Then Winston procured a list of weekly wages ruling in this country, and in many places abroad, the hours of work, and the average cost of living, with the articles in most general use. The mill-men had their flour and coal cheaper, and altogether their winter was proved as satisfactory. This was pasted up in the hall.

The matter was discussed through the town, of course. Some people saw in it a speedy dissolution of the plan,—a plan that never had worked, and never would. Others did not see that this method of getting back part of the men's wages was any better than any other swindling scheme. They never had any faith in Bob Winston,—Darcy might be honest, but he wasn't very bright,—and in five years Winston would own every thing there was in the mill!

Winston laughed over the gossip. Jack could not take it so light-heartedly. He was an earnest, honest reformer, and hated to have things go awry. Winston, not believing there was very much capacity for reform in human nature, did not distress himself.

Ben Hay, and a dozen or so others, did their best with the new cloth, and succeeded in producing a really creditable article. The heads discussed the feasibility of having an auction-sale to clear out some of the piles of goods; then concluded that it might be misconstrued at this present juncture. They could hold on until fall.

But the delightful esprit du corps had vanished. The men did not seem to work with a will. There were moody faces and discourteous greetings, half-insolent nods, and more than one wrangle at the workmen's meeting. Hurd felt anxious and discouraged. Yardley took a low fever, not severe enough to confine him to the house, but it made him irritable, and every sneer or innuendo cut him to the quick. Cameron was a great comfort to Jack, with his queer, wrinkled, grizzled face, and an expression that always puzzled you as to whether nature meant him to laugh or cry.

"I am not surprised," said he, one day, in the office. "I knew we would have to come to just this time. A wife shares your joys and sorrows, gen'ally speaking; but you see there it's a force put, she can't well get away. Other partners like your joys, but they make a wry face over the sorrows, and like to squirm out of them if they can. But it is the only way to train men to the real responsibilities of business. Now, I'm sorry enough to lose, but it stands to reason that times will come better. We're getting through the panic; but after the battle there's some dead to bury, and some wounded to care for, and you see that's tedjus. You can't march straight home, covered with glory. Here's our money in the hospital, first up, then down, and all the doctors in the land tinkering with allopathic doses and homoeopathic doses, and blisters and poultices and remedies, when all it wants is a little honest letting-alone. It doesn't occur to these long-headed doctors that the best way out is to show everybody that we're willing to go to work and pay our debts just as fast as we can. And any fool might know that when you are paying up back debts you can't have much money to sport around on. Never you mind, Jack: we're coming out straight in five years time,—I'll bet my old hat on that!"

Jack wrung his hand warmly.

In May there was quite a jollification over the marriage of two mill-hands. Ben Hay took to wife pretty Rose Connelly; and the coffee-house parlor was denuded of tables and benches, trimmed with evergreens and flowers, and such a merry-making as did one's heart good. There was a bountiful supper, plenty of tea, coffee, and lemonade, dancing, and ice-cream, and the utmost good-humor and good wishes. Connelly pere had gone back to his cups, thrown up his situation, come home and stirred up a general "ruction," and had now gone off on a tramp. Ben Hay was to cast his lot with the Connelly household for the present.

"But I tell you what it is, Mr. Darcy," said he, "if any luck comes to Hope Mills, in five years' time I'll have my own little house and garden. I tramped around a bit in the dull times, but I didn't see many prettier places than Yerbury. And, the more I study this business of co-operation, the more I think it will succeed in the end."

Jack experienced a great throb of comfort when he heard such words as these.

Another mill-hand had married Mary Moran. She was not the beauty of Yerbury, by any means, but everybody declared she had improved wonderfully, and that she was the smartest girl in town. Their wedding-party was given at the club-room. It was a larger and rather more boisterous affair; and some of the Morans' warm-hearted Irish friends brought a "dhrop of the craythur" in their pockets, to drink the bride's health. Everybody admitted that there wasn't such another bread-maker in town, unless it was Miss Morgan.

In fact, it was quite astonishing to see what a revolution had been worked in this most important article of diet. The women had learned to distinguish between poor and good flour, and Kilburn's trade in the former had fallen off largely. Of the bread that in Samantha Allen's view "required cast-iron principle to back it up," very little was seen. It had been rather hard work to convince some of the mothers that bread wasn't naturally born into the world heavy and sour, but it had been done.

If Hope Mills failed, the impetus to general knowledge that had been diffused throughout Yerbury would remain and bear fruit. An evening-school had been opened for boys too large to stay at home evenings, and just the right age to fall into temptations. It began with the mill-boys, but it soon drew in others. There was a short session of study, then a talk about some useful art or science. Maverick had treated them to sundry experiments, and explained many general rules of health. Mr. Winston had described Western cities in a vivid and picturesque manner. There had been some astronomy within the reach of all, some philosophy of common every-day things; and it had given the boys ideas above "high, low, Jack."

Darcy tried to find comfort in this when other matters looked dark to him. A little good seed had been sown. The generation growing up would not be quite so dull and brutish. One thing was remarked,—the saloons were not as full. This was laid to dull times, and ascribed to the "revival" of two years ago; but that had not touched the poorer class of Irish and English, who, even during the hardest winter, had managed to find drink-money, when their families were being supported by the relief-store.

Business did "pick up" a little. Prices went lower and lower, however. They looked at their great store of goods with dismay. If the currency question could ever be settled, if we could export more and import less,—though there were people who argued that, the more money we spent abroad, the more it really strengthened us, and money lying idle in our treasury at home was no evidence of prosperity: partly true and partly false reasoning; and, to our astonishment, while we were brilliantly theorizing how to do it, our vain and superficial neighbors across the water, crushed and beaten down by a useless and costly war, and a government of gigantic selfishness, went to work with intrepid courage and industry, and did it.

Meanwhile it must be confessed that Jack's interests were very much divided. The practical part of him never lost sight of the mill. He had the dogged tenacity that holds on with a deathless grip until it conquers, or is wholly beaten. It seemed to him this summer that he had several distinct individualities. He was so deeply interested in Fred and Sylvie! They had slipped into an easy friendship,—a friendship in which neither crossed a certain line, but from widely different motives. Fred's strongest and highest one was honor toward his friend. He began dimly to realize that high culture and refinement of the intellectual senses, a perfect state of outward finish and polish, did not always strengthen the soul's morality and purity. Patience, self-sacrifice, obedience to a creed simpler in words, and yet more comprehensive, than any of his grand philosophies, were needed to form a strong and manful soul. His had been so long bound about with swaddling-clothes, airy, sensuous, fine as a gossamer web, yet strong in beliefs and prejudices. There were times when he felt, through that instinctive knowledge we can never wholly define or explain, that Sylvie Barry belonged to him, that they two could reach a point in mental and artistic life, that she and Jack would never attain. His whole soul cried out for her. With the charm of self-satisfying and blinding theories swept away, he clung passionately to the love that had been only a complacent fancy three years ago. The mere touch of her hand, or glance of her eye, quickened and kindled his entire soul, and made him acutely and agonizingly conscious of the wealth of adoration he had hardly dreamed of possessing. There were moments when her presence filled him with a heavenly satisfaction, when he understood that divine fusion of spirit with spirit in its entirety, when love overcame pride, and he was humble enough to go to her in his poverty.

He tried honestly to crush out the passion, but found that neither will nor duty could destroy love. It rose up and swept imperiously through every pulse of his being, it flooded his heart like a mighty current, it would fain have drowned out his sense of honor to his friend; and he learned presently that it was of no avail to fight battles with this unconquerable foe. He must always love her, therefore he could only bury the passion out of the sight of all other eyes. To him it would be the root of higher resolves and purer motives. When he had made this great sacrifice for his friend, he had offered silently the highest atonement in his power.

But his temptation was not to end so soon. He was to be led through the fire, that he might be purified and ennobled in other virtues beside that of abnegation. He was to learn how sacred a thing strength might become; he was to hold the soft hand on his arm, and never clasp it, to feel the pressure of the dainty fingers, and make no sign; to meet her bewildering smiles with the calmness of a strong spirit held in thrall; to listen to words that seemed cruelly pregnant with the dangerous glamour of hope, and yet to steel his heart against it all. In such times as these we come to believe in a living, loving God, who gathers up these great drops of agony as he "makes up his jewels," and that to him this pearl of inward anguish is above price. Then, of all times, we need to know that he cares for us, that we are not mere atoms floating in unregarded space.

