"Wish I were!" remarked Charlie meditatively. "Only I should be ready for college then, and have to go back East and leave you. What a jolly year this has been!"

"Yes, it has," assented Allie absently. She was still looking up at her cousin, with a feeling of sisterly pride in the tall, straight figure before her.

Montana had evidently agreed with the boy, for, during the year he had spent there, he had grown so rapidly as to leave Howard far below him. Contrary to the custom of most boys, he bore his added inches with perfect ease, and had entirely escaped the stage of awkward consciousness, which falls to the lot of nearly all growing lads. Even now, young as he was, there was a quiet dignity in his manner which, combined with his manly figure, made it seem high time that he should take the first marked step towards man's estate, and leave off knickerbockers. The new suit, ordered from New York, had come that day; and Charlie had dressed himself up in it, and appeared before Allie, to demand her respectful attention.

Had Charlie attired himself in a checked apron and sunbonnet, it would have seemed a thoroughly admirable costume to his cousin's eyes; but, on this particular evening, Allie's praise was well-merited, for the new suit was unmistakably a success. Charlie was one of those few, but fortunate boys who can wear even shabby clothes with an air that gives them a certain elegance; and he had grace enough to enable him to escape the usual awkwardness, which comes to the young girl in managing her first train, to the boy in appearing in his first long suit. As Allie had said it made him look much older and more dignified, until she almost felt that she had lost her jovial playfellow, and stood in the presence of a fine young man. Still, she liked the change, as long as it really was the same old Charlie; and she continued to watch him, while a little contented smile gathered about the corners of her mouth.

"Yes," she repeated; "I should hardly have known you. Come here a minute, and I can change you so you wouldn't recognize yourself a bit."

Charlie laughed at the seriousness of her tone, as he seated himself on the arm of her chair, while she patted and poked at his hair, until she had parted it in the middle and brushed it away from his forehead, where it usually lay in a close, short fringe. She studied the effect for a moment; then she gently pulled off his glasses.

"Poor old boy!" she said caressingly, as she drew her finger down along the narrow white scar that crossed his upper lid. "You still carry your beauty-spot; don't you? I wish 'twould go away."

"What for? Does it show so very much?" asked Charlie.

"No, not a bit, with your glasses on; but I never like to think back to that horrid day," she replied, with a frown. "I was sure you were going to die, or something."

"Well, I didn't. You see, I'm tough," returned Charlie placidly. "Besides, we had some good fun together, after the first week or two. But how do you like the looks?"

"Your own great-grandmother wouldn't have any idea who you were," said Allie decidedly.

"Most likely not," observed Charlie.

"But just you go and look in the glass, and see for yourself!" And Allie sprang up, and dragged her cousin to the nearest mirror. All at once she began to caper madly about the room.

"What's struck you, Allie?" inquired Charlie, pausing in his contemplation of himself to stare at his excited cousin.

"I've just had the most lovely idea," said Allie incoherently. "It's too much fun for anything, and we must do it."

"Do what?"

"Well, now you see here," she was beginning, with sudden solemnity, when her cousin interrupted her,—

"Give me my glasses, then."

"Yes, I know that; but listen! Don't you wear your suit again this week, nor tell anybody you have it, and don't let Howard tell, either. Next Tuesday is Mrs. Fisher's 'At Home,' you know; and we'll dress you up, and you can go over there, and everybody will take you for a strange young man. Won't it be fun?"

"Fine!" responded Charlie, as he led the way back to the parlor, and took his favorite position, leaning against the mantel. "Only I'm afraid everybody'd know me."

"Truly they wouldn't," answered Allie. "Can't you buy a mustache down at Bright's? That would finish it all up, and nobody would ever have any idea who you are. You're as tall as papa is, now."

"Well, I'll think about it," said Charlie. "I'm a little bit afraid to try, only it would be such immense fun. You keep mum about it, though, and maybe we can put it through."

Allie carried her point; and, directly after dinner, the next Tuesday evening, Howard was solemnly warned not to go near his room. A little later Allie knocked at the door and was admitted. Just across the threshold, she stopped in surprise and delight, as she caught sight of the elegant young man who rose to meet her.

"How perfectly splendid!" she exclaimed. "Where did you ever get such a mustache? It just matches your hair, and looks as if it must grow on."

"Hope I don't lose it off!" returned Charlie fervently, as he rendered himself temporarily cross-eyed, in his efforts to catch a glimpse of the silky thatch on his upper lip. "But I wish you'd take my hair in hand, Allie; it's so used to a bang, that it just won't stay parted."

