He waited as if expecting a reply. None came; he glanced sideways to his wife, and continued:

"Yes, you two would make a very pretty couple, very suitable. Your two heads are forever among the stars. I wonder there is a book of poetry left in the house. It is a marvel you both did not sail away in some carved shell of hollow pearl, almost translucent with the light divine des tous deux within. For ottomans you could have piles of Scott, Moore, Byron, Shelley, and Keats; and for food and drink, you could have stringed instruments, and easel, palette, and brush. How contemptible are womanish tastes in a man!" Again he waited vainly for a reply. The pallid fingers of Althea were pulling in pieces a half-faded flower, upon which her lustrous eyes were unvaryingly fastened.

"Good heavens, Althea, how provoking you are!" cried Thornton, rising from his seat and confronting furiously his wife, "cannot you speak to a man; what have you to say, what are you thinking of?"

"Thinking of?" she said absently, scattering the petals from her fair palm to the floor, then raising her eyes full to his: "Thinking of the fair little blossom that withered in its bloom. I have done wrong to weep for him such bitter tears; for he was your child, and had he lived he might have cursed some woman's life as you have cursed mine."

This was uttered apparently without anger, and in modulated tones. But no words of Althea had ever struck Thornton Rush like these. He was speechless; and when she arose and passed him by to an adjoining room, he stirred not hand nor foot. If she had expected then would fall the arranged blow, she would have been disappointed. But she had not expected it, nor even thought about it. The faded flower had, indeed, brought up her own withered blossom, as she had said. Had her husband's discourse been of Johnny, instead of the senseless tirade against her cousin, had he exhibited kindness, and generous sympathy for herself, she might still have been won back to duty. But now, Thornton's words and sneers, however deserved she might have felt them to be, caused her to contrast the wretchedness of a continued life with him with what it might be. Thus far she had been agitated by indecision and scruples, they should henceforth trouble her no more. She was fully resolved, even more than when she had promised Hubert.

In her own room, Althea withdrew the blinds and looked out at the sky. It was covered with clouds, save one space of blue.

"Thus is my sky covered with gloom," she murmured, "thus amidst the darkness gleams my one ray of precious light. O blessed ultramarine, from on high I take thee as a token. God is good; God does not will that I should suffer; He does not will that I should love a demon. I am still so young; a long life may be in store for me; a cruel, wretched life with Thornton Rush, who assumed the guise of an angel of light to win me to destruction. A peaceful, happy life with Hubert, for whom heaven itself must have intended me. The sin is Thornton's, not mine, nor Hubert's. On the contrary, to continue to live with Thornton would be a sin. I can no longer deceive myself or him, I love him not; I believe I could hate him!" and a gleam unusual shot from the large, dreamful eyes.

Althea forgot, while she thus soliloquised, that she could not thus have felt, or could not have spoken such words, had not Hubert Lisle won her love. While her heart had not been given to another, she could have endured her husband patiently, fulfilling her wifely duties, and possessing a conscience clear before God. She would leave her husband then, not because of the harshness and cruelty allegible, but because she had criminally strayed from her allegiance and given her love where she had no right to give.

So blinded, however, was Althea, she did not perceive this. While she was wronged, indeed, by Thornton, she was still farther wronged by Hubert. No unkind treatment of the one could excuse her for listening, without rebuke, to words of unlawful love from the other. They were an insult to her good sense and virtue; and so at first had Althea esteemed them to be. But by and by—ah, it is an old story, and the saddest, sorriest of all stories in this life of ours; reading it, or hearing it, one sighs that our guardian angel's wings are invisible, and that once from out their protecting shadow, we rush headlong unto darkness and death.

We will not assert that Thornton felt not the death of his only son; he was not so inhuman as to be unaffected. He would have given all his earthly possessions to hear again that winsome voice of his child resounding through the house. He had not realized

"How much of hope, how much of joy, May be buried up with an only boy!"

until the house was darkened by the death of Johnny. The grief which he experienced, however, affected him strangely. As we have seen, instead of softening his selfish nature, it rendered him more morose and censorious. It alienated, instead of binding him closer to his bereaved wife.

One reason was in this; that Althea had for him now no winning ways. She made no effort at conciliation, and sought not to give or to receive mutual sympathy. Indeed, from the period of the conversation above recorded between husband and wife, he was like a volcano, and she like an iceberg. As much as he was capable of loving, he loved Althea. Desirable as had been her fortune in his eyes, he would never have practised such a series of stratagems and self-denials, had she not personally been of great value in his eyes. When won, and she was surely his, he discontinued his deception, and appeared his natural self. She became to him, as we have before said, like the pet dog to his young master, though secretly beloved, yet ill-treated, scolded and abused. The thought of her ever being lost to him had not occurred to his mind, until he learned of the visit of Hubert Lisle. With him, Thornton well knew he would suffer in comparison. That was the reason Thornton's mother had taken such infinite and dishonorable pains in preventing his coming to his dying father. Althea would surely prefer her cousin.

But Thornton was at a loss what to make of Althea's present behavior. He had at first felt a deadly jealousy of Hubert. That emotion had almost over-shadowed his grief. But he could not learn that any communication was kept up between the parties. No letters came to and fro. The mention of Hubert's name caused no blush upon Althea's cheek. She spoke of him kindly and naturally, as of a brother that was dear to her. In the distant years, he had been convinced of Hubert's honorable nature. He might not have changed. At all events he was gone now, and might never return. It was more agreeable to attribute Althea's rigid coldness to a shock of grief, rather than to a shock of hatred to himself or of affection for another. Nevertheless, he gave her no peace nor quiet. He became angered if she did not converse, and equally out of temper with whatever she might say.

Does such a man deserve a wife? Let him have a woman, then, who will bring him to his senses—or what passes for senses—in a manner veritably Xantippean; and not one of those tender-hearted, peace-loving creatures who would bless some good man's heart and home.

There are few men upon whom kindness and gentleness will not make more or less impression; but our unprepossessing hero is of that unfavored few.



CHAPTER XXV.

THE AWAKENING.