Dr. Maverick decided that his patient must have a change. She had attained a certain amount of physical strength while her brain still lay dormant, utterly exhausted after the great drain upon it. Now it began to act again, and, not being in sympathy with the body, consequently re-acted upon it. She walked about her room a little; she viewed herself in the mirror, a horrid shadow, a mere caricature of her former beauty. Dr. Maverick had tried his best to save her hair; but the fever had burned out its vital essence, making it dry and harsh, so he had uttered his reluctant edict. It was cropped short, and had lost its gloss; her brilliant complexion was a ghostly, sallow, opaque white, her eyes large and melancholy, every feature sharpened into that thin, worn, hungry appearance. "A perfect fright," she said to herself. Why had they not let her die? Of what avail was life to her?

Before her illness, in her desperate impatience with circumstances, she had fancied herself a martyr, with the fagot and stake of a conventional marriage on one hand, and the dreary desert of neglect and enforced seclusion on the other. She had tried to make her own wretched and passionate imaginings consume her very soul. She could rule no longer. She could not exact homage and admiration from society; and, though in her secret soul she despised it, yet what was there to life beside it? No one wanted or needed her. No human being cared for her above all others. She had gone on in ruthless pride, trampling, crushing, and now the great world would be only too glad to pay her back; but it never should. Even in this extreme bitterness of spirit an acknowledgment of that divine rule of love was wrested from her. She had never offered love and tenderness and sympathy to others, and it would not come back to her: it was just and right that it should not.

Why then vegetate through a narrow, dreary existence? She was only a drag on Fred. Even if she were willing to make an essay of work, he would not consent, partly from pride, but still more from that innate sense of chivalry, a part of some men, who would be more cruelly wounded to see a woman dear to them, struggling with distasteful toil, than to make any sacrifice on their own part. If she were a man she would starve in secret before it should be done. David Lawrence had in him some of this pure, nobly generous blood; and many of his finer virtues seemed to have been transmitted to these two children. The mother's individuality had been absorbed by the two elder ones. Gertrude would be just such a woman when she came to her mother's time of life.

Mr. Eastman had floated into another channel of prosperity. He was to go to Russia as a railroad-director at a large salary, and ample chance for speculation. Gertrude was all elation. She wrote to Irene, generously forgiving her for not having submitted to be buried alive at Frodsham Park, and proposed that she should rejoin her as soon as she was able to travel. They would go to Vienna and Berlin, and spend the winter in St. Petersburg. "I hope your beauty has not gone off," she wrote very kindly. "One needs it to compare with some of the Russian women I have seen."

Mrs. Minor had taken a summer cottage at Long Branch. Servants, children, horses and carriages, were to go thither. Irene and her mother must spend the season with them.

"You do look dreadfully," she said to Irene; "but moping here will not mend you. It was a most absurd step for Fred to come back to Yerbury, and take that paltry position! He has no real Lawrence pride, and I don't see that his elegant education has done much for him. Why didn't he study law, and go into politics? With his style and Mr. Minor's connection, he might have filled some high position."

"Really," returned Irene, with a touch of the old sarcasm, "I suppose he thought starving hardly a pleasant process while he was waiting for this high position. I have sometimes wondered why Mr. Minor did not take him into his office, and induct him into the mysteries of stock-broking."

Agatha bit her lip.

"Because he did not know enough," she flung out. "And he will potter away his best days there at Garafield's, never amounting to any thing! Father had better have put him in the business."

"Jack Darcy is master at Hope Mills. He was once quite a bete noir of yours, I believe. He and Fred have floated together again, an exemplification of the power of early attraction."

"He will not be master of Hope Mills long, if what I hear is true," said Agatha in a vengeful tone, as if she would be glad to bring about such a greatly-to-be-desired downfall. "Fred always did have low tastes. But about yourself: you had better come to Long Branch, and recruit for two months, or so, and then go out to join Gertrude. Of course, Irene, you know your best time has gone by here. I intend that my daughters shall be married before they are twenty. I will not have them wasting their best years."

There was a long pause. Agatha studied Irene's apathetical face, and wondered how she could have changed into such a fright.

"Irene!" in a commanding tone.

"Agatha, I may as well tell you,"—the voice was slow and incisive, as if every word was measured,—"that I shall not go to Long Branch nor abroad. No one shall be troubled by my failing looks and possibly poor health. I will live my own secluded life, asking nothing of the world but to be let alone."

"You are a fool, Irene!" Mrs. Minor scanned her with her pitiless black eyes, and raised her own tall figure to its most impressive height. "You are a deliberate, wilful fool! You will maunder and groan and sigh through the next few years, and become one of those wretched bundles of nerves and whims and conceits, a miserable old maid, whom the world holds up to ridicule, and rightly too; a faded, insipid, querulous, worn-out belle, whose past triumphs are remembered only to her disfavor. We can forgive a woman of mother's age, who has had her day; but the other shallow creatures are fit only to be bundled into a convent, out of sight."

A dull scarlet had slowly mounted Irene's face. She did not raise her eyes. In an emotionless tone she merely said, "Thank you. I wish there were convents without the fuss of religion. I should go into one now."

"The best place for you certainly."

Then Mrs. Minor gave Fred a piece of her mind, and washed her hands of Yerbury.

The result of sundry after-discussions was that Dr. Maverick found a pretty seaside place not many miles distant, with just enough interest to keep one entertained, and no fashionable, exhausting life. He managed to persuade Miss Barry and Sylvie and Mrs. Lawrence to go, and insisted upon Irene having the variety of air and scene. There was a roomy furnished cottage at their disposal: they could cook their meals, or have them sent in. Fred should come down once or twice a week, and he and Darcy would enliven them with flying visits. Miss Barry must take her pony and carriage.

Jack approved of the plan at once. It would bring the two beings in whom he was so warmly interested more closely in contact with each other, give them those bits and fragments of leisurely indolence so conducive to sentiment. Sylvie would judge more truly and tenderly than it was possible to do at present; and he could not see her alone, could not be her companion in walks and drives, without betraying his regard.

While the plan was still under consideration, Dame Fortune resolved to smile upon Fred Lawrence. Late in the winter he had sent a paper on household art, with several exquisite designs, to a magazine, and for once happened to hit the prevailing fancy. He was asked for a series of such articles, with the offer of having them collected in book form afterward. It more than encouraged him: it gave him a feeling of certainty that he had struck the right vein, that here was a fair and appreciative field for his talent, his fine taste, and high culture. A little utilitarian, perhaps; and he smiled, thinking of some past dreams. And was true art so ethereal that it must exist only in the exalted states of the mind? Was it not to embellish and beautify all lives, rather than crowd out the thousands that the few might feast on some exquisite vision? Was any art higher than that which boldly thrust aside shams, and went to the shaping of true, strong, faithful aims in the work placed before one? Were those wonderful Greek fragments, wrought in times of social depravity such as the world now shrank from mentioning, to be one's guide and inspirer, to the despising of purer if less sensuous forms of beauty? If one enlightened and sweetened the life of to-day with the work of to-day, would it not be as worthy as hugging to the soul some useless theory?

He mentioned his new offer to Mr. Garafield. It would not be honest to take the time that was another's; and surely Fred Lawrence's mental capacity had largely cleared when he came to put into every-day work the fine sense of honor that he had hitherto supposed belonged only to a liberal education.

Mr. Garafield was a shrewd business-man, although fanciful in taste. He should be the gainer by associating this true artist with him. Decorative art was coming to be a truly recognized branch; and its leaders and apostles would reap not only credit, but financial success.

Fred was amazed. Only yesterday, it seemed, he had well-nigh been refused the privilege of earning his bread. To-day, in an unexpected quarter, prosperity opened upon him.

"I have no capital, as you well know," he said stammeringly to Mr. Garafield.

Garafield smiled and nodded in a satisfied manner.

"The brain-work and the ideas are sufficient capital, Mr. Lawrence. By this partnership you will be free of drudgery: some other clerk can keep books and take orders for us. You will gain time for your literary labors, and those in turn will carry weight in the business. Neither do I think you will regret taking my offer."

Fred went down to Jack Darcy's that evening, and told over his plans, as in other years he had confessed his college ambitions and the laurels he was to win. And Jack's face lighted up with honest enthusiasm, while his voice took on a curious little tremble. He was so glad! for Sylvie's sake and love's sake.



CHAPTER XXII.

WHEN Fred Lawrence came next day into Sylvie Barry's presence, there was a certain proud humility shining in his handsome face, that was now quite worn and thin; a dignity born of honor in having achieved at least a standing-place in the world. He was not her hero, never had been indeed; and his pale face flushed at the remembrance of his once complacent claim to her regard.

She was sitting in the room with his mother, but she sprang up from the low ottoman.

"I am so glad! your mother has been telling me the news. Why, it is"—

She had held out her hands as she began her sentence, but as he took them she made a sudden pause. His were icy cold.

