which it had been long familiar, and long strange, was in no measure.

Leaving the beaten paths, the brother and sister turned to the right of the first little ravine they had entered, just where a large boulder crowned with a tuft of ferns marked the spot, and toiled up a very rough and steep rising. Winthrop's help was needed here to enable Winnie to keep footing at all, much more to make her way to the top. There were steep descents of ground, spread with dead pine leaves, a pretty red-brown carpeting most dainty to the eyes but very unsure to the foot; — there were sharp turns in the rocky way, with huge granitic obstacles before and around them; — Winnie could not keep on her feet without Winthrop's strong arm; although in many a rough pitch and steep rise of the way, young hickories and oaks lent their aid to her hand that was free. Mosses and lichens, brown and black with the summer's heat, clothed the rocks and dressed out their barrenness; green tufts of fern nodded in many a nook, and kept their greenness still; and huckleberry bushes were on every hand, in every spare place, and standing full of the unreaped black and blue harvest. And in the very path, under their feet, sprang many an unassuming little green plant, that in the Spring had lifted its head in glorious beauty with some delicate crown of a flower. A stranger would have made nothing of them; but Winnie and Winthrop knew them all, crowned or uncrowned.

"It's pretty hard getting up here, Governor — I guess I haven't grown strong since I was here last; and these old yellow pines are so rotten I am afraid to take hold of anything — but your hand. It's good you are sure-footed. O look at the Solomon's Seal — don't you wish it was in flower!"

"If it was, we shouldn't have any huckleberries," said her brother.

"There's a fine parcel of them, isn't there, Winthrop? O let's stop and pick these — there are nice ones — and let me rest."

Winnie sat down to breathe, with her arm round the trunk of a pine tree, drinking in everything with her eyes, while that cluster of bushes was stripped of its most promising berries; and then a few steps more brought Winthrop and Winnie to the top of the height.

Greater barrenness of soil, or greater exposure to storms, or both causes together, had left this hill-top comparatively bare; and a few cedars that had lived and died there had been cut away by the axe, for firewood; making a still further clearance. But the shallow soil everywhere supported a covering of short grass or more luxuriant mosses; and enough cedars yet made good their hold of life and standing, to overshadow pretty well the whole ground; leaving the eye unchecked in its upward or downward rovings. The height was about two hundred feet above the level of the river, and seemed to stand in mid-channel, Shahweetah thrusting itself out between the north and southerly courses of the stream, and obliging it to bend for a little space at a sharp angle to the West. The north and south reaches, and the bend were all commanded by the height, together with the whole western shore and southern and south-eastern hills. To the northwest was Wut-a-qut-o, seen almost from the water's edge to the top; but the out-jutting woods of Shahweetah impinged upon the mountain's base, and cut the line of the river there to the eye. But north there was no obstruction. The low foreground of woods over which the hill-top looked, served but as a base to the picture, a setting on the hither side. Beyond it the Shatemuc rolled down from the north in uninterrupted view, the guardian hills, Wut-a-qut-o and its companions, standing on either side; and beyond them, far beyond, was the low western shore of the river sweeping round to the right, where the river made another angle, shewing its soft tints; and some faint and clear blue mountains still further off, the extreme distance of all. But what varied colouring, — what fresh lights and shades, — what sweet contrast of fair blue sky and fair blue river, — the one, earth's motion; the other, heaven's rest; what deep and bright greens in the foreground, and what shadowy, faint, cloud-like, tints of those far off mountains. The soft north wind that had greeted the travellers in the early morning, was blowing yet, soft and warm; it flickered the leaves of the oaks and chestnuts with a lazy summer stir; white sails spotted the broad bosom of the Shatemuc and came down with summer gentleness from the upper reaches of the river. And here and there a cloud floated over; and now and then a locust sang his monotone; and another soft breath of the North wind said that it was August; and the grasshoppers down in the dell said yes, it was.

Winnie sat or lay down under the trees, and there Winthrop left her for a while; when he came back it was with flushed face and crisped hair and a basket full of berries. He threw himself down on the ground beside Winnie, threw his hat off on the other side, and gave her the basket. Winnie set it down again, after a word of comment, and her head took its wonted place of rest with a little smothered sigh.

"How do you feel, Winnie?" said her brother, passing his hand gently over her cheek.

"O I feel very well," said Winnie. "But Governor, I wish you could keep all this! —"

"I couldn't live here and in Mannahatta too, Winnie."

"But Governor, you don't mean always to live in Mannahatta, do you? — and nowhere else?"

"My work is there, Winnie."

"Yes, but you can't play there, Governor."

"I don't want to play," he said gently and lightly.

"But why, Governor?" — said Winnie, whom the remark made uneasy, she couldn't tell why; — "why don't you want to play? why shouldn't you?"

"I feel more appetite for work."

"But you didn't use to be so," said Winnie, raising her head to look at him. "You used to like play as well as anybody, Winthrop?"