"Let me try." And Allie took the comb, and devoted herself to coaxing her cousin's refractory locks to lie in the desired position. "It wants to be just in the middle, for you're going to be the dearest little dudelet you ever saw. Now take off your glasses."

"Oh, I must have those," remonstrated Charlie. "I'm blind as a bat without them, and I shall be sure to run into something, and tip it over."

"No, you won't," said Allie composedly. "If you wear them, people will be sure to know you."

"But, if I take them off, my scar will show," argued Charlie; "and that will give it all away. But, I say, I have some eye-glasses somewhere, that the oculist gave me, to start with. I don't ever wear them, 'cause they wouldn't stick to my nose. I lost them off into the soup, the first night at dinner, and I bought my spectacles early the next morning; but perhaps I can keep them on now."

"I should think you ought to; your nose is large enough," remarked Allie, with calm disrespect. "But get them; I can tell better when I see them."

There was an interval of silence, while Charlie rummaged in his bureau drawers. At length he unearthed the little case from a box containing an odd assortment of light hardware, broken knives, stray nails, an awl or two, and a collection of trout reels and flies.

"Here 'tis," he said. "I remember now; I used it to wind my best line on. How will they go?" And he turned to face his cousin, with a conscious laugh which promptly dislodged the glasses from his nose.

"That's better," said Allie approvingly; "they don't look a bit the same. I don't like them as well as I do the spectacles, for all the time; but they change you more. Now remember to be very easy and elegant, and don't act shy. Behave as if you thought you were very good to speak to them, and they'll like you all the better. And be sure you don't go too early."

"But what are you going to do now?" demanded Charlie, as she turned to the door. "You aren't going to be mean enough to leave me here all alone, till it's time to go?"

"I'm going to dress me," returned Allie. "I begged an invitation from Marjorie, and I'm going over there with mamma. You don't suppose that I'm going to lose all the fun, do you?" And she departed.

Society in Blue Creek was by no means as simple as a stranger might have been led to expect. During the winter months, there were few evenings that were not given up to some entertainment; and the little set to which the Burnams and Fishers and Everetts belonged were the gayest of the gay, with dinner parties and impromptu dances following one another in rapid succession. The enjoyment of these festivities was in no wise marred by the fact that one always met exactly the same people. Though the resources of the camp were not great, yet this set of friends was a thoroughly congenial one, consisting, as it did, of a dozen or more young married couples, together with several stray bachelors and a very few older people. Young women were deplorably scarce in Blue Creek, and, for a year, Louise had been the acknowledged belle among them, as she would have been, however, in the face of many rivals. Strangers, who were attracted to her side by her beauty, remained there, charmed by her easy manners and her ready wit; so, wherever she went she was sure to be the central figure of a little group of admirers, of whom Dr. Brownlee was usually the one nearest her side.

According to one of the pleasant customs of the little town, Mrs. Fisher had her weekly reception day. On Tuesday evenings, her house was always filled with the friends whom, with rare tact, she left to entertain themselves, while she moved up and down her charming rooms, with a word to one and a smile for another, now breaking in upon a flirtation which threatened to last too long, now bringing stray wallflowers into the middle of some hospitable group, and never for an instant forgetting to keep a watchful eye over any stranger who might chance to be among her guests. There was an attractive informality about these evenings, when one was at liberty to appear in a street gown, or an evening costume, and where the little supper was so simple as merely to be a pleasant break in the midst of the dancing, but not to suggest the idea of an overburdened hostess, struggling to feed a ravenous multitude. No one else in the town had quite the same gift for entertaining as Mrs. Fisher; no one else could carry out an "At Home" with quite such delightful simplicity. She gave them the use of her house, together with a cordial, unaffected welcome, and she left the rest to take care of itself. With this happy talent for receiving her friends, it was not strange that the tall, blonde woman was one of the most popular matrons in the camp.

This Tuesday evening was bidding fair to be as pleasant as its predecessors had been. The rooms were filled, and the air was echoing with the soft buzz of voices. A little pause in the dancing had scattered the young people, who were wandering about, some in the back parlor, watching the older guests grouped about the whist tables, some in the "den," across the hall, where the only light came from the great blazing fire which flickered over the pictures on the walls, and over the easy-chairs scattered about the cosy room. At the very back of the broad hall sat Louise and Dr. Brownlee, resting after their waltz, while they talked of one thing and another, the every-day interests which they shared in common. All at once Mrs. Fisher stood before them, with a young man at her side.