"More than I could have expected in such a brief while, hardly at all. Both offers have surprised me greatly."

He strove so hard to render his tone calm, that it was absolutely cold.

She turned with a petulant but charming gesture, while her peachy cheek took on a riper tint.

"You are not a bit enthusiastic," in that pretty, imperious, chiding tone. "I suppose you think good fortune ought to fall down upon you, be thrust on you, like greatness."

"No. I am very thankful for it. I can give my mother and sister some needed indulgences that it would have pained me very much to see them go without. How is Irene?"

"I don't know," said Mrs. Lawrence fretfully. "She does mope so. I shall be so glad to get away."

"I have just come from the doctor's. We are to start on Thursday. Sylvie, are you all ready?"

"Yes," with a positive little nod.

He stepped into the next room. Irene had been worse after Mrs. Minor's visit, but was the same again now, quiet, cold, impassible. It made no difference to her whether they remained here, or went to Depford Beach. She evinced neither pain, pleasure, nor interest; but she liked best to be alone. She endured Sylvie with rather more equanimity than she did her mother, but even the fault-finding energy would have been welcome to the doctor. Nothing mattered: that was the trouble.

She heard now they were to go in two days. The cottage was all ready. Martha and Miss Barry's trusty handmaiden were to do the housekeeping. The place was so arranged, with the spacious hall through the middle, that each family could be by itself.

"I have ordered a carriage to come every day for you and mother," Fred said quietly. "I thought you would like it better than being dependent on Miss Barry."

Irene gave a slow, acquiescent nod.

"Good-by," cried Sylvie, looking in. "I will run over again to-morrow."

"I wanted her to stay to tea," said Mrs. Lawrence complainingly. "It is so dull!"

"I will come up and take tea with you. I will order it at once." And he ran down.

There was a subtle perfume in the hall. She had a bunch of violets in her belt, he remembered. He said over softly Ben Jonson's quaint lines,—

"Here she was wont to go, and here, and here, Just where the daisies, pinks, and violets grow: The world may find the spring by following her."

But he could not follow. Had fate smiled on him to make the renunciation more bitter? For now he could work his way up to something worthy of her acceptance. And had he not learned the past winter, had he not been slowly learning ever since the death and loss, that the manhood of a gentleman was his thoughtfulness for others, his courteous delicacy, his consideration, often his denial of self, rather than the exquisite polish of cultivation, and the veneer of society's affectations? How blind he must have been, ever to have offered these last to a woman so true and pure of soul!

But a still larger sacrifice had been demanded of him. He must see her in seductive solitudes, in still more intimate association. If he could stay away from Depford Beach! but that was not possible. He was to spend Sundays with them. But surely Jack would be there then. An almost careless lover he thought his friend. Was every smile so dear to him?

The doctor and Fred went down with them. Darcy had decided to take a business trip, so presently Mrs. Darcy joined the seaside household. In the bygone years Mrs. Lawrence would not have deigned to notice her; but she found this delicate, mild-mannered, middle-aged woman very companionable. Circumstances had rendered Mrs. Darcy exclusive, rather than any inherent trait of birth or breeding. She had lived with a few people always, and two or three strong attachments had given to her character the kind of concentration that passes for strength. Yet all of these had been more positive people than herself; and while this had softened the tendency to that querulous exactingness that weak, sweet natures are apt to possess, it had also shaped to certain generous instincts that were quite free from vanity. Her natural kindliness gave her the charm of good-breeding, and this settled her in the estimation of Mrs. Lawrence. She might have possessed all the virtues in the calendar, but an inharmonious, unpolished turn or act would have tabooed her. We generally ascribe this grace to life-long culture, or a certain inheritance of blood, but it occasionally springs from other causes.

The three women, with natures and aims widely different, fraternized in the most amiable manner. Sylvie glanced in and out between them as a gleam of sunshine penetrates the interstices of a wood, and brings out all lights and tints, itself untouched by any. Their greatest diversion was driving. Back of the little settlement—it was hardly large enough for a village, and had a powerful rival some seven miles farther on—there were country lanes and by-ways, sleepy-looking farms, and picturesquely careless houses. Below them there was a great fish entrepot, with fishing-boats plying up and down, brawny fishermen trilling their musical half-chant, half-song, as they floated over the bay.

It was curious how, presently, Sylvie came to watch for Fred. Truth to tell, she found Depford Beach a trifle monotonous. No interest of schools or clubs or young people's affairs, no strong energetic talks with Jack about mill business, few people coming and going that she cared about; the three ladies purring through the drowsy hours on topics that she fancied she had exhausted years ago; and Irene, between whom and her there had never been any real electric sympathy, and who was now coldly indifferent to all matters. For hours she would sit with her hands dropped nerveless in her lap, glancing over the wide sea out to the farther horizon. What thoughts were in her mind, Sylvie wondered? She could not even provoke her to the wordy combats of old. The flashes of temper and imperiousness had alike died out. She was courteously polite, and acknowledged all favors with a punctiliousness that built the wall around her still more firmly. "If one could only rouse her," Dr. Maverick said; but that seemed just the thing no one could do.

Yet she certainly was improving in health. Her step became more assured, her eye less languid, and her complexion cleared up to the hopeful tints of renewed bodily vigor. Her slender hands filled out a trifle; and sometimes she would take a book, as if she needed an interest beside her own sombre thoughts to while away the hours.

So Sylvie established her easel, and had recourse to painting. Oddly enough she began to ask herself what it was all for? Filling her own rooms, and bestowing gifts upon friends, was very well for a season; but was there not a higher purpose in all art, or at least a wider purpose? It surely did not tend to isolation. She thought of her winter in Philadelphia,—of the friends she had made, of the desires that had been awakened. She longed for some purpose, some sympathy and aim. The enthusiasms of girlhood could no longer inspire her: there must be a reality and definite end, or work lost its great charm. How was she to get to this? Her aunt was coming to depend upon her in a peculiar way, that at times startled Sylvie. She would say, with her quiet, tender smile, "Will you do this or that, Sylvie? I believe I am growing indolent: I never thought to so like being waited upon."

The secret in Miss Barry's soul was well kept. In how many lives there comes a demand for heroism greater than that which led the martyrs of old to the stake, or the brave women in the reign of terror to the guillotine! Their inspiration to bravery was patent to all around: their cause was a lofty one, and they were apostles of that high creed of self-abnegation which leaves behind a memory in the hearts of all noble men and women. But there are other pangs quite noiseless: there are other martyrs who suffer without the sign, who cannot even confess the reason for the high faith that upholds them.

It was quite natural that she should desire to see Sylvie married. She could never get over her distaste of having women taking bold strides for the world's fame and favor. If left alone, this was what Sylvie would surely do. The delicate womanly charities and kindnesses that had filled up so much of her life would not satisfy her niece. And, now that she had brought herself to the point of satisfaction with Jack Darcy, either she had mistaken their regard, or he was proving himself an indifferent lover. By a subtile intuition, she understood that Fred still cared for her, nay, that he held now a reverent admiration that he had never thought of in the past. His melancholy eyes followed her about, now and then scintillating sparks of passion that seemed almost to rend his soul. She experienced an intense and exquisite sympathy for him that drew them together in a manner that he felt, and was grateful for, but did not clearly understand.

As for Sylvie, curiously enough, she was at war with herself, though she wore such a calm, light-hearted exterior. When she rejected Fred Lawrence, she was quite sure she despised the present man, and his narrow, futile purposes of life. Truly, to have been the wife of such a man would have proved irksome to the last degree. But his misfortunes had brought out the fine gold, the solemn strain of strength and endurance, that had come from his father's blood. I think even Sylvie had been a little mortified first, that he should have come back to Yerbury, and taken such a very inferior position. She wanted him to do something noteworthy with his pen and his high cultivation. It seemed so much choice material quite thrown away. Designing patterns was surely no high test of genius. Women with a purely technical art education had done it.

But out of it had come this other opportunity that he had grasped with the pure instinct of genius. Employment for pen and pencil both, for the embodiment of the exquisite outward forms of beauty, and the rare, delicate, inward graces of imagination, for the true standards of taste and art in which he had been informing himself all these years; in the spirit of dilettanteism, it was true, but now when the intellectual impetus was added, and the positive need of daily bread, these complicated motives worked together as a strong stimulant. Perhaps, too, he had a not unworthy desire to show Sylvie Barry that the man who had loved her was not utterly unworthy or incapable.