After a few weeks, Thornton has something outside his house to engage him. Election is approaching. Although neither Thornton nor his rival are in the field as candidates, each has his favorite nominee to support. The fire that Thornton has kept raging within Vine Cottage is now transferred to hall, stump and settler's cabin. Sharp is not in the background. His antagonist hears of him, or crosses his trail here, there and elsewhere. He is put to his wits' end in checkmating and circumventing him. He, at length, learns something quite astonishing. He has returned from an extended trip to the country, supposing Sharp to be not far in front or rear. To his chagrin he has remained all the while in town, and been an attendant at the Catholic Mission, being held for ten days in Windsor.

"That is a game at which two can play, I am thinking," said Thornton, mentally, grinding his teeth at the thought of the votes Sharp's presence might secure among such a crowd.

"Althea," he said, excitedly, going over to his house, "that rascally fellow is robbing me of all the Irish votes. Get your bonnet and come with me down to St. Mary's. I can drop on my knees and become as good an idolater as that scoundrel of a Sharp. Who would ever have suspected him of pursuing that dodge? But he is up to all games. Come, how long does it take you to put on your bonnet and shawl? They say an old Jesuit is going to preach; I think when his mission is over, I will take private lessons of him in the art of intrigue. That is what Sharp is at, I'll be bound. Never mind your gloves; you can be drawing those on while we are walking along. You look like a charming little widow in black."

The wife looked up at the husband in blank surprise at so unusual an epithet as "charming" coming from his lips, and applied to her. But the truth is, Thornton had done an unusual thing—taken one glass too much, and he spoke unguardedly. He even drew Althea's little hand within his own and through his left arm on the way to St. Mary's, instead of striding on a few paces in advance, as was usual. Just before arriving, he addressed Althea:

"Now that you have come so far, do the thing up brown. Make your prettiest courtesy to all the graven images, and particularly to that idol toward the left corner. It will be no trouble for you to kneel; that is always in place for a woman. Keep your eyes open and bow low to every old lady who has a husband, or a son old enough to vote. Don't hold your kerchief to your nose, even should you be knocked over with the incense, and when the bell rings bow down double to the floor; ha! it is a wife can make or break her husband's fortune for time; do you hear, wife?"

"Yes, I hear," softly replied Althea, more than slightly disgusted.

They entered the church which was already crowded. But Thornton Rush elbowed his way up the aisle till he stood not far from the altar. A gentleman politely gave his seat to Althea, but Thornton continued to stand, a perfect spectacle unto all beholders. He folded his arms and glanced out savagely. The first eye he met was Sharp's. Yes, there sat his enemy, snugly ensconced in Mr. McHugh's pew—that same Mr. McHugh who had told him three days before, that he did not consider Sharp the honestest man in the world! He had counted on McHugh—and now where was he?

Protestants who were present were quite as much surprised at seeing Mr. Rush as were the Catholics. He had never been seen even in a meeting-house, unless at a lecture, political caucus, or some kindred rather than religious entertainment. Sharp was a rigid Presbyterian; but his rival had never thought it worth his while to pretend to imitate him in that particular. On the contrary, by keeping aloof, he found favor with the more numerous Methodists, the few Universalists, Baptists, Spiritualists, etc., which more or less abounded in the rapidly growing little town. To all these he could be all things. But as to the Catholic fold, ah, if that sharp wolf, or wolf Sharp, got in there would be mischief astir. He must leap after, for, to a Catholic, his religion was more than meat or drink, and he would become naturally a friend to him who was friendly to his religion.

Althea had but rarely been inside a Catholic church. When a child she had been more than once to St. Patrick's, with her uncle and cousins, during a temporary absence of her aunt. She had been partial to the Episcopal service; but as there was no society of this sect at Windsor, she had very often followed her husband's example of remaining at home on Sundays; though sometimes she attended at the different denominational houses, as inclination urged, or some stranger, man or woman, preached.

Upon this occasion Althea was peculiarly impressed; not so much by the blaze of light, the brightness and perfume of flowers, nor by the commanding attitude of the aged missioner, who stood grasping the mission cross and about to speak. It was the sudden memory of her uncle, John Temple, who so loved and practiced this same religion that touched her soul. He came before her, in all his simple, unpretending honesty and truth. Never so much, as at this moment, had she appreciated his worth. She did, indeed, bow her head with reverence before the altar, not in obedience to her husband's commands, but in tribute to her uncle's memory. She had named her only child his unforgotten name, and now the child had joined him in the spirit-world. The two came before her like phantoms evoked. Were they, indeed, hovering around her in this sacred place? Such was Althea's impression, and how guilty felt she before them! Still more lowly bowed her unworthy head, and pressing her clasped hands to her heart, she cried, "O God, be merciful to me a sinner!"

There was a hush in the swaying crowd, for the priest was about to speak. He had stood during several minutes, until even the latest seemed to have arrived; then, in the general silence of expectation, his voice sounded clear and full and his words were: "O God, be merciful to me a sinner!"

Such an unexpected echo of her own unbreathed words startled Althea like an electric shock. For a moment she raised her head, and her drooping eyes fell upon the utterer of that broken-hearted prayer. Then upon the clasped hands fell again the white forehead, nor was it lifted more until after an hour or two of stirring eloquence the missioner closed with a repetition of his opening words, "O God, be merciful to me a sinner!"

It had been to Althea the day, the hour of her visitation from on High.



CHAPTER XXVI.

LIGHT AFTER DARKNESS.

Mr. Rush was privately informed that his rival was to canvass "Stony Creek" precinct on the following day. Accordingly he was up before daylight, drank half a dozen raw eggs, for which he had a particular passion, mounted his horse, and left Windsor behind, before Mr. Sharp had opened his eyes. Before leaving, however, the politician shook his wife by the arm; there was no need, although, for she had not slept, and thus addressed her:

"Althea, I am going to 'Stony Creek' that I may head that fellow. Don't fail to attend the Mission to-day; and do, for goodness' sake, hold your head up, and not fall fast asleep as you did last night. You acted like a mummy. Don't know when I shall be back; you need not look for me. Have you heard what I said? Don't forget now about turning in with the idolaters, look at the old Jesuit, and pretend to hear what he says, if you don't."

Althea breathed a sigh of relief as she found herself thus unexpectedly left alone for the day. She would surely avail herself of the permission, command rather, to go to St. Mary's. She had not slept, nor felt need of sleep; she had never been so wide awake; indeed, it was as if she were just awakened from a life-long slumber.