"I have been looking for you, Louise," she said. "Here is some one that I want to introduce to you: Mr. Atherden, Miss Everett. Mr. Atherden is a stranger, Miss Everett," she added; "and I leave it to you to make him feel at home. Dr. Brownlee, I wish you'd come and play the agreeable to Mrs. Nelson; she is looking dreadfully bored." And she led him away towards the parlor.

As Louise glanced up, at the introduction, she had been attracted by the young stranger before her. He was a man of about her own age, apparently, not very tall, but with a proud, erect carriage and a simple dignity which gave him the look of being a much larger man. His face, in spite of his eye-glasses and his silky, brown mustache, was almost boyish in its outlines; and he was faultlessly dressed, from his white tie and the white carnation in his button-hole, down to the toes of his shining shoes. His whole appearance was so likable that Louise welcomed him cordially, in spite of her regret at losing the doctor's society, and at once set about making him feel at home.

"How long have you been in Blue Creek, Mr. Atherden?" she asked politely. "I don't remember meeting you before."

"I only came a week ago," replied Mr. Atherden, as he took possession of the chair which Dr. Brownlee had so lately quitted. "I've been in San Francisco, the last two or three years; but I came up here to see about"—He hesitated for an instant; then he went on, with a little laugh. "Well, the fact is, I came up here to open an office. I'm a doctor, you know, and I heard that you hadn't a very good one here, and that there was a possible opening for another man."

"Indeed?" Louise's tone was icy in its politeness.

"Yes," resumed the young man, eyeing her closely; "so I thought I'd run up here and see for myself; but I found a first-rate man was in ahead of me, so I must depart in search of a fresh field."

"Then you are not to stay long?" said Louise, as she smiled on him with all her former kindness. "Blue Creek is really a pleasant place when you are used to it. You are unfortunate in seeing it at this season."

Her companion made some light answer, and they went on chatting like a pair of old friends. Louise was soon delighted to find that the stranger cared for music as much as she did, and was familiar with the best works of the masters, while he showed a thorough acquaintance with New York and its surroundings which was remarkable in a man who professed to have spent his life in California. There was something indescribably charming in his quiet ease of manner and in his boyish fun; and Louise found herself thoroughly enjoying their pleasant, off-hand conversation, though all the time she was conscious of a hazy resemblance to some one whom she had met before. Moved by this uncertain idea, she studied him closely, while in her own mind she went over and over her list of acquaintances, trying to find the person of whom she was thinking. Nor could she tell wherein the resemblance lay, whether in the voice, the manner, or in some feature; and yet it was there all the time, a fleeting, haunting likeness to some former friend. Then she thought she had a clue, for, in answer to a sudden jest on her part, the stranger laughed until his glasses fell off and dropped to the floor, and as he stooped to pick them up, she caught sight of a tiny scar on his right eyelid. Surely she had seen that scar before, or, at least, one much like it; and once more she went through her friends, trying to place the mark, but with no better success than before.

For a long half hour they sat there, while Mr. Atherden entertained her so well that she was quite unconscious of Dr. Brownlee, who came to the parlor door more than once to cast a longing glance in her direction. But her back was turned towards him, and she was too much interested in their talk to heed the proudly defiant glance with which Mr. Atherden met the gaze of his rival. The doctor was not so slow to interpret his meaning, and he gave his mustache a vicious jerk, as he walked away to pay his homage at some other shrine. Mr. Atherden watched him with an amused smile; then he turned to Allie who stood before him with a plate of sandwiches in her hand.

"Ah, thank you, my little maid," he said with infinite condescension, while he helped Louise and then himself. "Mrs. Fisher is to be congratulated upon having such charming assistants." And he looked straight up into the eyes of Allie, who flushed a rosy red as she hurriedly turned away.

But supper was over, and the tempting notes of a waltz rang out from the piano in the parlor. Mr. Atherden rose to his feet.

"It is a long time since I have danced, Miss Everett; may I not have the pleasure now?" And settling his glasses firmly on his nose, he smiled invitingly down at her, as he stood waiting to lead her to the parlor.