They had drifted together again in the ordinary purposes of life, which, after all, occur much more frequently than any grand or overwhelming shock. She took up the friendly, half-sisterly way, pleased with the instinctive deference he paid her. He understood that it would be quite useless to aspire to any regard of hers: that was all done with in the past. She could afford to evince an interest in his plans, since Irene cared not, and to his mother they were so much Greek, a subtle flavor that she admitted was the proper thing, but could not understand,—did not care to trouble herself, in fact.

So these two young people, working in a common bond of sympathy, insensibly strengthened the regard that had grown with them from childhood. Fred gained sufficient courage to discuss some plans with Sylvie: she brought out her easel, as I have said, and accepted from him friendly criticisms. The difference between their work was soon manifest,—he had an earnest purpose, with breadth and scope: she had none. How had they so queerly changed places? she asked herself. Why were not her talents made of some avail, instead of this puerile pottering to please one's self?

She began to wonder—dangerously fascinating employment to a woman—if he had ever cared for her. There seemed an adamantine wall built up around him, and yet the fruit in the inner garden was more rarely sweet than she had ever dreamed it could be. She could not know that the passion for her he had put away with such despairing hands, was blossoming all the sweeter, and bearing more exquisite fruit in other directions. She saw the lovely tenderness toward his mother, the unwearying patience with Irene, the fearless, animating ambition that seemed to have set his aesthetic desires to a steady, comprehensive strain of music, to which he was keeping invisible step, but which thrilled and roused every fibre.

All this he had done without any assistance from her, she thought, blind little girl; as if the kinship of a true passion could not reach from the life that went before to that which was to come afterward! She had not inspired his genius, but stern necessity; it had been no longing or desire to win her, but the material support of his mother and sister. She began to feel curiously jealous of these extraneous influences. She unconsciously exerted herself to make his visits at the beach more interesting. They drove together in her pony-carriage; they studied glowing summer sunsets, where fantastic clouds piled up wealth of gold and amber and purple and opaline splendors, and shot out arrowy, dazzling rays; they paced the sands after it had all faded into tintless space, and delicate vapors of grayish green and vague violet rose from the crested waves that broke far out at sea, and trooped across like airy spirits; they listened to the slow, regular rhythm that came marching from some weird country, with a grand crash at last, a sobbing crescendo, and an interval of silence that still pulsated on the dusky, odorous air, when the moaning billow was dead.

They came so near to Nature, there were moments when they seemed empowered to wrest the shadowy secrets out of her bosom; and yet they did not come near to each other. Ever this distance between,—a man's honor, and faith to his friend, Fred Lawrence thought, never allowing his secret soul to swerve. There were midnights when he softly paced the floor, his lips compressed, his brow ghostly white, and his hands clinched in the throe of a man's deathless love. Then he thought he could not endure it, that he must stay away. But circumstances were stronger than will. Did God mean that this anguish should redeem that other old treachery, that his soul should be purified by its baptism of fire, a more worthy offering for his friend? If so, then he must not abate one jot or one pang.

There were within Sylvie Barry's soul certain coquettish instincts. She was fond of admiration for herself: a purely intellectual regard, with the passion-dream flown, would soon have wearied her. A warm, bright nature, loving to please others, but to be pleased in return, cruelly hurt by surging against this rock-bound coast, piqued and almost angered, sent into moods of daring, seductive warmth and gayety, quite capable of making a foil of Dr. Maverick, who was strangely puzzled by her contradictory moods. But for one thing, he must have tried to cage the dazzling, elusive spirit: he, too, had a strong sense of honor toward his friend; and he could only imagine her playing sportively with the few who came within her radius, not setting herself to win any forbidden regard. What might have made some women sad and silent—the consciousness that an old lover had over-lived his passion—seemed to sting her into renewed effort.

Coming back to them, Jack Darcy was more than puzzled, set at sea in a bewildering way, without chart or compass. Had Fred ceased to care for Sylvie? Had she never loved him? Or was some other feeling holding him back,—a kind of family complication, a sense of duty to the others so high that he would not offer them a divided regard, any sooner than her? He believed mothers had a peculiar sense of possession in their sons; but they surely had married other women's sons with small scruple! Mrs. Lawrence was warmly attached to Sylvie. In his honest, inconsequent man-fashion, he wondered why they could not always live together, as they were doing here.

Fred was strangely worn and thin, with the kind of nervous alertness that accompanies an intent watching of one's self.

"Hillo, old fellow!" cried Jack; "what have you been doing? Working yourself to a shadow? If high art is so exhaustive, there must be a little let-up. A man has no more right to kill himself in an artistic industrial way, than in any of the ruder forms of suicide."

Fred shivered visibly.

"Don't speak of suicide," he answered in a shrinking tone. "I never thought of it but once; and that was when I fancied myself of no use to the world, or myself either. I am not overworked"—and he paused, to study Jack a moment. Why, he was positively handsome, with that superabundant strength and vitality, the clear red and white of his complexion, the bronze beard, the healthful, honest eyes. He seemed to be surcharged with a magnetic current of energy and courage.

"Yes, you are. I dare say you have carried your plans and sketches, and what not, down to Depford Beach, and pored over them until almost morning. You must take a vacation."

"I expect to when the families return;" and he gave a faint, wan smile. "I have had another streak of luck, Jack. A lady, a very wealthy widow, is building a house in one of the pretty towns up the Hudson, and it is to be finished with all the elegance art can bring. She saw one of my articles, and sent to me; and we have been corresponding. In September I am to go to New York, and make arrangements. There is to be painting and frescoing, and rooms finished in different styles,—indeed, I cannot tell the half myself, until I see her."

The pale face had kindled with a fine and proud enthusiasm. More than ever, Jack recognized the artistic refinement of his friend. What would law or medicine have been to him as a profession?

"Humph!" grunted Jack. "A great vacation that will be! But you must be careful, or you will not live out half your days. You've a look in your face like the little chap I first knew."

The smile that crossed it then, Jack did not understand. It seemed to Fred Lawrence that half his days would suffice, when Sylvie Barry was his friend's wife.

"Yet you see the 'little chap' lived"—with an attempt at gayety.

"Yes. And, Fred, I am more glad than I can put into words, to know that you have been so successful. It is just the career for you. It's odd that a great commonplace, blundering fellow like me should have two such artistic friends as you and Sylvie Barry."

The well-trained face did not blanch a muscle. He felt, with a flash of subtile inner consciousness, that Darcy was studying him. Thank God, he could stand before his friend free from a thought of treachery! All these weeks he had walked over burning coals, but the smell of the fire was not in his garments.

Jack thought it over long after Fred had gone. Why could not these two people see! Surely they were meant for one another. It puzzled, it almost fretted him. Sylvie was so peculiar, so changed in these few weeks! What did it all mean?

And on Saturday when he was to go down to the beach, Fred pleaded some urgent business to a neighboring city. He was not quite brave enough to see them together.

"I have been meaning to go for some time," he said with gravity, "but I did not like to think they would be alone over Sunday. Now that you will be there, I certainly can spare three or four days."

"See here," returned Jack,—"wait until Monday. Come, we'll have a nice day together down there on the sands. Sundays always seem so wonderful by the ocean, with the grand chant forever in your ears. The very waves are saying,—

"'Let every thing that hath breath praise the Lord.'"

But Fred Lawrence would not suffer himself to be persuaded.



CHAPTER XXIII.

JACK DARCY'S business-tour, while it had not been productive of any great financial results, had restored his healthy mental equilibrium. He found other firms were having it just as hard, and that the country was still overrun with men willing to work for any wages. Prices were certainly falling. All kinds of raw products were offered at the very lowest figure; and, labor being so cheap, manufactured goods must perforce be low. Men were not now counting on a speedy return to good times and high prices: they began to admit that the latter were the outcome of extravagant speculation. They bought what they wanted, and no more. They gave no extensive credits, and now really appeared to be anxious to reach a permanent basis.

"We shall have to sell most of our stock at cost," he said to Winston. "Lucky to get that, I suppose. And we shall come out about even—no profits for this six months. Still, we shall not run back, and that is something gained."

"We can count on the new goods, I'm pretty sure," returned Winston. "I've had some inquiries, and sent samples. Some of the fancy overcoatings are to be duplicated. That looks like business."

It did, indeed. Jack sat at his desk, ruminating upon it, and feeling as if at last they saw a light through the woods, when a step startled him, because it was not the kind of step usually heard through that hall, so he turned. It was Fred Lawrence, with a face of ashen pallor. Jack sprang up, dazed with the vision.

"I was to come and tell you—Maverick has gone to Depford Beach—Miss Barry is very ill, and they have telegraphed for him. He left word—that we were to come."

The voice had a strained, unnatural sound; and the eyes looked like those that have wept out a passionate sorrow, and are dry from despair.