"Perhaps I do yet, Winnie, if I had a chance."

"But then what do you mean by your having more appetite for work? and not wanting to play?"

"I suppose it means no more but that the chance is wanting."

"But why is it wanting, Governor?"

"Why are your Solomon's Seals not in flower?"

Winnie turned her head to look at them, and then brought it round again with the uneasiness in full force.

"But Governor! — you don't mean to say that your life is like that?"

"Like what, Winnie?" said he with a pleasant look at her.

"Why, anything so dismal — like the Solomon's Seals with the flower gone?"

"Are they dismal?"

"Why, no, — but you would be, if you were like anything of that kind."

"Do I look like anything of that kind?"

"No," said Winnie, "indeed you don't, — you never look the least bit dismal in the world."

"I am not the least bit in the world, Winnie."

"I wish you had everything in the world that would give you pleasure!" she said, looking at him wistfully, with a vague unselfish consciousness that it might not all be for hers.

"That would be too much for any man's share, Winnie. You would make a Prince in a fairy tale of me."

"Well, what if I would?" said Winnie, half smiling, half sighing, and paying him all sort of leal homage in her heart's core.

"That is not commonly the lot of those who are to reign hereafter in a better kingdom."

Winnie rose up a little so that she could put both hands on his shoulders, and kissed him on forehead and cheeks; most loving kisses.

"But dear Governor, it isn't wrong for me to wish you to have both things, is it?"

"I hope not, dear Winnie. I don't think your wishes will do any mischief. But I am content to be here to-day."

"Are you? do you enjoy it?" she asked eagerly.

"Very much."

"I am so glad! I was afraid somehow you didn't — as much as I did. But I am sorry you can't keep it, Governor. Isn't it all beautiful? I didn't know it was so delightful as it is."

And Winnie sighed her wish over again.

"You can't have your possessions in both worlds, Winnie."

"No, — and I don't want to."

"You only wish that I could," he said smiling.

"Well, Winthrop, — I can't help that."

"I am in better hands than yours, Winnie. Look at that shadow creeping down the mountain."

"It's from that little white cloud up there," said Winnie. "O how beautiful! —"

"You see how something that is bright enough in itself may cast a shadow," he said.

"Was that what you thought of when you told me to look at it?"

"No, — not at that minute."

"But then we can see the cloud and we know that it is bright."

"And in the other case we don't see the cloud and we know that it is bright. 'We know that all things shall work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose!'"

"But Governor, what are you talking of?"

"That little cloud which is rolling away from Wut-a-qut-o."

"But what cloud is over you, or rolling away from you?"

"I thought the whole land was in shadow to you, Winnie, because I cannot buy it."

"Why no it isn't," said Winnie. "It never looked so bright to me. It never seemed near so beautiful when it was ours."

"The other land never seemed so bright and never will seem so beautiful, as when it is ours. 'Thine eyes shall see the King in his beauty; they shall behold the land that is very far off.'"

Winnie smiled a most rested, pleased, gratified smile at him; and turned to another subject.

"I wonder what's become of your old little boat, Governor — the Merry-go-round?"

"I suppose it is lying in the barn-loft yet," he replied rather gravely.

"I wonder if it is all gone to pieces."

"I should think not. Why?"

"I was looking at the river and thinking how pleasant it would be to go out on it, if we could."

"If we can get home, Winnie, I'll see how the matter stands."

"I don't want to go home," said Winnie.

"But I want to have you. And Karen will want the huckleberries."

"Well — I'll go," said Winnie. "But we'll come again, Governor — won't we?"

"As often as you please. Now shall I carry you?"

"O no!"

But Winthrop presently judged of that also for himself, and taking his little sister on one arm, made his way steadily and swiftly down to the level ground.

"You're a good climber," was Winnie's remark when he set her on her feet again. "And I don't know but I was once. I've almost forgotten. But it's as good to have you carry me, and to see you do it."

The Merry-go-round was found in good condition, only with her seams a little, or not a little, opened. That trouble however was got over by the help of a little caulking and submersion and time; and she floated again as lightly as ever. Some days still passed, owing to weather or other causes, before the first evening came when they went out to try her.

That evening, — it was the seventeenth of August, and very fair, — they went down to the rocks, just when the afternoon had grown cool in the edge of the evening. Winnie put herself in the stern of the little white boat, and Winthrop took his old place and the oars. Winnie's eyes were sparkling.

"It will be harder work to pull than it used to be," she remarked joyously, — "you're so out of the habit of it."

Winthrop only replied by pushing the little skiff off.

"However," continued Winnie, "I guess it isn't much to pull me anywhere."

"Which way shall we go?" said Winthrop, one or two slow strokes of his oar sending the little boat forward in a way that made Winnie smile.