Louise hesitated for a moment. The doctor had asked her for this very waltz; but already the room was full of moving couples, and she could see him dancing with the pretty young teacher, lately come from the East. With a little feeling of pique she turned to her escort, and was soon gliding about the room with an apparent delight in her partner, who was dancing quite as well as he had talked. The waltz ended, she turned away, without a glance at the neglectful doctor, and followed her new acquaintance to their former seats in the hall.

"How well you waltz!" she said frankly, as she fanned herself. "It's such a rare thing to meet a really good dancer out here."

"Such a partner would inspire anyone," returned her companion gallantly, while he twirled his mustache with a complacent delight in it which convinced Louise that it was of recent growth.

Then he entered into a spirited account of his journey and his adventures in coming into the strange place, while Louise sat leaning back in her chair, watching him, haunted by that vague resemblance. Dr. Brownlee was standing just inside the parlor door with his eyes fixed upon them longingly, although he was apparently engrossed by the sprightly conversation of his former partner. But Mr. Atherden made no motion as if to leave his place; he merely glared defiantly at the doctor, while he twisted his mustache and chatted on, and the doctor was forced to go away again.

Notwithstanding her apparent unconsciousness of his presence, Louise had looked after him with a little wistful expression in her blue eyes. At that moment, she heard a sudden exclamation, and she turned back to face her companion once more, just in time to see the silky brown mustache yield to too violent a jerk and fall into his lap, while the young man, in no wise embarrassed by the accident, leaned back in his chair and burst into a shout of laughter. One glance at him had told her the secret of the puzzling resemblance; and she echoed his laugh with a thorough enjoyment of the boyish caper.

"Charlie MacGregor, you incorrigible imp!" she exclaimed, when she could get her breath. "How did you ever dare to come here in this fashion?"

"Why not?" inquired Charlie. "You'd never have known me now, if this miserable mustache had only stuck where it belonged. But, honestly, Miss Lou, don't I make a fair actor?"

"Too good, Charlie," she answered, with a fresh laugh over the unexpected ending to her flirtation. "Why haven't you ever told us you could waltz so well, though?"

"I didn't suppose I could; it's so long since I've tried it. Besides, none of the other fellows do, and I was afraid they'd think 'twas silly for a boy," answered Charlie. "Allie started this scheme, and put on the finishing touches. But didn't you really know me, Miss Lou?"

"Not a bit. Nobody would ever have suspected, if you hadn't been quite so proud of your mustache, Mr. Atherden. By the way, where did you get the name?"

"It's my middle one; didn't you know that?"

"No; but," she added hastily, "here comes somebody. Really, Charlie, you don't want to spoil the joke by getting caught; you'd better go, now." And she pushed him towards the door.

Five minutes later, she was offering to Mrs. Fisher the apologies of her stranger guest, for the sudden business which had called him away so abruptly. Then, after an inviting glance which promptly brought the doctor to her side, she led the way to the "den," where she pledged him to secrecy, and then told him the story of her recent companion.

"But there's one sure thing," Charlie said, with impenitent glee, as he was bidding Allie goodnight; "for once in my life, I cut Dr. Brownlee out with Miss Lou, and that's something to be proud of."



CHAPTER XVI.

THE COMPLETED STORY.

"They say there's a case of scarlet fever over the other side of the creek," remarked Mr. Everett at dinner, one night about a month after Charlie's unexpected appearance in society.

"Scarlet fever! Oh, dear, where?" asked Louise anxiously.

"You needn't be scared, Lou; people don't catch it at your age," responded Grant, with brotherly impertinence.

"I'm not afraid for myself," she answered seriously. "Where is it, papa? I don't want the boys to get into it."

"It's way up beyond the smelter," replied Mr. Everett lightly. "You don't need to worry, Lou, for it is so far away, and only a light case. The boys would better not go over that way, and then they'll be safe enough. Dr. Hofer has it in charge, so it will probably be all right."

"I suppose so; but I'm always afraid of it," said Louise uneasily. "I hope they'll quarantine them, or something."

"Of course they will," said her father. "No doctor that's half a doctor would let such a matter go unguarded. The board of health wouldn't allow it, either," he added, in a tone of such decision that Louise accepted his belief as final, and thought no more about the matter.

Ten days later she stood before her mirror, dressing for a Mardi gras party at the Fishers'. For the past three weeks, this coming social event had been the chief theme of conversation in Blue Creek; for, taking place, as it did, at the very close of the season, it was intended to be a fitting climax to all the gayety which had gone before. Louise had entered into the spirit of the occasion as heartily as a young and pretty girl could do, and had spent long hours in planning the new gown which her father had insisted she must have.