"Ill—Miss Barry—not Sylvie?"

Could he speak of her in that calm tone? A passion of rage swelled in Fred's heart, and flushed his face. Only a moment, for the great throb of thankfulness that it was not Sylvie restored him.

"It is Miss Barry. You will go?"

The tone had that peculiar, wandering cadence, as if somehow the soul had dropped out of it.

"Certainly," and Jack sprang up, puzzled by something quite intangible in Fred's demeanor.

"There are just twenty minutes to catch this train. The eight-ten does not stop at Depford, you know."

"True: I will just speak to Winston"—

"I will meet you at the station," returned Fred hurriedly, turning away.

Much as he loved Jack, it seemed as if he could not walk to the station with him. A feeling of profound pity for Sylvie rose in his heart. This man, noble, generous, helpful, and affectionate, had not the finely responsive nature Sylvie Barry needed. There would be some distance or coldness, or, worse still, a fatal dissonance. One part of her nature must remain unmated: her soul would have a language in which he would not only be deaf, but wholly dumb. He could express no more than the possibilities of his nature. It was not the fine and essential difference between man and woman, but that more fatal gulf in which there would appear no certain glimpses of a royally endowed love in all its spontaneity, its glow of feeling, its variation of rich emotions. How would she, with her versatile, changeful soul, with its cycle of moods, ever live in the strong, steady prison of his heart!

If he had thought perfect honor to his friend the greatest trial of his life, what was this to be? He could not stay and see the slow, consuming inward fire that would burn her soul to ashes while it was still in the body. Thank God, he could go away, would go soon indeed, and never return! He would nerve himself for these few days of torture.

Jack waited on the platform until the last moment. The bell was ringing when Fred appeared, and the strong arm grasped him. They sat side by side, but were silent after one question as to the nature of Miss Barry's illness. Never had they been further divided in heart, for in the days when there had been no semblance of friendship the trivial repulsion was not to be compared to this wall of adamant. Fred would not have gone at all but for his mother's sake, although his heart was with Sylvie through every instant of her trial.

The house was very quiet when they reached it. Maverick came to meet them, and was as sorely puzzled as Fred by the certain composure of Darcy's face.

"It was not altogether unexpected by her or myself," Maverick explained in answer to their inquiries. "It is the result of a complication of disorders, some of long standing and incurable; and the present effect is partial paralysis. I hoped change of air and a quiet summer would delay what we knew must come before many years."

Darcy was astonished beyond measure. He would sooner have thought of his own mother dying. True, he remembered now that Miss Barry had been about less, and looked rather more delicate, and that through the summer she had kept extremely quiet. So amazed was he, that at first he quite forgot about Sylvie.

Fred Lawrence paced the floor in an agony. Would the man never ask the question that was torturing him, because he had no right to ask it first!

"How is my mother?" was his huskily tremulous inquiry, as he still went up and down like a caged lion.

"The shock was really terrible to her. Mrs. Darcy was invaluable," bowing to Jack. "But for her, Sylvie would have been in despair,"—looking furtively at the broad, slightly bowed figure.

"Poor Sylvie!" he murmured, "poor Sylvie!"

Fred turned to the door, compressing his lips over a throb of anguish.

"Of course," began Maverick, "they must all be removed as soon as possible. I think it would be well for Mrs. Lawrence and her daughter to go to-morrow. Neither is strong enough to bear any prolonged strain."

"Yes." Fred's heart swelled within him. They were all to be thrust aside as quickly as possible. This was Sylvie's sorrow—sacred to her and Jack.

He went to his mother's room. She was lying on a couch, and was still hysterical. From her he heard the story; and though, as ever, she was selfishly alive to her own sufferings, she evinced an almost motherly tenderness in her sympathy for Sylvie.

Fred spoke of the return. If it could be to-morrow; if he could settle them in their own home, and go quite away for a while! he thought.

"And leave Sylvie here alone?" said his mother reproachfully.

"I do not know what you can do for—for Miss Barry." How studiously cold and calm the tone was! "The doctor wishes to remove her as speedily as possible. I thought we would be out of the way, at least."

"It is terrible here; and if you considered it quite right—the summer is so nearly ended, and the nights are growing cool,—yes, we might go."

They settled it over their quiet supper. "Miss Barry was comfortable," Martha said, "and Miss Sylvie was lying down."

Mrs. Lawrence retired early, her nerves were so shattered by the terrible incident. Irene had disappeared; and, when Fred could stand his loneliness no longer, he went to walk upon the beach.

It was a moonless night, but with an intensely blue sky that gave the Milky Way the appearance of a luminous trail across the heavens. The murmur of the waves seemed sad and softened, and they touched the heart of the man who paced beside them. Once he had held so much in his hands! Surely he could have won the love of this woman then. Oh the blind, insensate, idiotic folly! He could have thrust his own soul down here on the sand, and trampled the very life out of it!

Hark! some one was coming with hasty strides. With the wild instinct of a wounded animal he turned to flee, and yet—whither should he go?

The hand was on his shoulder. The well-known voice uttered his name, and he turned at bay.

"Sylvie"—

"Don't repeat her name to me!" he flung out, beside himself with passionate jealousy and love. And then their eyes met, the one lurid with an emotion well-nigh beyond control, the other wondering, pitiful, amazed.

"Yes, let me go my way. I had not meant you to know it; but once—yes, I will confess it to you—I scorned you to her. God knows how I have repented; for I was beside myself then, blinded with my own folly and arrogance. And now you have won the woman I love, whom I shall always love, and it will be at once my bliss and my punishment. Take your triumph—tell her that her erring knight came back, and paid her the highest homage of his soul." Then, in a sudden, changed tone, freighted with a pain that pierced the other's heart, he cried, "Jack Darcy, I have made amends for that selfish blunder of my young manhood. For weeks I have endured such pangs, that Heaven grant you may never know! I have walked by her side with polar wastes between us; I have touched her hand with fingers that have had no more passion in them than the dead; I have watched her dewy lips ripe with kisses, and remembered they were for you; I have been true, true in word and deed and desire, but in thought I must love her to her life's end. I will go quite away"—

Up to this point his words had come with the heat and flow of a lava-torrent. Now his impassioned voice faltered, trembled, and seemed to lose itself.

Jack Darcy stood transfixed. Was it a dream? Had Fred been so blind all this while? He essayed speech; but the lines about his mouth were constricted, and his breath came in quivering gasps, as the vision of torture, suffered for honor's sake, rose up before him. Ah! if ever he had sinned,—and the temporary forgetfulness appeared such a little thing to Jack's generous soul,—he had redeemed himself nobly.

"Oh! you thought—she doesn't love me, Fred,—not in that way," and his voice had the full, throbbing inflection of a great joy. "We are friends, such as a man and a woman can truly be. Do you not understand that some people are so alike they run in parallels? there are no angles to create the intense friction of love, they are so evenly balanced that there is no desire for possessorship, they have just as wholesome an influence over each other remaining apart. There is hardly Sylvie's equal in the world. Half that I am, I owe her."

Had the night changed? Was the world flooded with a serene and tender light? Was the moaning ocean filled with the wondrous music of immortal love and longing, reaching out to glad fruition? Was that sudden rare peace, creating a reverential atmosphere about him, an earnest of days to come? He experienced a vivid lightness as if he were being borne on clouds, while fragments of delicious remembrances floated through his brain. The very refinement of his nature seemed to exalt him to that high heaven of love, whose solemn mysteries it is not lawful to utter.

"I cannot quite understand"—in a curious dreamy tone, still spelled by the mastery of impassioned emotion—"how you could miss loving Sylvie; how she, woman-like, could help adoring you for your strength and heroism. Jack, if I were a woman, your very power would compel me to worship you. I should love you, whether or no."

Jack gave a bright, cheerful laugh. "It is that kind of strength you like in Sylvie," he made answer. "She will always spur a man up to his best. Her well-trained ear is quick to detect a false note in honor, ambition, or love. She will never be any kind of dead weight, and yet she is so deliciously womanly. There was a time—don't be vexed, Fred,"—in a tender, pleading tone,—"when I thought you were not going to be worthy of her. But that is past."

"She rejected me then," Fred Lawrence said simply. "I offered her my father's wealth, the home he had made, my own folly and arrogance and self-conceit; and then, Jack, she boldly admitted that you were her hero! When I consider the sort of man my training and surroundings made me, I am filled with disgust. And yet I was no worse than hundreds of others at the present day. When I look at my mother, Irene, and myself, I feel that we were the product of the so-called culture of the day, which substitutes shallow creeds, conventional manners, and systems, for all that is pure, strong, and noble in manhood or womanhood. It is the sort of Greek temperament on which we pride our intellectual selves. We revel in a glowing, sensuous enjoyment, that intoxicates the brain, and leads us to disdain the real work of the world. We are trained to consider what society demands of us; we are polished and refined, and in too many instances left morally weak and ignorant. No wonder so many of us have not the strength to buffet across the stormy sea of hard experience, but are lost in the great whirlpool!"