"I don't know — I want to go everywhere — Let's go up, Winthrop, and see how it looks — Let's go over under Wut-a- qut-o. O how beautiful it is, Winthrop! —"

Winthrop said nothing, but a repetition of those leisurely strokes brought the boat swiftly past the cedars and rocks of Shahweetah's shore and then out to the middle of the river, gradually drawing nearer to the other side. But when the mid- river was gained, high enough up to be clear of the obstructing point of Shahweetah, Winnie's ecstatic cry of delight brought Winthrop's head round; and with that he lay upon his oars and looked too. He might. The mountains and the northern sky and clouds were all floating as it were in a warm flush of light — it was upon the clouds, and through the air, and upon the mountains' sides, — so fair, so clear, but beyond that, so rich in its glowing suffusion of beauty, that eyes and tongue were stayed, — the one from leaving the subject, the other from touching it. Winthrop's oars lay still, the drops falling more and more slowly from the wet blades. The first word was a half awed whisper from Winnie —

"O Winthrop, — did you ever see it look so?"

The oars dipped again, and again lay still.

"Winthrop, this isn't much like Mannahatta!" Winnie said next, under breath.

The oars dipped again, and this time to purpose. The boat began to move slowly onward.

"But Winthrop you don't say anything?" Winnie said uneasily.

"I don't know how."

"I wish I could keep a picture of that," she went on with regretful accent as her eyes turned again to the wonderful scene before them in the north, floating as it seemed in that living soft glow.

"I shall keep a picture of it," said Winthrop.

Winnie sighed her regrets again, and then resigned herself to looking with her present eyes, while the little boat moved steadily on and the view was constantly changing; till they were close under the shadow of Wut-a-qut-o, and from beneath its high green and grey precipice rising just above them, only the long sunny reach of the eastern shore remained in view. They looked at it, till the sunset began to make a change.

"O Winthrop, there is Bright Spot," said Winnie, as her head came round to the less highly coloured western shore.

"Yes," — said Winthrop, letting the boat drop a little down from under the mountain.

"How it has grown up! — and what are all those bushes at the water's edge?"

"Alders. Look at those clouds in the south."

There lay, crossing the whole breadth of the river, a spread of close-folded masses of cloud, the under edges of which the sun touched, making a long network of salmon or flame-coloured lines. And then above the near bright-leaved horizon of foliage that rose over Bright Spot, the western sky was brilliantly clear; flecked with little reaches of cloud stretching upwards and coloured with fairy sunlight colours, gold, purple, and rose, in a very witchery of mingling.

Winthrop pushed the boat gently out a little further from the shore, and they sat looking, hardly bearing to take their eyes from the cloud kaleidoscope above them, or to speak, the mind had so much to do at the eyes. Only a glance now and then for contrast of beauty, at the south, and to the north where two or three little masses of grey hung in the clear sky. Gently Winthrop's oars dipped from time to time, bringing them a little further from the western shore and within fuller view of the opening in the mountains. As they went, a purplish shade came upon the grey masses in the north; — the sunlight colours over Bright Spot took richer and deeper hues of purple and red; the salmon network in the south changed for rose. And then, before they had got far, the moon's crescent, two or three days old, a glittering silver thread, hung itself out amid the bright rosy flecks of cloud in the west just hard by the mountain's brow. Winnie had to look sharp to find it.

"And there is Venus too," said Winthrop; — "look at her."

"Where?"

"In the blue — a little lower down than the moon; and further to the south — do you see? —"

"That white bright star? — O how beautiful! — in that clear blue sky. O how bright! — how much brighter than the moon, Winthrop?"

"Yes, — she has a way of looking bright."

"How did you know it was Venus, or how do you know?"

"Very much in the same way that I know it is Winnie. I have seen her before. I never saw those clouds before."

"Did you ever see such clouds before! And how long they stay, Winthrop. O what a place!"

Slowly the little boat pulled over the river, getting further and further from Bright Spot and its bright bit of sky scenery, which faded and changed very slowly as they sailed away. They neared the high rocky point of Shahweetah, and then instead of turning down the river, kept an easterly course along the low woody shore which stretched back from the point. As they went on, and as the clouds lost their glory, the sky in the west over Wut-a-qut-o's head tinged itself with violet and grew to an opal light, the white flushing up liquidly into rosy violet, which in the northeast quarter of the horizon melted away to a clear grave blue.

"It's more beautiful than the clouds," said Winnie.

"It is a wonderful evening," said Winthrop, as he set his oars more earnestly in the water and the little boat skimmed along.

"But dear Governor, where are you going?"

"Going to land, somewhere."

"To land! But it'll be time to go home, won't it? We're a great way from there."

"We'll take a short cut home," said Winthrop, looking round for a place to execute his purpose.

"How can you?"

"Through the woods. Wouldn't you like it? You've had no exercise to-day."

"O I'd like it. But what will you do with the boat? leave her here? — O in the Aegean sea, Winthrop!"

"That is what I am steering for," said her brother. "But I want to see the after-glow come out first."