"Something simple and pretty, Lou; but good of its kind," had been his only instruction. "Don't spoil it, for the sake of a few dollars; just get something that can stand on its own merits, and not have to be patched out with laces and ribbons and all sorts of other gimcrackery. You know what I mean; but I want my daughter to look her best."

Nevertheless, after all her anticipations, Louise was looking a little troubled and anxious, as she stood there, arraying herself in the pale blue crape gown which fell about her in soft, clinging folds, unbroken by any ornament except the crescent of pearls that fastened the high, close ruff at her neck. For some reason, Ned had been feeling ill that day. He had complained of being cold, in the morning; and, instead of going to Mr. Nelson's as usual, he had lain on the sofa all day long, too miserable even to go with Grant to the Burnams', where the boys had been asked to spend the afternoon and dine. For the past day or two, Mr. Everett had been away from home on business, and would only return just in time to take his daughter to the Fishers'; and Mrs. Pennypoker had made light of the boy's trouble, pronouncing it merely a slight fit of indigestion which would be gone by the next morning. Still, Louise had been alarmed, unnecessarily so, Mrs. Pennypoker had told her. But the boy seemed thoroughly ill and feverish, and she had persuaded him to go to bed early, promising to hurry her dressing, and go in to sit with him until the carriage came for her.

Now, as she arranged her great bunch of white roses, and tied them with a long blue ribbon, before laying them ready beside her fan and gloves, she was half resolving to give up the party and stay quietly at home with Ned. Of the two boys, he was decidedly her favorite; and she disliked the idea of leaving him to the mercies of Mrs. Pennypoker, whose tenderness was a little too brazen in its nature to be acceptable to an affectionate, impressionable lad like Ned. However, she knew that her father was hurrying his return on purpose to act as her escort, so she was unwilling to disappoint him at the last moment. She was still hesitating what course to pursue, as she gathered up her train and started for her brother's room, with the largest of the roses in her hand, to leave with him when she went away. But, as soon as she came in sight of Ned's face, she felt no further doubt. Unaccustomed to illness as she was, she saw at a glance that the boy was worse, although he opened his eyes and smiled at her approvingly as she paused beside him.

"You look just gay," he said hoarsely.

"Gayer than you feel?" Louise asked playfully, while she bent over him and laid her cool hand against his flushed cheek.

"I'm all right; only I'm so warm, and my throat's a good deal sore," Ned answered; then he settled back under the blankets, and closed his eyes again.

Louise watched him closely for a moment. In spite of Mrs. Pennypoker's assurances, this was not like any form of indigestion she had ever seen, and she determined to send Wang Kum for Dr. Brownlee. From past experience, she knew that Mrs. Pennypoker would object to such a course, for she had unlimited faith in her stock of home medicines, and regarded the professional services of a doctor as invariably leading to the gloomy ministrations of the undertaker. Mrs. Pennypoker had never quite forgiven Mrs. Burnam for disregarding the poultice she had prescribed for Charlie's eye; and now, all day long, she had been persecuting Ned with alternate doses of ginger tea and "boneset bitters," which were her staple remedies for almost every ill to which flesh was heir. Louise had submitted, much against her better judgment; but now she felt that the time had come for decided action, so she stealthily made her way to the kitchen in search of Wang Kum.

"I wish you'd go over and ask Dr. Brownlee to come in here for a few minutes, as soon as he can, Wang," she said, in a low voice.

Wang Kum nodded wisely.

"All light; Wang sabe. You no wan' Mis' Pen'plok know." And he departed on his errand.

Quarter of an hour later the doctor came. Wang had interrupted him in the midst of dressing for the party, and he had hastily finished his toilet and hurried over to the Everetts, rather at a loss to account for the summons. Louise met him at the door.

"Dr. Brownlee!" she exclaimed, with an accent of relief; "it seemed as if you'd never come."

The doctor looked at her in surprise. From Wang's unconcerned manner, he had supposed that his message was in some way connected with the coming party; but the girl's pale, anxious face showed that there was some more serious cause for her sending to him. And yet he was only a human man; and, in spite of his quick sympathy for her unknown trouble, he paused for a moment to gaze at her admiringly, as she stood there with her long, light gown sweeping about her feet, and one hand stretched out to welcome him, while in the other she still held the great white rose that she had taken from the bunch he had sent her. Then the instinct of the doctor came uppermost once more.