Jack peered into the pale, handsome face by the faint light. Surely this man had to make a tremendous effort for salvation, when nearly every tide had been against him! He experienced a keener sympathy than he could express; he drew the arm within his, and they paced up and down again in silence, understanding dimly the sacred mysteries of each other's hearts, that needed not to be dragged to open day for inspection. In a pure friendship, faith is the highest element: with that there is supreme content; without it, distrust gnaws like a canker-worm.

They heard the little church-clock striking ten, and turned their steps toward the house. On the porch, Fred paused a moment, while an icy fear seemed to wring every pulse. He turned cold with apprehension.

"What if I have been deluding myself!" he cried with sudden intensity. "Even if you and she could not love, she may have no such regard for me as I desire. I could not endure her pity."

A warm, hopeful, generous smile illumined Jack Darcy's face. His hand thrilled with an electric force and sympathy.

"I have no fear," he answered; "but I will not dim the grace of your exquisite joy by any prediction."

They entered the quiet room. Dr. Maverick came out to meet them.

"Miss Sylvie is asleep," he said. "Miss Barry is comparatively comfortable. Hester will stay with her through the night. I have sent your mother to bed," nodding to Jack. "I do not know what we should have done without her. I shall camp down on the sofa, to be within call; and to-morrow we had better begin the process of removal."

"I had arranged to take my family," remarked Fred Lawrence, not exactly certain now that it was best.

"Your house must be opened and aired thoroughly, before any one goes into it. So must Miss Barry's. Miss Morgan will see to this, I think. I am compelled to return in the early morning train, for I have some critical cases. One of you had better remain here."

He looked at Jack as he said this, but was amazed at the frank answer,—

"Fred will remain."

He studied Jack with almost angry intentness. Had he been so mistaken in the man? Could he so calmly leave the woman he loved to bear her terrible trial alone, or did he think his mother's sympathy sufficient for her? And, although there were many admirable qualities in Fred Lawrence, the two had never fraternized with the deep cordiality that must underlie all friendships. They had not the magnetic attraction for each other that Darcy held for both.

"What do you think of Miss Barry?" the latter asked hesitatingly.

"It is the beginning of the end;" and Maverick sighed, as he thought of the impotence of human skill past a certain point. "Miss Barry consulted me a year ago, and was not in ignorance; but I hoped, nay, felt assured, with care and quiet her life might be prolonged. She may linger some months, and it may all be ended in a week. Good heavens! what a shock for Miss Sylvie!"

He took two or three turns across the floor.

"Go," he said abruptly, with an imperious wave of the hand. Then, a little scornfully, "You will both be better in bed. Lawrence looks as if I might have him for a patient to-morrow; but, Jack, are you made out of adamant?"

The thrust hurt him, but Maverick was not in a pitying mood. Indeed, just at this moment his temper was savage. He had witnessed the pain and the suffering of the woman he had begun to love, until it had been hard to refrain from taking her in his strong arms, and sheltering her from the keenest pangs.

The household remained the next morning as he had ordered. He was rather sulky all the way up in the train with Jack; but a talk with brisk, pungent Miss Morgan quite restored him.

"Open the houses, and build fires immediately," he commanded. "Burn up and blow out the confined air, that there shall be no pestilential foes to greet them on their own hearths."

He went down again that evening. If he had been annoyed before, he was puzzled now. There had been no word spoken between Fred and Sylvie; but the now, to her, sweet knowledge had come in a gesture, a glance, that could no more be described than the fine pulse of love can be dissected. She seemed to have waited breathless for just this strength and support. A hasty lover might have placed himself in the foreground. It was as if he said, "Here is my love, take it, use it, rely upon it; you cannot wear it out, you cannot wound or hurt it by any thing that may look like coldness; it is a blessed atmosphere to surround you until you stretch out your hand, and draw me into your very soul. I have been trained in patience and humility; only let me prove myself worthy in your eyes."

Three days after, they all came up to Yerbury. The evening before, Irene Lawrence had gone to Sylvie's room, and found her kneeling by the open window, her face turned heavenward in a wordless prayer for strength. She knelt beside her, she took the passive hands in hers, she even touched her own cold lips to the colder forehead of the other.

"Sylvie,"—the tone still had the awful dreariness of that utter inward living,—"Sylvie, I have been drawn to you in this your anguish by some power quite outside of myself. I think we have always liked each other in a curious way, but we were neither of us sentimental girls. I could not cry over you now, nor kiss you with effusive fondness; but I wish, oh, how passionately I wish, I could save you one pang! I wish I could die in her place! My life is of so little value"—

"I believe God is right," Sylvie answered with a great struggle. "She has used her life so well; she has garnered ripened sheaves of mercy and kindliness and good works. There is not only golden wheat, but the sweetness of rose and violet, the pungent purity and strength of heliotrope, the use, the beauty, every thing. She is ready."

"And I am not worthy to be taken even for a ransom!" said the proud, cold voice, not betraying any inward hurt.

"God does not mean that. You are to shape your life to something better. Irene, did you ever think how easy it might be to die for those we love, but oh, so hard to live for them, not ourselves!"

Irene rose, and stood there like a statue. Sylvie felt for the hand, pressed it to her lips, folded it about her chin in a softly caressing manner. How had Irene become dear to her?

"I am no heroine, Sylvie. I have been tossed up by the breakers of fortune, and am out of joint, broken, bruised, of no avail."

"You can comfort me. You can help to give me strength and sympathy. You can become a warm, living, active woman. There is always room for such in the world, and a work for them to do. God never put an idle or useless thing in the world, much more a human soul; and it must go sadly astray before it comes to despair. Irene, you will not shut your heart again, you will turn its warm side to me, you will take me in, with my great sorrow;" and she buried her face in the other's dress, with a shivering sob.

"I will do—what you wish. I am physically strong again. Let me help you—anywhere, anyhow. You were so good and patient through my dreary time."

Then she stole softly away, astonished at herself. Within was still the coldness of Alpine glaciers. But oh, if she might be warmed!

Miss Barry's journey was performed in an easy carriage. A paralysis of the lower limbs had supervened; but otherwise she had rallied a little, and her mind was clear and cheerful. There was only to be a peaceful waiting for the end, no feverish fluctuations of hope and fear. It was curious how they settled themselves to the fact. A nurse was installed for night watching and the more onerous part; and the invalid's room took on a pleasant aspect,—Christiana waiting on this side of the river.



CHAPTER XXIV.

FOR the first time in his life, and for some unfathomable cause, Jack Darcy found business cares irksome. Balance-time was at hand. He was a little tired of the dreary round. The men's disaffection re-acted upon him. With his keen and intelligent faculty of making the best of every thing, he was disappointed because he had failed to inspire others with it.

"It's not so bad, after all. We have nothing that can be passed to capital, but we have held our own. Only, there is no dividend for the men."

"I'll explain that to them," exclaimed Winston with a confident nod.

He did, and he had a rather stormy venture. All the old arguments and agreements had to be gone over. Men unaccustomed to business are quick in prosperity and stupid in adversity. They only had three-quarter wages: why should they be called upon to lose beside? It was little enough, and waiting five years,—and no one knew,—the whole thing might go to smash another year! A few wished, with an oath, that they were well out of it. They would never be bamboozled into any co-operative scheme again.

The grumbling, grew louder and louder. It was discussed at Keppler's over beer and bad whiskey, and quite inflammatory speeches were made. Then Winston called the mill-hands together.

"My men," said he, "you know we opened the mills in starvation-times. Every man who could raise fifty dollars was entitled to a half-share of the capital, and he who could not was to have a little capital made off of the savings of his labor. Last year you were all pleased and merry and satisfied, because we made something: this year it has been the reverse, though I declare to you, I, for one, have worked twice as hard. Now, we shall never do any thing if we are all going to row different ways. It must be the long pull, the strong pull, and the pull all together. You know that if any operative became dissatisfied, and left, his share was forfeited to the fund for the sick and disabled. Many of you are dissatisfied; but maybe you won't leave, thinking of last year's money. Now, I want to say, every such man who would like to sell his share, may do so. I have had some applications from new men, that I have been very sorry to refuse. I shall open a book, and any man who wants to go out may put down his name there, and, just as fast as the shares are resold, he can go; but he never comes back into Hope Mills again! Just think it over, and decide in the course of a few days."