The 'Aegean Sea' was a little bay-like cove on the north side of Shahweetah; to which a number of little rock-heads rising out of the water, or some freak of play, had long ago given its classic name. Winthrop pushed his boat to the shore there, and made her fast; and then he and Winnie waited for the after-glow. But it was long coming and the twilight grew on; and at last they left the bay and plunged into the woods. A few steps brought them to a path, which rough and untravelled as it was, their knowledge of the land enabled them easily to follow. Easily for all but their feet. Winnie's would have faltered utterly, so rough, stony, and broken it was, without her brother's strong arm; but helped and led and lifted by him, she went on joyously through the gathering gloom and under the leafy canopy that shut out all the sky and all knowledge of the after-glow, if it came. But when they had got free of the woods, and had come out upon the little open cedar field that was on the river side of Shahweetah, near home, — there it was! Over Wut-a-qut-o's head lay a solid little long mass of cloud with its under edges close-lined with fine deep beautiful red. The opal light was all gone; the face of the heavens was all clear blue, in the gravity of twilight. Venus and the moon were there yet, almost down — bright as ever; the moon more brilliant and bright; for now the contrast of her sharp crescent was with Wut-a-qut-o's dark shadowy side.

That was the beginning of that August boating. And often again as in old times the little skiff flew over the water, in the shadow of the mountain and the sunlight of the bay, coasting the shores, making acquaintance with the evergreens and oaks that skirted them and looked over into the water's edge. Where once Elizabeth had gone, Winthrop and Winnie with swifter and surer progress went; many an hour, in the early and the late sunbeams. For those weeks that they stayed, they lived in the beauties of the land, rather than according to old Karen's wish, on the fatness of it.

But she did her best; and when at last Winthrop must return to his business, and they bid her good bye and left her and Wut- a-qut-o once more, the old woman declared even while she was wiping the eyes that would not be dry, that their coming had "done both of 'em real good — a power of it — and her too."

"He hasn't his beat in this country," she said to old Anderese her brother, as she was trying to take up again her wonted walk through the house. — "And she, dear thing! ain't long for this world; but she's ready for a better."

CHAPTER V.

It is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make man better be, Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall at last a log, dry, bald, and sear. A lily of a day Is fairer far, in May. BEN JONSON.

"What has become of the Landholms?" said Mr. Haye's young wife, one evening in the end of December.

"Confound the Landholms!" — was Mr. Haye's answering ejaculation, as he kicked his bootjack out of the way of his just-slippered foot.

"Why Mr. Haye!" said Rose, bridling over her netting-work. "What have the Landholms done?"

"Done!"

"Well, what have they?"

"One of them won't pay me his dues, and the other is fighting me for trying to get them," said Mr. Haye, looking at the evening paper with infinite disgust.

"What dues?"

"And what fighting, Mr. Haye?" said Elizabeth and Rose in a breath.

"I can't answer you if you both speak at once."

"Well, what do you mean by fighting, Mr. Haye?"

"Fighting."

"Well, but what sort?" said Rose laughing, while the other lady laid down her book and waited.

"With his own cursed weapons."

"And what are those, Mr. Haye? you haven't told us which of the Landholms you mean, yet."

"One of 'em hasn't any weapons but his fists and his tongue," said Mr. Haye. "He hasn't tried the first on me — I have some small knowledge of the last."

"What has the other done?" said Elizabeth.

"He is doing what he can, to hinder my getting my rights of his brother."

"What does his brother owe you?"

"Money, —" said Mr. Haye shortly.

"I suppose so. But what for?"

"Business! What does it signify what for?"

"I should like to know, father. It must be something which can be told."

"He bought cotton of me."

"Can he pay for it?"

"I suppose so. I'll try."

"But what is his brother doing?"

"Trying to hinder, as I told you."

"But how? How can he?"

"Don't ask me what lawyers can or can't do. They can put their fingers into any dirty job that offers!"

Elizabeth sat silent a minute with a very disturbed look. Rose had gone back to her netting, only glancing up once in a while at the faces of the other two.

"Upon what plea does he pretend to hinder it, father?"

"A plea he won't be able to bear out, I fancy," said Mr. Haye, turning round in his chair so as to bring his other side to the fire, and not ceasing to look at the paper all this while.

"But what?"

"What does it signify what! Something you can't understand."

"I can understand it, father; and I want to know."

"A plea of fraud, on my part, in selling the cotton. I suppose you would like to cultivate his acquaintance after that."

Elizabeth sat back in her seat with a little start, and did not speak again during the conversation. Rose looked up from her mesh-stick and poured out a flood of indignant and somewhat incoherent words; to which Mr. Haye responded briefly, as a man who was not fond of the subject, and finally put an end to them by taking the paper and walking off. Elizabeth changed her position then for a low seat, and resting her chin on her hand sat looking into the fire with eyes in which there burned a dark glow that rivalled it.

"Lizzie," said her companion, "did you ever hear of such a thing!"

"Not 'such a thing,'" she answered.

"Aren't you as provoked as you can be?"

"'Provoked' is not exactly the word," Elizabeth replied.