"Is some one ill?" he asked briefly.

"Yes; it's Ned," answered Louise hurriedly. "He hasn't been well all day, and he's worse to-night, so I wanted you to see him. Cousin Euphemia says it's nothing but—Come, you can see for yourself."

In a moment more they were leaning over Ned, their evening costumes contrasting strangely with the flushed face of the restless little patient. With his usual bright, off-hand manner, the doctor greeted Ned, as if his coming had been simply a matter of chance. But he took careful note of his pulse and temperature, and asked a short, direct question or two; then, after a few words more, he left the room, beckoning to Louise to follow him.

"I'm glad you sent to me without waiting any longer, Miss Everett," he told her, as soon as they were in the parlor once more "We're going to have a case of scarlet fever in there, and it's high time some one was looking out for it."

"Scarlet fever—Ned have scarlet fever!" repeated his sister slowly, as she dropped into a chair. "Do you really mean it, Dr. Brownlee? Is he very ill?"

"Not yet," returned the doctor. "But, first of all, where is Grant? We must keep him out of the way."

"He's at the Burnams'," answered Louise, rising and walking nervously about the room.

"Well, send Wang over, and have Grant stay there. Mrs. Burnam will be willing to look out for him, I know; and he isn't likely to give them any exposure,—the mischief would be done by this time, anyway. And then you ought to go to—"

"I shall not go anywhere," she answered decidedly.

"But, Miss Everett, think of the danger of your taking the fever. I shall have to quarantine the house, too; and Mrs. Pennypoker will be here to take care of Ned."

Louise stopped in her restless walk, and turned to face the doctor, with her head raised proudly and a scornful curve to her lips.

"Dr. Brownlee, do you think that I am a coward?" she asked with cutting emphasis. "Ned may be very ill, and I could never leave him with Cousin Euphemia."

"But the danger," he urged again feebly, although he felt that her decision was the right one, and he admired her for it, even while he shrank from the thought of her possible peril.

Louise looked steadily into his eyes.

"Ned is my brother," she said firmly, though her lips were quivering; "and it is my right to stay. Besides, if anything should happen"—She paused abruptly, while the tears rushed to her eyes.

"Just as you think best," said the doctor gently. "You are needlessly alarmed to-night, Miss Everett. I will tell you the exact truth: Ned is a very sick boy, but there is no present danger for him. I needn't say that I shall do all I can to make it easier for you, but"—he hesitated; then added, with one of his cheery laughs, "The fact is, I'm most awfully glad that you insist on staying. Mrs. Pennypoker is a good woman; but she's no nurse, and Ned needs somebody that's a little less like a steam saw-mill, if he is going to be ill for a week or so. Now, I'll go down and get a prescription or two put up, and stop to see Mrs. Burnam about Grant's staying there, and then I'll be back again."

"But is it necessary?" remonstrated Louise, although she felt the support of his presence, and was grateful for it. "Papa will be here soon, or Wang can go; and you were going to the Fishers."

"The Fishers can get along without either of us to-night," he said laughingly. "We'll have our party here; we seem to be all ready for it." And he smiled meaningly at her dainty gown.

The door closed behind him, and Louise went quietly to her room, to take off her gown and put on a soft white wrapper, before going back to her brother. From the first, she had been sure, from the doctor's manner, that he had felt alarmed about Ned; but, in her present mood, she was grateful to him for his assumed carelessness, and she appreciated the kindness with which he was giving up the evening to her needs. Some sudden girlish regret made her snatch up the roses and bury her face in them, as two great tears rolled down her cheeks; then she quickly untied the flowers and put them back into the bowl, all but one, which she fastened in her gown, to be her companion and comfort in her long, anxious evening.

Early the next morning Dr. Brownlee was there again; and for the next week he was constant in his attendance, for the boy was very, very ill. Day after day the fever had increased, until it seemed as if the young, strong life must yield to its power. Now he lay in a heavy stupor, now he muttered and laughed to himself in wild delirium; but each night found him a little weaker than he had been the night before, and each morning brought from the doctor's lips the same sad verdict, "No better." During all these long days, Louise had scarcely left the room, but watched over him, night and day, with a fierceness of devotion which resented any interference.

"He's mine, I tell you," she said, turning on the doctor, who was trying to coax her from the room. "He's my brother and my favorite—oh, why can't you understand? He keeps calling me, when he doesn't know anybody else; and what if he should come to himself and want me, and I shouldn't be there? Let me stay with him while I can, for it may not be so very long—Oh, my Ned!" And brushing away the hot tears, she turned and went back to her old place.