"O Winston!" cried Jack, "I am afraid there will be a stampede!"

"You're nervous and blue, Darcy. Now, you see if this isn't the very best move. There were two men here the other day from Little Falls. They had been taking out half their wages in store-pay, and the concern burst up, owing them the other half. They knew of a dozen men, not beggarly poor either, who would be glad to come. I'll bet my old hat there don't six men go out. Come, now!"

"You can't tempt me with your old hat," returned Jack laughingly. "Make it a treat at Kit Connelly's."

"Agreed. We'll take in the household."

A dozen names were put down on the first day, two on the second, then there was a lull. Afterward four were erased; and, when it came to the actual pinch, five men went out, two of them very reluctantly.

"I felt so sorry for Davy," said Jack when they had made the transfers. "He didn't want to go, and I do not believe he would if it had not been for his brother-in-law."

"A good lesson for all parties. There will not be any grumbling for some time to come, I'll warrant. It is rather irregular business; but sometimes you can't wait for a regular surgeon, or the patient would be past help."

Events pointed the lesson pretty forcibly. By the middle of October there was a sudden rush of orders. Prices rallied a little. There were some tremendous bankruptcies, but it seemed more in speculation than legitimate industry. The new men brought a fresh infusion of spirit and energy. One of them, a small, middle-aged man, Gilman by name, who had once been manager and had a share in a mill that came to grief through a defaulting cashier who had successfully forged the name of the firm, was especially enthusiastic about the system. Jack admitted that the culmination of the discontent was the very best thing that had happened for the mill.

Davy went almost wild over his mistake, cursed his brother-in-law roundly, and forbade his wife to visit her brother's household. Nothing to do, not even three-quarter wages to live upon, with cheap coal and cheap flour. He even waylaid Darcy, and begged to be taken back without any share.

"I'm sorry, Davy, but it cannot be done. We resolved, whatever happened, we would not go back on our word. You had time enough to think it over."

"Just you wait," said Price, when he heard this. "They've three years more to wade through, and they'll never hold together all that time. It has a very queer look, too, that, just as soon as they shoved us out, they began to make money again. Bob Winston's the sort of fellow to look out for himself, and he had this thing all cut and dried."

"Look here," remarked a listener, "you signed your own selves out. Nobody made you. I haven't any faith in the scheme, but I like truth for all that."

The men worked with a will. The monthly club meetings took on a new interest; and they decided, if the prosperity continued, to open a co-operative store another year. They were growing more thoughtful and intelligent, and Gilman's influence upon them was excellent, while his experiences widened their views. A little fresh blood certainly worked no harm.

Jack was very cheery again. It seemed to him they had pulled through the worst. The larger outlook was better: goods were going abroad, and money or bonds were coming back. Here and there some new enterprise started, but still there were hundreds of men out of employment. Yerbury showed various signs of a new thriftiness. The farms about were better managed. Some idle men had ventured to hire a little ground the past summer, and raise sufficient to have something over for their trouble. The Webbers succeeded beautifully. Of course there were slurs about a Dutchman living on a cabbage a week, but every one knew the Webbers were not that kind. What Germans were able to do nicely and wisely, Americans might copy to their profit. When some of the natives were out of work, they patched up their fences, painted a bit, laid a bad place in the sidewalk, instead of hanging round a saloon.

As for those who were living through the sad sweet lesson of loving and losing, time went on with them also. If they could have stayed his hand! Sylvie recovered from the first shock: she could never suffer quite so intensely again, for there was one to share her least thought, her most trivial to her greatest pain. The explanation had come about very gently, making only a small ripple. Mrs. Lawrence was delighted: she always had liked Sylvie, and she was certain that Fred was a better match than Jack Darcy, though she admitted he was remarkable for a young man with no better opportunities.

Miss Barry was truly satisfied. She would cling to her little dream of "orders" and "kinds" to the last, but she always did it in an unobtrusive way. She had felt all her life long, rather all their lives, that they were made for one another. Less practically clear-eyed than her young niece,—brought up in the active reasoning and doing of to-day, rather than the doctrine of passive suffering that had been in the old creed for women,—she would have assented when Sylvie refused. To be sure, if Jack Darcy had won her he would have had a delicate and sincere welcome; but I think her eye would never have lighted with the true mother-love at his coming, as it did at Fred's. The worth of his years of refinement and polish came out now. He never seemed at loss or awkward in the sickroom. If he was reading, he warily noted the first droop of the eyes; he could tell by the lines in her face when talking wearied her, or when she preferred being alone. Every thing between them was harmonious.

She amazed even Dr. Maverick by her improvement, though she held her life even yet on the same frail tenure. She really hoped to live until spring, when she should plan for Sylvie's marriage. Fred had made a very profitable engagement with the widow he had spoken of, and was to furnish designs for the interior of her house and furniture. There was to be one purely Grecian room, one on the old Roman model, a sunset room where every thing was to be in accord, and a "sea" room fit for Naiads or Undines. Sylvie was intensely interested. This Mrs. Spottiswoode was young and handsome, the widow of a man nearly three times her age, and childless.

Fred Lawrence was proud to have something of his very own to offer Sylvie, and she took it as the highest of all compliments. She did like the profession, if that it could be called; for it brought them nearer together, it was something they could both share. She copied designs and art essays, she drew patterns, she painted now and then, days when Miss Barry was at her best. She would make of herself something that should enhance Fred's pride in her,—as if he was not proud enough already!

The one least contented with all this was Philip Maverick.

"I never was so thunderstruck in all my life! That's just the word to express it, for it left me dazed as the blackness does after the lightning. I would have sworn, Jack, that she loved you, and you loved her. Good heavens! if I had not believed that, if I had not been too honorable to seek to play a friend a scurvy trick, it would have gone hard with me if I had not won her for myself."

"Honestly, you would not have succeeded, Maverick. Neither would she have married me. I think she belonged to Fred from the beginning. He used to hate girls, judging from his sisters, no doubt, but he always liked Sylvie. I was afraid of girls,—their sharp eyes and sharper tongues,—but I liked her too; yet in my own mind he always had the first claim. And they will be suited in the farthest fibre of each soul."

"He is not half worthy of her!" growled Maverick.

"Who is?" There was a peculiar tender intonation in the voice. "Sylvie Barry's womanhood is unique, like some rare gem. She has the sparkle but not the hardness of a diamond; the warmth and vividness of the ruby, but not its heats; the serenity of the sapphire, and yet to me that is always cold. Rather I think she is a changeful opal with all hues and tints and surprises."

"And yet you have never loved her!" in intense surprise.

"I worship her," said Jack reverentially. "I should as soon think of wooing an angel."

"And yet this man, who is not as strong, or noble, or high in purpose, takes her with your consent. You can see her sit down at his feet, wind her own rich, pure, sustaining life-melody about him, to make his path seem like going through an enchanted land. She has genius, but it will ever linger in the shadow of his; it will help, and purify, and shape his; she will give her whole soul to the work. Is he worth the best there is in such a woman as Sylvie Barry?"

"No; and we never go by our deserts when a woman loves us," said Jack, with frank honesty.

"I am quite sure you will marry a woman I shall hate," returned Maverick testily.

Jack laughed. "Marrying has not been much in my thoughts;" and yet his fair face flushed. "I have to fight Hope Mills out to the end first."

But just now there did not seem much of a prospect for fighting, though he firmly believed he should always be on guard after this.

There was one other person in this little circle, who was of much interest to the others, even if it was for the most part unspoken. Maverick had tried to rouse Irene Lawrence from her lethargy by appeals of different kinds. She certainly was not an intellectual woman, though she had a strong and well-cultivated mind, and was accomplished in many ways,—society accomplishments, with a view to the admiration they might win. He could seem to strike no electric spark, though he succeeded in restoring her to health. Every week of her stay at Depford Beach, she had improved; but there was the old, dreary, listless life. She used to think herself, if some shock like that of an earthquake could lift her completely out of it! but none came.

For it could not be said that Miss Barry's illness was any shock to her. People were sick, and died, and their perplexity was at an end. A generous, kindly life like this of Miss Barry's would have its reward—if any life ever was rewarded. She did not doubt so much: she had never really believed.

As she said to Sylvie, something stronger than herself had sent her that night,—one of those powerful, impelling influences that few can resist. And Sylvie was wise enough not to lose her hold. She drew her in very gently, she preached no sermon, she asked favors frankly.

"I want you to take my pony-carriage," she said one day, after their return to Yerbury. "I ought to go out every day, and if you come with it I shall; but if I am left to my own fancies, there will be so much to occupy me. Then, too, companionship is always very tempting."