"Well you know what to think of Winthrop Landholm now, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Aren't you surprised?"

"I wish I could never be surprised again," she answered, laying her head down for an instant on her lap; but then giving it the position it held before.

"You take it coolly!" said Rose, jerking away at her netting.

"Do I? You don't."

"No, and I shouldn't think you would. Don't you hate those Landholms?"

"No."

"Don't you! You ought. What are you looking at in the fire?"

"Winthrop Landholm, — just at that minute."

"I do believe," said Rose indignantly, "you like Winthrop Landholm better than you do Mr. Haye!"

Elizabeth's eyes glared at her, but though there seemed a moment's readiness to speak, she did not speak, but presently rose up and quitted the room. She went to her own; locked the door, and sat down. There was a moment's quiver of the lip and drawing of the brow, while the eyes in their fire seemed to throw off sparks from the volcano below; and then the head bent, with a cry of pain, and the flood of sorrow broke; so bitter, that she sometimes pressed both hands to her head, as if it were in danger of parting in two. The proud forehead was stooped to the knees, and the shoulders convulsed in her agony. And it lasted long. Half hour and half hour passed before the struggle was over and Elizabeth had quieted herself enough to go to bed. When at last she rose to begin the business of undressing, she startled not a little to see her handmaid Clam present herself.

"When did you come in?" said Elizabeth after a moment's hesitation.

"When the door opened," said Clam collectedly.

"How long ago?"

"How long have you been here, do you s'pose, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"That's not an answer to my question."

"Not ezackly," said Clam; "but if you'd tell, I could give a better guess."

Elizabeth kept a vexed silence for a little while.

"Well Clam," she said when she had made up her mind, "I have just one word to say to you — keep your tongue between your teeth about all my concerns. You are quite wise enough, and I hope, good enough for that."

"I ain't so bad I mightn't be better," said Clam picking up her mistress's scattered things. "Mr. Winthrop didn't give up all hopes of me. I 'spect he'll bring us all right some of these days."

With which sentence, delivered in a most oracular and encouraging tone, Clam departed; for Elizabeth made no answer thereto.

The next morning, after having securely locked herself into her room for an hour or more, Elizabeth summoned her handmaid.

"I want you to put on your bonnet, Clam, and take this note for me up to Mr. Landholm's; and give it with your own hand to him or to his sister."

Clam rather looked her intelligence than gave any other sign of it.

"If he's out, shall I wait till I see him?"

"No, — give it to his sister."

"I may put on more than my bonnet, mayn't I, Miss 'Lizabeth? This won't keep me warm, with the snow on the ground."

But Elizabeth did not choose to hear; and Clam went off with the note.

Much against her expectations, she found Mr. Winthrop at home and in his room, and his sister not there.

"Mornin', Mr. Winthrop!" said Clam, with more of a courtesy than she ever vouchsafed to her mistress or to any one else whomsoever. He came forward and shook her hand very kindly and made her sit down by the fire. The black girl's eyes followed him, as if, though she didn't say it, it was good to see him again.

"What's the word with you, Clam?"

"'Tain't with me — the word's with you, Mr. Winthrop."

"What is it?"

"I don' know, sir. I've nothin' to do but to bring it."

"How do you do this cold day?"

"I ain't cold," said Clam. "I bethought me to put my cloak on my shoulders. Miss 'Lizabeth wanted me to come off with only my bonnet."

And she produced the note, which Winthrop looked at and laid on the table.

"How is Miss Elizabeth?"

"She's sort o'," said Clam. "She has her ups and downs like other folks. She was down last night and she's up this mornin' — part way."

"I hope she is pleased with you, Clam."

"She ain't pleased with anything, much," said Clam; "so it can't be expected. I believe she's pleased with me as much as with anything else in our house. Last night she was cryin' as if her head would split — by the hour long."

"That is not part of your word to me, is it?"

"Not just," said Clam. "Mr. Winthrop, will you have me come back for an answer?"

"Did Miss Elizabeth desire it?"

"I guess so," said Clam. "But she didn't tell me to come but once."

"Then don't come again."

Clam rose to go and settled her cloak as she moved towards the door.

"If she sends me I may come again, mayn't I, Mr. Winthrop?" she said pausing.

"Yes," he said with a smile; but it was a very little bit of one.

"How is Winifred?" said Clam.

"She is not well."

The smile had entirely passed away; his face was more grave than ever.

"Is she more than common unwell?"

"Yes. Very much."

"Can I go in and see her, Mr. Winthrop?"

"Yes, if you please."

Clam went; and Winthrop took up Elizabeth's note.

"No 11 Parade, Dec. 20, 1821.