While still meditating upon her pillow, the six o'clock bell rang; this reminded her that Mass had been appointed for that hour. She would go. She dressed hurriedly, and proceeding to the kitchen, told Mary, who was a Catholic, that she might postpone breakfast, and come with her to Mass. Mary looked up with a pleased surprise and cheerful "Yes ma'am," and was soon in readiness.

Althea understood nothing whatever of the ceremony of the Mass; nor, on this morning, did she seek to understand it. It was not for this purpose she had come to St. Mary's. It was to feel again a sense of that strange nearness to her uncle and her child; to feel again near to Heaven and to God. And, though her conscience had been painfully aroused, though she felt keenly a thousand stings and reproaches, which would probably but be renewed and heightened by this repeated visit, she would not have remained away, not though her dearest wishes could have been realized in an hour.

Althea remained absorbed in deep thought and reflection through the first, second, and third Mass; the quiet intervals were all the same to her. She was heedless of those who came in or who went out, as well as of those who knelt around the confessionals, except now and then to wonder, as she chanced to meet some tearful eye, if the world held another heart so lonely, desolate, hopeless as her own.

Hopeless? She recalled the day when she had beheld the space of blue in the sky—the hole in the day, Pug-on-a-kesheik, thus termed by her Chippewa friends—which she had taken as a token that her love for Hubert was no sin. She recalled the momentary joy that had animated her as she, in imagination, clasped that love to her heart, as a gain for her loss, as a balm for her bitter sorrow. She remembered how she had even dropped upon her knees in thankfulness to heaven for having given her such a comfort in the midst of her grief. Should she have scruples when ministers of God had lifted up holy hands and sanctified such unions? Thus had her first sense of horror been blunted, and blushless become her keen, womanly shame.

Why then, with a sense of the presence of the glorified spirits of her uncle and child, assumed that caressed infatuation, that which she had deemed a higher, nobler love, proportions of gigantic horror? Why had she spat out as gall and wormwood the sweet morsel she had rolled under her tongue? Why, giving up her only joy, trampling down with all her strength and might the one hope of her existence, had she returned to this strange house, wherein she could but beat her breast and cry out "unworthy, unworthy"? Was she the first woman who had mistaken dross for gold; and, finding her error, might not she, like others, fling it aside for the shining ore that lay in her path? Should her hand still grasp the piercing thorn, when the rose bloomed temptingly before her?

Thus listened Althea to human sophistry, until God spoke to her through the lips of the Jesuit priest. And he said, slowly and solemnly, grasping in his right hand the emblem of our religion:

"And unto the married I command, yet not I, but the Lord, let not the wife depart from her husband. But if she separate, let her remain unmarried, or be reconciled to her husband; and let not the husband put away his wife."

Had these words come down from the heavens in tones of thunder they could not have produced upon Althea a more stunning effect. Was she here to recognize the hand of God? Had He inspired this priest to speak upon a subject that was thrilling her with pain, doubt, and fear?

A masterly discourse followed upon the indissolubility of the marriage tie. "Shall it be insisted upon then, do you say," toward the close of his impassioned words, "that a woman shall suffer insult, effects of drunkenness, abuse of all kinds? This is hard, indeed, but there is something worse than that; for a suffering wife to break the law of God, and marry another husband! For, whether is it not better to suffer than to sin? Wherefore came our blessed Lord upon earth, but to save us from the effects of our transgressions? He laid down his life that we might live. He suffered that we might rejoice. But He suffered not the death of the Cross that we might enjoy to the utmost the pleasures of this life. He endured not the bloody sweat, the scourgings, scoffs, revilings, and all the attendancies of betrayal, trial, and crucifixion, that, with impunity, we might set at defiance His divine law, and live in open rebellion to the Christian rule He came to establish. God Almighty help us, if we expect to get to heaven in any other way than by the Cross of Christ! Think of it! The Cross of Christ! Can you associate with those words, so dear, so sublime, to every Catholic heart, aught of this world's ease, or luxury, or happiness? How many thousands saintly souls have flung aside all that the world could offer sweet and beautiful to embrace this hard, this cruel Cross! And meet they no reward? Hard Cross and cruel to eyes not comprehending, because separate from transitory joys, but yielding balm and incense sweeter and more as most closely pressed to the heart. And woman, first at the sepulchre, first in every good word and work, is it not her glory to suffer for the Cross of Christ? How much has she of His spirit, who cannot bear without rising anger one unkind word or provoking act? Who gives taunt for taunt, and blow for blow? Who disregards His express commands, availing herself of the civil law of divorce, which she knows to be at open variance with 'Let not the wife separate from her husband: but if she separate, let her remain unmarried, or else let her be reconciled unto her husband!'

"What is termed in Jurisprudence the common law, falls sometimes heavily in individual cases; but for that reason would we do away with it altogether? The law of the indissoluble tie of marriage does, we admit, fall heavily upon some, yea, many lives; should we, therefore, infer God's dictation to be erring, and practice the human law opposing His own? Supposing in some instances, a life to be made happier, even better; would that compensate for the abolishment of a law upon which rests the general happiness of domestic society—nay, upon which rests society itself? Better that few should suffer than that anarchy prevail. Better that all should understand the marriage bond to be indissoluble but by death, that it may be assumed carefully and solemnly as a life-affair of the utmost moment, and not entered into with thoughtless levity as a bargain that may be broken to-morrow. In a life-journey so intimate, patience, forbearance, meekness, long-suffering are requisite. These are Christian virtues which will render any yoke easy and every burden light. No Christian nation should legalize divorce. No true Christian will avail himself of the law of divorce. In the eye of every Christian man or woman, whosoever is married to him or her that 'has been put away' is one of whom it is said, 'they shall never enter the Kingdom of Heaven.' Be not deceived. Even though those called and calling themselves ministers of God blaspheme Heaven by professing to bless such unhallowed unions, they are of the spirit of darkness, and lead unto moral death.

"Were there but this life, the case would be different. You could live and be merry, because to-morrow you die. It is upon this principle the divorce law has obtained. The world and Christianity are at variance. The one offers you comfort and ease, the other a continual conflict with the flesh and the devil. In the end, the world's votary shall vainly beg for a drop of water to cool the parched tongue; while the Christian warrior, having lain aside buckler and shield, reposes under the green palms of victory and peace in the Kingdom of Infinite Love."