Two days later the doctor slowly went up the steps to the door. His heart was heavy with dread, for he knew that the crisis was at hand, and he felt that the issue was more than doubtful. Without ringing the bell for Wang Kum to admit him, he entered the house, and went directly to Ned's room. He was in there for a long time; then he left Mr. Everett and Mrs. Pennypoker with the boy, and came out into the hall again. As he passed the parlor door, he paused for a moment; then he pushed it open, and went into the room. Beside the table sat Louise, with her head resting upon her folded arms, so still that he thought she must have fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion. But, as she heard his step she raised her head to speak to him, and he was shocked to see the hard, drawn lines on her pale face, and the dull, cold light in her eyes.

"They say it can't last much longer," she said wearily, and without asking him for his opinion.

"No," he assented gently, as he sat down by her side. "It can't be like this long; the change will come in a few hours, and then I hope our Ned will be better."

But Louise shook her head.

"What's the use of saying that, Dr. Brownlee?" she said, in a low, strained voice. "You don't mean it, I know; and I'm not a baby, to be comforted with just words. Oh, doctor, if I could only cry! I've tried to, and I can't,—can't do anything but think, and wonder what I shall do without Ned."

She was silent for a moment; then she went on excitedly, "Dr. Brownlee, if Ned doesn't get well, I shall always believe that Dr. Hofer killed him. There was a case of fever across the creek, and he let the children from that very house go all over town. One of them was in the choir, a week before Ned was taken ill. It was wicked, wicked! I can't have Ned's life thrown away, just for that. It mustn't be so; I can't bear it!" And her head dropped again, as she wailed, "Oh, doctor, can't you save him?"

The sight of her bitter sorrow was more than the doctor could bear, and his own voice was unsteady, as he answered sadly,—

"I will do what I can; but we can only wait and hope." He paused; then he laid one of his firm hands on hers, and said in a low voice, "Louise, I can't help you; but won't you give me the right to comfort you, to"—

But Louise interrupted him.

"Wait," she begged. "I can't think of it now—of anything but Ned. I must go back to him." And she left him alone.

Late that evening, the doctor and Mrs. Pennypoker sat by the bed, almost breathlessly watching the boy, who lay in a sort of stupor. Dr. Brownlee had come in early, and announced his intention of spending the night in the house, to watch over his patient. He had sent away Louise and her father to take a little rest, promising to call them, in case of any change. For more than two hours he had been sitting there, expecting the end to come at almost any moment; but still the boy's lethargy was unbroken.

Then, all at once, the doctor leaned forward and gazed closely at the face before him. The change had come, and Ned lay breathing quietly, in the longed-for, life-giving sleep. For a few moments more Dr. Brownlee sat there, scarcely daring to move; then, with a happy nod to Mrs. Pennypoker, he left her to wipe her eyes unseen, and stole away to tell the glad news to Louise.

He found her in the parlor, in her old position by the table, too much absorbed with her dread and sorrow to hear his step, until he was close at her side. She started up, with the question on her lips; but before she could speak the words, a glance at his face had told her all. With one little glad outcry, she seized his outstretched hand; then she dropped down on the sofa, to hide her face in the pillows and sob like a little child, in all the fervor of her joy and thankfulness.

The doctor stood waiting by her side, until her first outburst was over; then, when she had grown more quiet, he bent down beside her, to say gently,—

"And now, Louise"—

There was no need for many words. For an instant, Louise looked up into the expectant face above her; then she put her hand in his.



CHAPTER XVII.

THE TRAGEDY OF THE UNEXPECTED.

"Did you get any letters this morning, Wang?" inquired Mrs. Pennypoker, as the Chinaman came in to remove the dishes from the breakfast table.

"No," replied Wang Kum briefly.

"Not any at all? How very strange!" And Mrs. Pennypoker looked questioningly at Wang Kum, who returned her gaze with impenetrable composure. "I thought I should surely hear from brother Nathaniel to-day. What can have become of the letter!"

"Wang no sabe," answered the Chinaman with an almost imperceptible shrug.

He turned away to go to the kitchen; but, just as he passed the window where Louise stood looking out, he contrived to let a fork slip from the plate in his hand. Louise started at the clatter, and glanced over her shoulder, to be met by a wink and smirk of infinite cunning, before the man stooped to pick up the fork, and finally vanished into the outer room. A moment later she followed him.