"I have just heard, briefly and vaguely, of the difficulties between my father and your brother, and of the remedies you, Mr. Landholm, are employing. I do not know the truth nor the details of anything beyond the bare outlines. Those are enough, and more than I know how to bear. I don't wish to have anything explained to me. But Mr. Landholm, grant me one favour — you must grant it, if you please — do not let it be explained any further to anybody. All you want, I suppose, is to see your brother righted. I will pay the utmost of what is due to him. I do not understand how the business lies — but I will furnish all the money that is wanting to set it right and put an end to these proceedings, if you will only let me know what it is. Please let me know it, and let me do this, Mr. Landholm; it is my right; and I need not ask you, keep my knowledge of it secret from everybody. I am sure you must see that what I ask is my right.

"Elizabeth Haye."

Winthrop had hardly more than time to read this when Clam put herself within his door again, shutting it at her back.

"If the Governor'll let me," she said, "I'll come and take care of her; — or I'll run up and down stairs, from the bottom to the top, — whichever's useful."

"It is very kind of you, Clam. Winnie and I thank you very much. But your mistress will want you."

"She won't. She'll want me here. Let me come, Governor. I shan't do nothin' for Miss 'Lizabeth if I stay with her."

"Go and do all she wants you to do. No, I can't let you come. My sister is taken care of."

"She'd be that where you are," muttered Clam as she went out and went down the stairs, — "and so would anybody else. I wish some of the rest of us had a chance. Well — maybe we'll get it yet! —"

She found Elizabeth at her desk where she had left her, waiting.

"Did you find him?"

"Yes, miss."

"And you gave him the note?"

"No, miss — I mean, yes, miss."

"Don't say 'miss' in that kind of way. Put a name to it."

"What name?" said Clam.

"Any one you like. Did you see anybody else?"

"I see the brother and the sister," said Clam. "The brother was never lookin' better, and the sister was never lookin' worse; — she ain't lookin' bad, neither."

"Is she ill?"

"She's lyin' abed, and so far from bein' well that she'll never be well again."

"She hasn't been well this great while, Clam; that's nothing new."

"This is," said Clam.

"Does her brother think she is very ill?"

"He knows more about it than I do," said Clam. "I said I would go to take care of her, and he said I wouldn't, for you'd be a wantin' me."

"I don't want you at all!" said Elizabeth, — "if you could be of any use. Are you quiet and careful enough for a nurse?"

"Firstrate!" — said Clam; — "no, I guess I'm not ezackly, here; but I were, up to Wutsey-Qutsey."

"Up where?" said Elizabeth.

"Yes, miss."

"I told you not to speak to me so."

Clam stood and gave no sign.

"Do you think you could be of any use up there, Clam?"

"Mr. Winthrop says everybody can be of use."

"Then go and try; I don't want you; and stay as long as they would like to have you."

"When will I go, Mis' Landholm?"

"What?"

"I asked Mis' Landholm, when will I go."

"What do you mean, Clam!"

"You said call you any name I liked — and I like that 'bout as well as any one," said Clam sturdily.

"But it isn't my name."

"I wish 'twas," said Clam; — "no, I don' know as I do, neither; but it comes kind o' handy."

"Make some other serve your turn," said Elizabeth gravely. "Go up this afternoon, and say I don't want you and shall be most happy if you can be of any service to Miss Winifred."

"Or Mr. Winthrop —" said Clam. "I'll do all I can for both of 'em, Miss 'Lizabeth."

She was not permitted to do much. She went and stayed a night and a day, and served well; but Winifred did not like her company, and at last confessed to Winthrop that she could not bear to have her about. It was of no use to reason the matter; and Clam was sent home. The answer to Elizabeth's note came just before her handmaiden, by some other conveyance.

"Little South St. Dec. 21, 1821.

"Your note, Miss Haye, has put me in some difficulty, but after a good deal of consideration I have made up my mind to allow the 'right' you claim. It is your right, and I have no right to deprive you of it. Yet the difficulty reaches further still; for without details, which you waive, the result which you wish to know must stand upon my word alone. I dislike exceedingly it should so stand; but I am constrained here also to admit, that if you choose to trust me rather than have the trouble of the accounts, it is just that you should have your choice.

"My brother's owing to Mr. Haye, for which he is held responsible, is in the sum of eleven hundred and forty-one dollars.

"I have the honour to be, with great respect,

"Winthrop Landholm."

Elizabeth read and re-read.

"It is very polite — it is very handsome — nothing could be clearer from any shadow of implications or insinuations — no, nor of anything but 'great respect' either," she said to herself. "It's very good of him to trust and understand me and give me just what I want, without any palaver. That isn't like common people, any more. Well, my note wasn't, either. But he hasn't said a word but just what was necessary. — Well, why should he? —"

She looked up and saw Clam.

"What's brought you back again?"

"I don' know," said Clam. "My two feet ha' brought me, but I don' know what sent me."

"Why did you come then?"

"'Cause I had to," said Clam. "Nothin' else wouldn't ha' made me. I told you it was good livin' with him. I'd stay as long as I got a chance, if I was anybody!"

"Then what made you come home?"