The noble follower of St. Loyola might reasonably find fault with the above, as a citation of his words. But they so glowed and sparkled that they could be caught only in fragments and snatches; imperfect as they are, we trust they convey an idea of what was impressed upon the mind of Althea when the Jesuit closed—"in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost."

Althea was stricken—not blind as was the persecutor of the Christians—but with a steady lightning-flash of light that was intensely distressing. It discovered to her her heart full of sin and shame. It betrayed the slippery sands upon which her feet were treading. It revealed the gulf into which she had been about to plunge. Upon such a flood of light she could not close her eyes. She reflected that Paul had cried, "Lord, what wouldst thou have me to do," and he had been sent to Ananias, the priest, "who would tell him what he was to do." She did not stop to marvel why the Lord had not Himself told him what to do directly, but instinctively did what Paul did, obeyed instructions and sought the priest.

It was now nearly noon. Althea had been sleepless, and had not tasted food since the preceding evening. She looked around for Mary, that she might accompany her to the priest's house, where she rightly supposed the Missioner to have taken up his abode. She saw not Mary, who had gone home before the sermon, supposing that as her mistress had had no breakfast, she must stand in need of dinner. Instead of Mary, Althea beheld Kitty Brett, one of Mary's comrades, whom she had often seen at her house.

Kitty Brett had one of the sunniest faces in the world; and it smiled all over with willingness as Althea made her request. O yes, she would go right over with her, and, if she wished, would introduce her to Father Ryan, the parish priest, whom she would at first be likely to see. Moreover, her mistress had gone to the country with her children, so she had nothing to prevent her remaining during the little time Mrs. Rush might wish to prolong her visit.

Father Ryan evinced no surprise, however much he might have felt, on meeting this unaccustomed visitor. Althea was in a state for no preambles and no delays. She at once inquired if she could be permitted an interview with the Missioner.

The priest hesitated for a moment. Had she been a Catholic, he would have put her off until after the laborer of the morning had been refreshed. Reflecting, he withdrew, and very soon after, invited her into another room, where she found herself alone with the true priest of God.

Oh! Althea, thy mother, who gave thee to God at the first moment of thy existence, and at the last of hers, who had aspirations for the truth which God may have regarded, must have wept tears of joy, and called upon the angels of Heaven to rejoice over her daughter that repented.



CHAPTER XXVII.

ALTHEA'S TRIALS.

Althea's conversion from error to truth, from premeditated crime, though she was criminal almost unconsciously, to firm amendment, was one of those miracles in which even Protestantism believes. Such Althea considered it—a direct interposition of Providence. She recognized, with peculiar awe, the hand of Almighty God, and became as a little child, willing to be led whithersoever He would.

It was natural she should turn to the bosom of that Church, before whose altar she had seen her own soul as in a mirror, and whose anointed priest seemed to have been chosen of God for her awakening and instruction.

A few years earlier, she might have had prejudices to overcome; though slight, for one brought up an Episcopalian. That her uncle lived and died a good and true Catholic, and that her embittered aunt had embraced and become greatly attached to the true Church, had insensibly recommended it to her confidence. At first, she deemed herself unworthy to enter the fold. She had broken, in thought, one of its stringent laws. What she had come to regard as but a venial error, now appeared to her as an unpardonable sin. So unpardonable, indeed, that left to herself, she might have despaired of forgiveness, and returned to it cherishingly, seven times worse than before. But this aged Missioner, wise and experienced, knew well how to guide this untried soul. She was not the first, by hundreds and thousands, who had knelt to him for direction. He well understood the malady, and like a skillful physician, knew what remedies to apply.

In a week, at the close of the Mission, Althea was ready for baptism. She had her catechism by heart, and was pretty well grounded in instruction. She had faith which would remove mountains, a confident hope in Jesus, and a willing heart and hand for Christian action. She stumbled not over Transubstantiation, nor Confession, nor any of the Seven Sacraments. She embraced them with a loving heart and a simple faith, not questioning but they were of God, since they were in His own Church.

Whispers and winks were on the increase among Protestants. To secure an election according to his own ideas, Mr. Rush had placed his wife where she had made her own calling and election sure. This fact was slow in dawning upon him, but when it had fairly caught his vision, it shone with the effulgence of the sun. His friends had no pity for him. He had placed his wife in the fire; what could he expect but that she would be burned? It did not alter the case that Mrs. Sharp had been also in the fire, but came out unconsumed. She was made of sterner stuff. Stubble would burn, but rocks were incombustible.

Althea anticipated a storm; but she braved it, and asked Thornton's consent to her baptism. She might as well have asked the mountain to come down and be bathed in the sea. He was fierce as the whirlwind, unrelenting as death. His words of scorn and anger poured down like a water-spout, but unlike this element of destruction, his fury became not spent.

He forbade her attendance at the closing exercises of the Mission, or any further discourse with the Jesuit. Of this Jesuit, he had jocosely asserted he was going to take lessons in the art of intrigue. He deemed the lesson had been given without his seeking, and it was no less galling from his secret conviction that it was all his own fault.

Had his wife asked his permission to join either of the other sects, he would have answered her with an indifferent laugh and sneer. That would have been of no consequence. She could have been a Methodist, or a Universalist, anything but a Catholic! Like a Pagan Diocletian, he would have gathered all Catholics together, and thrown them to wild beasts. The coming election had lost for him its interest. It had cost him dear. Everything might go to Sharp and the dogs; one thing was certain—his wife should not become a Catholic. He remained steadily at Vine Cottage, a Cerberus to guard his domain. The Missioner would leave Windsor on the morrow. Althea wrote him a brief note, which she sent by Mary, asking him what she should do.

His reply was this verbal message: "Wait—and trust in God!" Mary delivered this faithfully, and added:

"He said, ma'am, to tell you that he would never forget to pray for you at every Mass he should say."

"God will hear his prayer," was Althea's thought, and she was comforted.

The very spirit of evil seemed to have taken possession of Mr. Rush. He was more and more resolved to have entirely annihilated every trace of the new faith in his wife. For this purpose he sent far and near, until he had literally the proverbial "house full of ministers." His wife was under exhortation first from one, then from another, every hour in the day.