"I should be glad to do any thing for you," was the quiet, unemotional reply.

So the carriage was brought every morning to the door. It seemed so odd, the day she first drove around Yerbury! Unconsciously the old stateliness returned. Her heart swelled with contradictory phases of thought and feeling. She was too really proud to suffer from the stings of petty vanity. She knew there were people who stared at Miss Lawrence; and she allowed them to stare with the serenity of a queen, going her way unmoved.

She and Sylvie went through lanes and by-ways this gorgeous October day. Her heart was strangely touched by the glory, by the odorous air, the softened sounds, and brooding tenderness. Sylvie had a few errands to some old parishioners of her aunt's; and, while she went in cottages, Irene sat with the reins idly in her hands. There was much in the world she had never seen, though she had climbed Alps, and wandered in sunny vales. The ripeness and perfection of this midday was exhilarating. They talked in little snatches, and then were silent.

Coming back they drove through the town: it was nearer. Crossing over to Larch Avenue, a tall figure confronted them. Sylvie bowed, and looked straight on, remembering such a rencounter years agone. Irene Lawrence turned her head with its proudest poise, but her face flushed scarlet under her veil. She would have made the amende honorable then, if it had taken all the strength of her soul.

She and Jack Darcy had met occasionally through the summer. Mrs. Lawrence rather liked to talk mill affairs with him, and his name was quite a familiar one in their household. Now that it had come, she was rather glad to offer this wordless apology for a crime against good-breeding, that only a rude young girl could be guilty of, to one she considered her inferior.

She had wondered more than once, why that long-ago evening at Sylvie's should haunt her,—the talk of costumes, the bright chat, the dainty ripples of laughter, and that face with its cool, steady power. If it had been that of any other man, she would have pitted herself against it, and conquered, she fancied. Now conquests were things of the past. She was not one of your soft, maudlin women, who sigh for a little love. She looked straight into the coming years, and saw herself always alone, with no feeling of pity or regret.

As for Jack Darcy, when they had passed, he turned and looked after them,—after her, in her state and dignity. He held one secret of her life that she would never know. He had questioned Maverick, who learned that she had no remembrance of going out that night. He had bound Fred over to a most willing secrecy.

Ah, Jack! any remembrance that you can carry so guardedly in your soul is a dangerous thing,—a spark that may kindle a great fire "that many waters cannot quench!"

Sylvie did not relinquish her own outside interests. The school that had had so small a beginning was now merged into a regular enterprise, and been re-christened an Industrial School. It had a permanent teacher, and occupied the whole house, the rent being paid by some benevolent gentlemen. A committee of ladies assisted in the different classes. The store was kept open, one side being reserved for articles of clothing or fancy goods made by the pupils, the other as a bakery on a limited scale, and a lunch-counter. It certainly was doing a good work. Some young girls, after being trained, had been provided with service places, and had given excellent satisfaction. Irene went through it one day with Sylvie, and was oddly interested.

"I wish I had a genius of some kind," she said abruptly to Sylvie afterward. "If I could write a book, or paint a picture, or design exquisite adornments, or if I could hold the world spell-bound by my voice"—

"You do sing," returned Sylvie. "Auntie was speaking of it yesterday. She said, 'How I should like to hear Miss Lawrence sing some of her pathetic old ballads!'"

"You know all the sweet and tender ones."

"I sing mine over daily," and Sylvie laughed with a dainty inflection.

Irene went home, and opened her piano. It might have made jarring discord, but for Fred's thoughtfulness. She found it was in perfect tune.

Was it the music that brought a curious intensity to her after all these long, dreary months? Her fingers seemed a little stiff at first, and some things had gone out of her mind. Then she dropped her face into her hands, and thought.

"It is my only gift," she said slowly. "When they are married I will not be a burthen on them: I can make my way. I shall never try to think of marriage again;" and she shuddered.

"I declare, you are quite like yourself," said her mother that evening.

The weeks went on. Miss Barry was making plans for her niece. She could not live here alone, even for a few months. And she longed to see her married. Though the others had almost forgotten how surely her days were numbered, she had not.

Fred assented delicately to her proposal.

"It is not as if there were only your income," she said with a touch of pride. "Sylvie will have enough to keep the old house as it is kept now, and your mother and sister have some claims on you. Still, for her sake"—

Sylvie would fain have put it off, but she was gently overruled. The wedding-garments were ordered, the day appointed. A quiet marriage in the pretty parlor, with only a few friends. They brought Miss Barry down stairs, and she listened while her darling reverently repeated her vows. They kissed the new bride while the tears were shining in her eyes, and sent her on a brief wedding-journey with heartfelt blessings. Maverick was to telegraph to them every day.

Fred Lawrence could hardly believe his happiness. They were like two children out on a pleasure-excursion, not needing to realize the gravity of life in these golden days. What cared they for pale winter suns and shivering blasts!

Long ago he had planned a brilliant tour to Europe for her. He had gone over it all, and would only have been bored; but it was the thing to do, and he might enjoy her fresh delight in it. But to both of them—to him especially—had come the higher revelations of life. It is the aggregation of individual characteristics that makes the sum-total of national character; and though at first retrenchment and economy seemed hideous words to the pleasure-loving, easy-going, self-indulgent souls nursed in the lap of prosperity, there was coming a realization to those who had fought their way valiantly across the yawning gulf, that the hot race for show, the desire to exceed one another, was not a lofty aim for an immortal soul, hardly for a cultured nature.

They both understood that beauty and grandeur were not far-off, hardly attained ideals, and that the great pleasures were set in the world rather as incentives and rewards, than highly seasoned daily food which must inevitably produce satiety. Some time, when they had earned this glorious vacation, they would take it hungering with the healthy appetite of a well-trained soul. At present the duty was to deny one's self firmly and contentedly, to round off the sharp corners, to shape the daily living to high, pure purposes; so that the greater excellences of Art should not despise the minor forms, the steps whereby true perfection was attained, the tangled threads that often required more real genius to comprehend than the one great moment of inspiration.

They came home again fresh and bright, with the peculiar fragrance of a new life about them, just as you shall smell spring in the woods on some mild, sunny February day. Fred fluctuated between office and city, quite a prophet of household art, welcomed warmly back to the old circles which had so quietly dropped him for a while. Is there not a great deal of this unconscious proving of the fine metal of souls in the world? We cry out as we are thrust aside, or given some hard task to do; we wonder people do not hold out kindly hands, smile with sympathetic eyes; and yet their very help might weaken us. When we have beaten our way across with the roar of the distant waves still in our ears, the shadows of the black, fierce, jagged cliff hardly faded, the taste of the brackish spray still lingering on our lips, an exultant thrill speeds through every nerve as we clasp a hand that has had to buffet through the same fateful current.

Early in April Miss Barry had another seizure, a fatal stroke this time. For a few days she lay in sweet content; and then dropped peacefully out of existence.

It seems always a mystery, why such earnest, useful souls, doing that highest of all work,—a pure, unselfish charity,—should be taken away, and the slothful, dependent, ease-loving, selfish ones left. The Darcys felt that Mrs. Lawrence could have been spared much more easily, and served a higher economy in point of usefulness. But God, who sees every end from the beginning, and is all-wise, judges differently. Miss Barry had done her work, no light life-task either. Only God knew what it had been, days of toil and nights of watching and prayer, such pain as only a strong soul could have kept to itself, and smiled over. Yet she had her exceeding sweet reward in this world,—years of peace and comfort, the child-love she had missed in one way, supplied in another, the hope of her days crowned more wisely by the waiting.

They did not think it worth while to keep up the two households; indeed, Mrs. Lawrence would not have been separated from her son: so she and Irene brought their worldly possessions over to Larch Avenue. The old house was large enough. Sylvie was a courteous and charming mistress; though Fred realized, with the sensitiveness of true tender love, the burthen he had brought to her.

"It is not without its wise compensation," she said, tears in her sunny brown eyes. "You see, I shall miss auntie so much less! She would not desire me to grieve despairingly for her, and here is the new claim to take her place. Beside," with a sad yet arch smile, "we shall have to strive against the temptation to selfishness that besets newly married people, when their pursuits are identical, as ours are. It will give a greater breadth, a purer tone, to our lives."



CHAPTER XXV.

HOPE MILLS passed through a very prosperous six months. With some new processes, invented by the combined energy and ingenuity of the men, they made a new line of goods which was a perfect success. Interest and discount vanished; and there was a snug balance in the bank, of which every man was duly proud. They were beginning, too, to take a great interest in the finances of the country, and to see that a stable currency and wise economy and honesty were the best friends to commercial and industrial prosperity. One little incident made them exceedingly jubilant.