"I don' know," said Clam. "He wouldn't let me stay. He don't stop to make everything clear; he thinks it's good enough for him to say so; and so it is, I suppose; and he told me to come."

"I am afraid you didn't do your duty well."

"I'd like to see who wouldn't," said Clam. "I did mine as well as he did his'n."

"How is Winifred?"

"She's pretty bad. I guess he don't think he'll have much more of her, and he means to have all he can these last days. And she thinks she's almost in Paradise when he's alongside of her."

Elizabeth laid her face down and asked no more questions.

But she concerned herself greatly to know how much and what she might do in the premises, to shew her kind feeling and remembrance, without doing too much. She sent Clam once with jellies; then she would not do that again. Should she go to see Winifred herself? Inclination said yes; and backed its consent with sundry arguments. It was polite and kind; and everybody likes kindness; she had known Winifred, and her brother, long ago, and had received kindness in the family, yes, even just now from Winthrop himself; and though his visiting had so long been at an end, this late intercourse of notes and business gave her an opening. And probably Winifred had very few friends in the city to look after her. And again inclination said "Go." But then came in another feeling that said "Go not. You have not opening enough. Mr. Landholm's long and utter cessation of visits, from whatever cause, says plainly enough that he does not desire the pleasure of your society; don't do anything that even looks like forcing it upon him. People will give it a name that will not please you." "But then," said inclination on the other hand, "my going could not have that air, to him, for he knows and I know that in the existing state of affairs it is perfectly impossible that he should ever enter the doors of my father's house — let me do what I will." "People don't know as much," said the other feeling; "err on the safe side if at all, and stay at home." "And I don't care much for people," — said Elizabeth.

It was so uncommon a thing for her to find any self-imposed check upon what she wished to do, that Miss Haye was very much puzzled; and tried and annoyed out of all proportion by her self-consultations. She was in a fidget of uneasiness all day long; and the next was no better.

"What is the matter, Lizzie?" said Rose, as she busily threaded her netting-needle through mesh after mesh, and Elizabeth was patiently or impatiently measuring the length of the parlour with her steps. "You look as if you had lost all your friends."

"Do I?"

"Yes. Why do you look so?"

"What is the difference between losing all one's friends, and having none to lose?"

"Why — haven't you any?"

"Whom have I?"

"Well, you might have. I am sure I have a great many."

"Friends!" said Elizabeth.

"Well — I don't know who you call friends," said Rose, breaking her silk with an impatient tug at a knot, — "There! — dear! how shall I tie it again? — I should think you needn't look so glum."

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Why — because. You have everything in the world."

"Have I?" said Elizabeth bitterly. "I am alone as I can be."

"Alone!" said Rose.

"Yes. I am alone. My father is buried in his business; I have nothing of him, even what I might have, or used to have — you never were anything to me. There is not a face in the world that my heart jumps to see."

"Except that one?" said Rose.

"'That one,' as you elegantly express it, I do not see, as it happens."

"It's a pity he didn't know what effect his coming and looking in at our windows might have," said Rose. "I am sure he would be good enough to do it."

But Elizabeth thought a retort unworthy of the subject; or else her mind was full of other things; for after a dignified silence of a few minutes she left Rose and went to her own quarters. Perhaps the slight antagonistic spirit which was raised by Rose's talk came in aid of her wavering inclinations, or brought back her mind to its old tone of wilfulness; for she decided at once that she would go and see Winifred. She had a further reason for going, she said to herself, in the matter of the money which she wished to convey to Winthrop's hands. She did not want to send Clam with it; she did not like to commit it to the post; there was no other way but to give it to him herself; and that, she said, she would do; or to Winifred's hands for him.

She left home accordingly, when the morning was about half gone, and set out for Little South Street; with a quick but less firm step than usual, speaking both doubt and decision. Decision enough to carry her soon and without stopping to her place of destination, and doubt enough to make her tremble when she got there. But without pausing she went in, mounted the stairs, with the same quick footstep, and tapped at the door, as she had been accustomed to do on her former visits to Winifred.

No gentle voice said "come in," however, and the step which Elizabeth heard withinside after her knock, was not Winifred's. She had not expected that it would be; she had no reason to suppose that Winifred was well enough to be moving about as usual, and she was not surprised to see Winthrop open the door. The shadow of a surprise crossed his face for an instant, — then bowing, he stepped back and opened the door wide for her to enter; but there was not the shadow of a smile.

"Well, you do look wonderfully grave!" was Elizabeth's thought as her foot crossed the threshold, — "I wonder if I am doing something dreadful —"

And the instant impulse was to account for her being there, by presenting her business — not the business she had intended to mention first.

She came in and stood by the table and began to speak; then he placed a chair for her, and after a second of hesitation she sat down. She was embarrassed for a minute, then she looked up and looked him full in the face.

"Mr. Landholm, I am exceedingly obliged to you for your kindness in this late business, — you were very good to me."

"It was not kindness — I felt you had a right to ask what I could not refuse, Miss Elizabeth."