First the Presbyterian, then the Methodist, the Baptist, even the Spiritualist expounded and sermonized upon the several beauties of the Protestant faith. Their principal ammunition, however, was expended in besieging, battering and anathematizing the Catholic Church.

Every minister had a book for her to read, at home in his library, which he would bring her, the reading of which would prove convincingly conclusive. One had Fox, one Hogan, another Kirwan and Maria Monk, and still another the multitudinous tomes of Julia McNair Wright. As to Edith O'Gorman—no need to allude to this lately arisen bright particular star, in whose flood of light, the black sun of Catholicism was going down. Mary Stuart was not more tortured by Elizabeth's emissaries, than was Althea by these clever ministers. But the ill-fated Queen, nursed from childhood in the faith, was not more unwaveringly firm than was this six-days' neophyte.

With this array of ministers, however, was not her greatest trial. They might deem her stupid, obstinate, blind, and infatuated, but they were at least gentlemanly and polite. She could reply to them as she thought best, without danger of having her head taken off. She was even glad of their presence as they went and came again, because, while they talked, her husband was for the most part silent.

And when he demanded that one or other should receive her into his church, he was in turn offended at them, because they insisted that the lady's consent was necessary. When the subject was given over, and everyone had departed finally to his own house, then Althea's true martyrdom commenced.

"You have become a believer in Purgatory, and your faith shall spring from actual knowledge; for as long as you live I will make this house to you a purgatory," declared the enraged husband, furiously. And he kept his word. But the good God, omnipotent on earth as in heaven, had said: "Thus far shalt thou go, but no farther."

Althea would have remained quiet and resigned, never mentioning the subject of her faith, but this Thornton would not permit. He would talk of it incessantly. To Althea it finally became a fire-brand, which, constantly waving to and fro before her eyes, threatened to turn her brain to madness.

She became dangerously ill. A severe fever had set in, to break up which baffled the physician's skill, when too late he was called. Thornton had persisted in not believing her sick, and had taken his own time for calling in Dr. Hardy.

Kitty Brett, finding a girl to take her own place, offered her services, which were accepted, as personal attendant upon Althea. As the unfortunate lady grew rapidly worse, Mrs. Moffat was engaged as head nurse.

This Mrs. Moffat was by many regarded as the salt that saved Windsor. Windsor would have gone to destruction long ago, physically, but for the saving help of Mrs. Moffat's hands. True, she was a married woman, and, like the martyr, was followed by "nine small children, and one at the breast," but this never prevented her lending a helping hand to any and every applicant. She could be absent from home a week at a time. The children could stir up their flour and water, and bake their hard cakes. They could lie down at night wherever they chanced to give up and fall, and arise with the morning's sun, ready dressed. Falling down cellar—it was a trap-door—other people's children would have broken their necks, but these little Moffats, after turning two or three somersaults, reached the bottom standing upright. They nursed themselves through mumps, measles, whooping cough, and all kindred diseases by playing in the creek; so that Dr. Hardy had serious thoughts of recommending "creek-playing" as a specific in such cases. They were hearty, hardy little fellows, all boys but the eldest, and cared nothing more for their mother's brief visits, after they had had their scramble for the bon-bons with which she was in the habit of regaling them.

Mrs. Moffat was, indeed, a most valuable attendant upon the sick. Unlike most people, she was in her element when in a sick-room. She could accommodate herself to every situation and emergency. If things and people did not go to suit her she could go to suit them. There was no grating, no friction where Mrs. Moffat was; her very presence was oily, so to say. She could lift people heavier than herself; there appeared no limit to her powers of endurance. She could watch night and day without the least detriment to her nerves. She could taste the most nauseous potions, and submit to most disgusting odors, nor make the least wry face about it. If she found a patient not very sick she would sit down and pour forth a gossipy stream of talk for an hour, when, ten to one, every ailment would be forgotten. There was a charm in her tone, word, and manner that affected like magic. Of course, this woman had a drunken husband—such women always have that affliction. There were those, even in Windsor, who said they did not blame Mr. Moffat for taking to drink—if their wives were always from home, and the house forever topsy-turvey, and the children making pyramids of themselves like a pile of ants, they should take to drinking too. But nobody could wait on these very people when sick but Mrs. Moffat.

Althea was sure of the best attention while Mrs. Moffat waited on her; and this capable person scarcely left her bedside. Kitty Brett was her right hand, as she herself was Althea's. Kitty was kept upon a steady march, here, there, and everywhere; and she was as willing as was her superior. She could not do enough for one who had been persecuted for the faith.

The master of the house kept a steady watch over all. His argus-eye was ever on the alert lest, despite his vigilance, the Catholic priest should be smuggled into the house.

Althea was constantly delirious, and it was feared she might die without having recovered her reason. The crisis approached, and Dr. Hardy watched her silently for many hours. He had done his utmost, and though he hoped faintly he feared the worst. Mrs. Moffat's whispered loquacity was awed into silence. Kitty wept silently at the foot of the bed, praying fervently as she wept. Thornton had walked to and fro in his slippers, his long hands crossed upon each other behind his back, casting out occasionally fierce glances from his cavernous brows. He came and stood, like a thundercloud, by the Doctor's side.

"Any change?" he whispered.

The doctor shook his head.

"What do you think, any chance?"

The doctor looked at his watch, which he had been holding in his hand. "Yes, while she breathes there's a chance, I suppose," replied the doctor, without looking up, but changing uneasily his position.

"Well, I have an awful headache; I will lie down in the next room; if she is worse, you can call me," and the cloud disappeared.

Althea had been some time sleeping quietly, neither articulating nor moaning. Dr. Hardy watched her as only doctors watch their patients. It was more to him than a question of life and death—it was somewhat like the alchemist, trembling with hope and fear over his costly dissolvents.

At length, Althea's eyes opened, glanced hastily around and closed again. Dr. Hardy was not surprised. For the last half hour he had been expecting this, but he had given no sign. When her eyes again opened, he put some drops to her lips, which she readily swallowed. By-and-bye she gave a look of thorough consciousness, accompanied with an effort to speak.

Again, in an hour, she looked earnestly at Dr. Hardy, and moved her lips. He bent low to listen, and only himself caught her words: "Send for the priest."

Dr. Hardy frowned. Was this old anxiety going yet to ruin all? Couldn't she die or live without the priest?

"You are going to get well now," he whispered in reply.

"Send for Father Ryan, for God's sake," she again repeated, so forcibly that Kitty caught the words.

"I will go for him," she said eagerly, but the doctor interfered.

"No, I will see Mr. Rush;" for the anger of that man and his future hostility was not a pleasing prospective to the easy-going doctor, ever ready to propitiate.

Mr. Rush was like a lion, aroused from his sleep, in which he had found temporary oblivion of a torturing headache.

The doctor's words were not audible in the sick room, but Kitty distinctly heard the reply of Thornton Rush:

"I tell you I don't care. I don't believe it will make the least difference. If she has a mind to worry, let her worry; I won't have a Catholic priest in the house. I'll have the devil first. If she is going to live, she will live, anyhow. I have never thought she would die yet. For God's sake, let me alone, and don't waken me again, no matter what happens."

The doctor returned with lugubrious visage. But Kitty's was radiant.

She was seized with a thought or an inspiration, and she whispered:

"I will take all the blame upon myself; he cannot more than kill me. It is a good time—he has left orders to be let alone. The priest can come and go before he knows it," and she darted out without another word.

The doctor and Mrs. Moffat looked smilingly across at each other in the faint lamp-light, but neither made a movement for Kitty's detention. As the faithful girl had said, "the priest came and went" before the master knew anything about it. And Althea, having passed through her earthly purgatory, and now hovering, as she thought, upon the borders of death, had been baptized by water into newness of life, and been strengthened by that heavenly food, which is more and diviner than the bread of angels.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE.

Althea was very weak, but continued slowly to recover. Several days elapsed, during which time Thornton's pain in the head had been upon the increase, and other alarming symptoms had been developed. These were intensely strengthened by the imprudence of a meddlesome neighbor.

Curtis Coe was Windsor's merchant tailor. He may have been more than the ninth part of a man in some respects; but when, under pretence of a friendly call, he informed Thornton Rush, already very sick, that the priest, Father Ryan, had baptized Althea—we say, when he did this intentionally and with malice aforethought, and with a sinful love of tale-bearing, and with utter recklessness as to consequences, he proved himself infinitely less, even than ordinary tailors of the proverbial size. He deserved the punishment of being hissed by his own goose.

The effect of this ill-advised news upon Thornton can be better imagined than described. What increased it ten-fold was the man's utter impotence to resent or punish what had been done. His ravings were fearful, his imprecations multiplied. Vain were the doctor's warnings that his anger would aggravate his disease. He continued to rave until he became unconscious of the words he uttered. To all in the house it was a relief when this man passed into unconscious delirium. One can listen to insane blasphemies with sorrow and pity; but only with horror and disgust to revilings, and railings sanely spoken.

On that night which followed Curtis Coe's wicked impertinence, two men sat up with the sick man. They must both have fallen asleep at one and the same time, for they discovered on coming to their senses, that Thornton Rush was nowhere to be found. The lamp was burning, even the fire in the stove had not died out. Having searched the room, they gave the alarm, and thoroughly searched the house, then all the outhouses, and finally the town.

All classes, friend and foe, were aroused. A general panic prevailed. Each one considered himself in danger, while Thornton Rush, as a lunatic, was at large. Posters were sent abroad and telegrams announced the mysterious disappearance to neighboring villages and cities. The river was dragged, old cellars and wells were dived into.

Windsor had at length a mystery, and it was an appalling one. People began to canvass it in whisper. A suspicion began to be bruited around. We do not affirm that Mrs. Moffat originated this suspicion, but she whispered it about from house to house. It was to this strange effect, the Catholics had formed a league and spirited away this enemy of their faith. Kitty Brett had boldly set his words at defiance, and the priest had boldly entered the house he had been forbidden, and baptized and anointed, and practiced what other witcheries he had no business.

If Kitty would do this much, and if Father Ryan would do that much, why, what was there they would not do?

This view of the case accounted for the wise solemnity prevailing among the Catholics generally. They were observed to purse up their mouths, and shake their heads; and one old patriarch had been heard to say that the Evil One had got his own. Why should he say that, if he did not know something about it?

It became another Morgan affair. Women began to turn off Catholic servant girls. There was a strong talk of discharging every Irishman from the Mills and Railroad. A continual espionage upon the movements of the Catholics was kept up. Traps were laid for self-committal. Bribes were offered and promises of security to any who would turn State's evidence. Threats were made here and there that leading Catholics should be arrested; at all events, the ringleader should be made to suffer. All seemed to settle down upon that Father Ryan must necessarily have been the aider and abettor, if not the suggestor, in such a high-handed proceeding. It mattered not, that during his five years' stay at Windsor, he had lived peaceably and orderly, and set a good example. All that served but a cloak to just such deeds as this kidnapping of a respectable citizen.

This whirlwind of talk, however, amounted to nothing more. The Catholic population was getting stronger every day; it was surprising how many new families kept pouring in. So it happened no one dared lay hands on Father Ryan.

Autumn passed into winter, and winter merged into spring, still no trace had been discovered of the missing man.

Althea had entirely recovered the health and bloom of youth. She was never more beautiful than now, at the still early age of twenty-two. She had mourned for her husband only as for a soul that was lost. She believed he must have perished in some strange way, and her daily prayer was that the manner of his death might some time be brought to light. The good God had snatched herself from the verge of the grave. He had said unto her, through his servant, "wait, and trust in God," and God had delivered her out of her troubles. She lived alone at Vine Cottage, the faithful Kitty her servant and companion.



CHAPTER XXIX.

HUBERT'S SECOND VISIT.

In June, the month of roses, came Hubert Lisle to visit Althea. He came thus early in her presumed widowhood, to woo her for his wife. But she would not hear one word of love from his lips. She had studied her religion, and found that its laws forbade marriage with another until abundant proof had been obtained of the death of her husband. So far, she had but proof presumptive. He had disappeared at such a time and in such a state as, to most minds, forbade even a possibility that he should have continued to exist. Again, the Catholic rule forbade the marriage of cousins.

Hubert urged to this that they were not strictly cousins. His father and her mother were but half-brother and sister.