"I have come to bring you the money which I did not like to get to you by any other means."

She handed it to him, and he took it and counted it over. Elizabeth sat looking on, musing how tremulous her own hand had been, and how very cool and firm his was; and thinking that whatever were said by some people, there certainly was character in some hands.

"This will be handed to Mr. Haye," he said, as he finished the counting, — "and all the proceedings will fall to the ground at once."

"Thank you."

"I cannot receive any thanks, Miss Elizabeth. I am merely an agent, doing what I have been obliged to conclude was my duty."

"I must thank you, though," said Elizabeth. "I feel so much relieved. You are not obliged to disclose my name to Mr. Rufus Landholm?"

"Not at all. To no one."

"That is all my excuse for being here," said Elizabeth with a slight hesitation, — "except I thought I might take the privilege of old friendship to come and see your sister."

"Thank you," he said in his turn, but without raising his eyes. Yet it was not coldly spoken. Elizabeth did not know what to think of him.

"Can I see her, Mr. Landholm? Is she well enough to see me?"

He looked up then; and there was, hardly a smile, but a singular light upon his whole face, that made Elizabeth feel exceedingly grave.

"She is well, but she will not see you again, Miss Elizabeth. Winnie has left me."

"Left! —" said Elizabeth bewildered.

"Yes. She has gone to her home. Winnie died yesterday morning, Miss Haye."

Elizabeth met the clear intent eye which, she did not know why, fixed hers while he spoke; and then dropping her own, trembled greatly with constrained feeling. She could not tell in the least how to answer, either words or look; but it would have been impossible for her to stir an inch from the spot where she stood.

"Does it seem terrible to you?" he said. "It need not. Will you see her?"

Elizabeth wished very strongly not; but as she hesitated how to speak, he had gently taken her hand and was leading her forward out of the room; and Elizabeth could not draw away her hand nor hinder the action of his; she let him lead her whither he would.

"Are you afraid?" he said, as he paused with his hand upon the door of the other room. Elizabeth uttered an incomprehensible 'no,' and they went in.

"There is no need," he said again in a gentle grave tone as he led her to the side of the bed and then let go her hand. Elizabeth stood where he had placed her, like a person under a spell.

'There was no need' indeed, she confessed to herself, half unconsciously, for all her thoughts were in a terrible whirl. Winnie's face looked as though it might have been the prison of a released angel. Nothing but its sweetness and purity was left, of all that disease and weariness had ever wrought there; the very fair and delicate skin and the clustering sunny locks seemed like angel trappings left behind. Innocence and rest were the two prevailing expressions of the face, — entire, both seemed. Elizabeth stood looking, at first awe- stricken; but presently thoughts and feelings, many and different ones, began to rise and crowd upon one another with struggling force. She stood still and motionless, all the more.

"There is no pain in looking there?" said her companion softly. Elizabeth's lips formed the same unintelligible 'no,' which her voice failed to bring out.

"Little sleeper!" said Winthrop, combing back with his fingers the golden curls, which returned instantly to their former position, — "she has done her work. She has begun upon her rest. I have reason to thank God that ever she lived. — I shall see the day when I can quietly thank him that she has died."

Elizabeth trembled, and in her heart prayed Winthrop not to say another word.

"Does not this face look, Miss Haye, as if its once owner had 'entered into peace?'"

If worlds had depended on Elizabeth's answering, she could not have spoken. She could not look at the eye which, she knew, as this question was put, sought hers; her own rested only on the hand that was moving back those golden locks, and on the white brow it touched; she dared not stir. The contact of those two, and the signification of them, was as much as she could bear, without any help. She knew his eye was upon her.

"Isn't it worth while," he said, "to have such a sure foothold in that other world, that the signal for removing thither shall be a signal of peace?"

Elizabeth bowed her head low in answer.

"Have you it?" was his next question. He had left the bed's side and stood by hers.

Elizabeth wrung her hands and threw them apart with almost a cry, — "Oh I would give uncounted worlds if I had! —"

And the channel being once opened, the seal of silence and reserve taken off, her passion of feeling burst forth into wild weeping that shook her from head to foot. Involuntarily she took hold of the bedpost to stay herself, and clung to it, bending her head there like a broken reed.

She felt even at the time, and remembered better afterwards, how gently and kindly she was drawn away from there and taken back into the other room and made to sit down. She could do nothing at the moment but yield to the tempest of feeling, in which it seemed as if every wind of heaven shook her by turns. When at last it had passed over, the violence of it, and she took command of herself again, it was even then with a very sobered and sad mind. As if, she thought afterwards, as if that storm had been, like some storms in the natural world, the forerunner and usher of a permanent change of weather. She looked up at Winthrop, when she was quieted and he brought her a glass of water, not like the person that had looked at him when she first came in. He waited till she had drunk the water and was to appearance quite mistress of herself again.

"You must not go yet," he said, as she was making some movement towards it; — "you are cold. You must wait till you are warmed."