Again, the Catholic Church did not forbid, but strongly discountenanced the marriage of a Catholic with a Protestant. She, Althea, loved her Church so well, she would not do that which the Church disapproved.

These were three great obstacles in the way then, to his marriage with Althea, Hubert found. He began to think he had now a more formidable opponent in the Church than he had had in Thornton Rush. He had succeeded in winning from Althea a promise to sue for a divorce. The rest would be easy. But he found it impossible, with all his eloquence, to prevail upon her to take one step contrary even to the wish of this more tyrannical guardian. He even went to the priest. He had seen Father Ryan at Mass, for, of course, he accompanied his cousin. He judged from his open, honest face that it would be an easy matter to win him over to his views. He entered upon the subject confidently, but ended very much discomfited. Father Ryan would listen to but one point, which was that Althea was not at liberty to entertain thoughts of marriage until conclusive proof was obtained of her husband's death. Hubert reverting to the other points—"All that comes afterward," was all the priest would say.

"But, supposing nothing more is ever heard of Thornton Rush, which is almost certain, is Althea to live a widow to the end of her days?" questioned Hubert incredulously.

"Yes," replied the priest. "And allow me to intimate," he continued gently, "that, entertaining the dispositions you do, it is improper you should remain a guest at Vine Cottage. As a cousin you were privileged, perhaps, according to your Protestant views, but as you are a suitor, it is quite different."

Having politely listened to these words of the priest, he wisely made up his mind to take his leave, before he should hear them reiterated from the lips of Althea.

"Well, cousin," presenting himself before her, on returning from the priest's, "I have had the courage, or the impudence, to consult Father Ryan; he is as inexorable as yourself. It is astonishing with what an iron will this Catholic faith infuses people. Last fall you promised to marry me, although a thousand difficulties were to be overcome. Now, that you are your own mistress, according to every human probability, and you are at perfect liberty, free from any scruples about the right and wrong of the thing, and yet—and yet how strange! You have scruples more binding a hundred fold. And Father Ryan, the gentlest, quietest person, whom you would not believe could say no, whom I made sure I could prevail upon to intercede for me, is just as resolute as Napoleon, as unyielding as Draco. What does it mean? Is it in the religion or what?"

"I believe, Hubert, it is the love of God in the heart. We love God better than the world, or aught the world can offer. We love God so well, that we fear to break His holy law," replied Althea.

"But others love God too, who are not Catholics, but they are not so inexorably bound."

"They have not the restraints of the Church. They have not its laws to govern them, its teachings to instruct, its pastors to guide and direct. Moreover, they cannot expect heavenly graces in abundance who are out of the true Church. Christ's promise of assistance is to His Church, His anathema against those who will not hear it."

"It looks to me as though you had taken upon yourself a yoke, and the bonds of servitude," Hubert remarked disconsolately.

"The bonds of the dear Lord Jesus, yes," and Althea's countenance glowed with enthusiasm.

"But Christian bonds should not press so heavily. Protestants in all these things do as they please, yet they profess to be bound with the same fetters."

"Profess! what use in professing when every day they burst them asunder as would they gossamer threads? I assure you, Hubert, that is one of the beauties of the Catholic Church. Its laws are so binding, its teachings so direct, its discipline so perfect, that one cannot stray away blindly. The obedient child who would be pained not to do the Father's will is kept in the straight and narrow way, the light is held steadily before his eyes; if he stumble or turn aside he is brought back, and if he become restive and the 'fetters,' grateful to the loving child, bind too galling he throws them off, more willing to be lost than bear self-denial for the present. For myself, Hubert, I have started for heaven, confident of arriving if I follow the path marked out for me. If I do not follow in that path I have no hope but of straying far from that desired haven, the happy land of souls."

"Althea, I believe you have never loved me," suddenly exclaimed Hubert, steadily regarding his cousin.

"That is a cruel assertion, and it wounds me more than you can think," returned the lady, deeply moved. "Would I could forget that I ever loved you! The memory recalls my sin, my shame, and, thank God, my repentance. I deserve that you should recall all this to me, but I pray you, if you have regard for me, never to refer to this again."

"Forgive me, Althea, I did not intend thus to pain you. You are right and I am wrong. While regretting, I honor you the more for the noble stand you have taken. I go, Althea, and should I ever come again, you shall behold me worthier, God willing. I shall think of you as resting under the very shadow of heaven, and no ill, I am sure, will betide you. Farewell, and God will help you."



CHAPTER XXX.

"AND THE SEA SHALL GIVE UP ITS DEAD."

The summer at Windsor was an unprecedently hot one. No rain in July, no rain in August, and September's sun was shining fiercely down upon parched earth, dried up rivers, panting animals, and complaining men. There would be no wheat, no corn; potatoes were dwarfed, and vegetables literally dried and hardened. Grass would be light, and cattle would be starved, if not first choked with thirst. The heavens were as brass, the fiery atmosphere like that of a furnace. Was there about to be a general conflagration, "when the earth and the heavens should be rolled together as a scroll?"

The great Mississippi was never so low. Inquiring urchins made explorations up and down the dried banks with all the enthusiasm of explorers of the Nile. Even the women of Windsor proposed a bold feat. This was none other than in a body to ford the Mississippi. It would be something worth telling of, when, after some flood, the river should widen to the space of a mile.

Accordingly, old calico wrappers were brought into requisition, and a small army of women stood upon the shores. You might have thought from the voices of fear, hesitation, reproach, and encouragement, another Red Sea was before them, and behind them a Pharaoh's host. All the women of Windsor were not engaged in this expedition. Some were milking cows, and some were putting dear little children to sleep; some were preparing late suppers for dilatory husbands, and not a few were gathered together in knots, discussing the impropriety and scandal of such a bold proceeding.

Our heroine at Vine Cottage, entirely unaware of the movement, was enjoying the twilight in playing soft airs upon the piano.

To one uninformed, a pow-wow of Indians might have been supposed to be going on. There were shrieks and wails, and screams of laughter, and cries of terror. There were threatenings, scoldings, and coaxings. Were all the grammars in the world made up of interjections they could scarcely have contained the list that rent the air, between the two Mississippi shores, upon that eventful night. The heavens were still above, though they might have been supposed to have disappeared entirely, so loudly and fervently were they invoked.

"Why, it is enough to raise the dead," exclaimed a solitary traveler, a stranger in town, perambulating a neighboring bluff.

As the vociferating army neared the opposite shore, there was a momentary silence; that breathless silence which precedes the storm. Then uprose such a terrific scream, such a commingled shout of horror, as only frightened women can give vent to. This brought men, women and children in throngs to the scene. Some leaped into boats, some walked in to the rescue. The majority awaited ashore the unfolding of events.

Mrs. Sharp had caught her foot in something as she was about to ascend the opposite bank. In attempting to save herself, she fell with her hands upon the soggy substance that had intercepted her. She was a thorough-going woman, and determined to ascertain what lay like a log in her path, the water scarcely covering it. She prevailed upon two or three to assist her in dragging it upward partially to the dim light—when lo! within a saturated, slimy bed-comforter was a human form! It was brought across to Windsor, officials summoned, and, despite decomposition and fearful change, recognized to be the remains of Thornton Rush! There was great sensation, and a faint revival of whispers about his having been spirited away to his death by Popish emissaries; but these soon died, for want of breath, as the Irishman would say.

The death of Mr. Rush was, by the majority, accounted for naturally. In his delirium he had strayed he knew not whither. He had grasped the heavy quilt tightly around him, which, held firmer in the clasp of the dead, had filled with water, and prevented the body from rising.

It seemed unaccountable that when the river was dragged it should not have been discovered: are not mysteries, however, every day transpiring before our eyes, about which we marvel in vain?



CHAPTER XXXI.

CONCLUSION.

To-day, Althea is the happy wife of Hubert Lisle and the honored mistress of Kennons, which is bright and beautiful again with sweet woman's presence.

Two obstacles to the union of Hubert and Althea had disappeared. She had been proved to be matrimonially free, and he had become, from study and conviction, a full believer in her faith, of which he made open profession. The fact that they were cousins still remained. As there were considerable delays in the consummation of the marriage, it was doubtless owing to the smoothing away of this difficulty. And as both parties hold the Holy Father in most grateful and loving remembrance, and their most cherished design is to make him a visit at his prison in the Vatican, it is probable that a dispensation from Rome severed the last link of obstruction, and permitted Father Ryan, willingly at last, to tie the Gordion Knot.

Arriving at Kennons, Althea, of course, paid her respects to Mrs. Lisle at Thornton Hall. She found her in a deplorable situation. A seated cancer upon the face was eating away her life, as it had already destroyed every vestige of her former beauty.

She had great difficulty in prevailing upon servants to attend her. She was so irritable and so offensive that even money could not purchase aid.

And what did Althea? Sacrificed every ill-feeling, overcame repulsion, put up with taunts and cross words, and waited on Thornton Rush's mother as if she had been her own. And this in the happy beginning of her wedded life with Hubert Lisle. And what reward had she? None in this life, save the consciousness of having struggled to overcome nature, to render good for evil, and to perform that loving charity which our Saviour commended in the Samaritan, and ever inculcates in His Church.

Notwithstanding Althea's patient, persistent efforts, Rusha Lisle, having hardened her heart, died in her sins.

To Althea, who stood above her dying bed, she whispered hoarsely:

"You have done all this for the sake of my property. I understood all. You will find out I wasn't fooled up to the last. You couldn't cheat me with your quiet, gentle ways; ha! ha!" and the wretched woman went out in the night of death, comprehending not the sweet, Christian life of such as Althea, but believing all natures dark and cruel as her own. It was from her own she drew her judgment of another.

She had bequeathed all her property to an idle cousin, whom it will but accelerate in his downward course of idleness and dissipation.

Arrangements had all been made for a visit to Europe, and particularly to Rome, as soon as possible after Mrs. Lisle's death. Here, again, was a disappointment.

Letters were received from Turkey, from the hand of Althea's father. He had lost his second wife, Emily Dean. He was about to sail for America, and should bring his two youngest children, little girls, aged respectively six and eight, whom he hoped Althea would make room for in her new home. He was unable to embark as soon as was intended, and arrived six weeks later than was designed.

Philip St. Leger, then, arrived once more at Kennons. His hair was silvery white. He was firm, erect, and still very fine looking. It was a sad place, however, for the Missionary, who began to feel the world to be receding from his grasp.

He talked with Hubert, somewhat at length, upon the subject of his religion. To Althea he made no allusion concerning it. He, doubtless, judged her to have become as infatuated, and "wedded to her idols" as he had found to be his sister, Juliet. He could not help from perceiving, blind as he was, that there was a very great change for the better in this same sister, whose folly and levity he well remembered.

He soon returned to Turkey, accompanied by a third wife. This time, Mrs. St. Leger was not a pupil from the famous seminary. Philip had acquired wisdom, perhaps, with time, and was glad to take a maiden lady of forty acknowledged years, who was a most amiable, warm-hearted woman by the name of Snow, Lucy being her first name. Success to Philip and his bride as they sail across the seas, nearing that grand sea that rolls around all the world! Their own disappointments have met Hubert and Althea. But these have no power to disturb their patience and serenity. They have established schools for the whites and the blacks on their estate, and are teaching the doctrines and practices of the new Faith.

The cars run through Flat Rock. This point has become quite a town, and a small Catholic church tells by its cross and altar that the true faith hath found its way thither. To this church come Hubert and Althea, Sundays and holidays. Maria and Frances, Althea's young sisters, come with them; for it was only upon this condition that Hubert would receive them. That Philip St. Leger should have consented to this, proves that a change has come over him since a score of years. Kitty Brett is Althea's faithful attendant. She chose to leave all her friends, rather than be separated from the woman whose life she had helped to save.

Amy and Chloe, old cronies, as they term themselves, look bright and young again, along with Kennon's rejuvenation. They hold long discourses over their pipes and snuff about the past and present, their deepest regret being that Master Duncan could not have lived to see this realization of his dearest wishes.

Every Sunday they go and sprinkle his grave and that of Ellice with holy water. They kneel by the cross which Hubert and Althea have planted, and, folding piously their homely hands, thank God for the return of the one, the gift of the other, and for the Cross, and the Light, and the Crown they have brought with them to dear old Kennons.

THE END