"Did you want to speak to me, Wang?" she asked, trying in vain to appear unusually dignified, as she faced the man who stood chuckling before her.

But Wang, by no means abashed by her manner, bestowed upon her a second wink of exceeding craftiness, while he slowly drew a note out from the loose sleeve of his shapeless blue coat.

"Wang mus' a forgot him; you no tell," he said softly, with a stealthy glance at the dining-room door behind him, as if expecting to see Mrs. Pennypoker appear on the threshold and swoop down upon him at any moment.

Louise glanced at the letter in her hand. She was annoyed to feel her color come, as she saw that it was addressed to her in Dr. Brownlee's well-known writing.

"Where did you get this, Wang?" she asked.

"Doc' Blownlee." And Wang Kum smiled knowingly.

"But he didn't tell you to give it to me this way, did he?" she asked again.

"He no tell; Wang sabe, all samee. Wang no fool." And Wang marched back to the dining-room, leaving Louise to read her note unobserved.

As she had supposed, it was merely a message to appoint the hour for a ride they had agreed upon for that afternoon. There was not the slightest reason that she should not have received and read it under the eye of Mrs. Pennypoker; but long experience had taught her that the ways of Wang Kum were past finding out, so she only tucked the note into her belt and went on her way, resolving, however, to warn the doctor to select another Cupid, in the future, to be the bearer of his messages.

Some weeks had slipped away since Ned's illness, and spring had once more come to Blue Creek. The crisis of the fever once passed, the boy had quickly rallied, and, thanks to the devoted care of Louise and the doctor, his recovery had been sure and steady, until at length he was pronounced nearly well enough to resume his former place among his friends. Then came the time of thoroughly disinfecting and airing the house, for Dr. Brownlee was not the man to leave any uncertainty as to results. His quarantine had been as strict as his later measures were energetic, and he had refused to rest until he was assured that no danger could come from his patient. Owing to the negligence of Dr. Hofer, the disease had been spreading across the creek, until the board of health had interfered, and summarily taken the cases from his care to give them into the hand of Dr. Brownlee, whose vigorous treatment had checked the trouble, even though it had incurred the hostility of the parents of the fever-stricken children.

But at last the doctor had said that all danger at the Everetts' was over, and Grant had been allowed to come home once more. In spite of the good times he had been having with Howard and Charlie, in spite of the motherly welcome of Mrs. Burnam, the boy had been thoroughly homesick during the period of his banishment from home. It was the first time that he and his brother had ever been separated, and Ned was his hero and idol, as well as his constant companion. During the long days of waiting, when the fever was at its height, Grant had wandered disconsolately about the house, refusing to be comforted, and looking so pale and miserable as to be a mere shadow of his usual bright self, and to cause Mrs. Burnam many an hour of anxiety lest he, too, were about to be ill. Then came the sudden change for the better, and, for a day or two, Grant was like a wild creature in the exuberance of his joy; but he was restless and anxious to be at home with his brother again, sure that no one else could take as good care of him as he. He had even waylaid the doctor on the street one morning, and tried to bribe him to allow a return home; but Dr. Brownlee was firm, and Grant had been forced to bide his time.

The whole Everett household had been radiant with its new happiness, during these last few weeks. It would have been enough for them all to have Ned brought back to life, after their terrible hours of suspense; and for days they hovered about the boy, almost unable to believe that their bright, affectionate, impish Ned was to remain with them, after all. Even Mrs. Pennypoker had cast aside her strict principles of discipline, and coddled him and fussed over him to her heart's content, while Wang openly prided himself on being the means of his recovery.

"Wang went 'way off out doors," he had confided to Louise; "all lonee; hollered heap loud to Up-in-Sky. Up-in-Sky no say anything; he sabe, all samee; came down heap quick to help Mas' Ned."

In the midst of this rejoicing there had come a cause for even increased happiness. On the morning after Ned had turned the dangerous corner, and started on his slow journey back into life once more, Dr. Brownlee had gone into the parlor where Mr. Everett sat writing letters, and had closed the door behind him. His stay was only a short one; then Mr. Everett came out, and went in search of Louise.

"Come, my girl," he said gently; "Winthrop is waiting for you. Your mother would have been very happy to-day, as happy as I am." And he led her to the parlor door; then he went away, and left them alone together.

To Louise, it had seemed as if the world had suddenly been created anew that spring. The days flew by like one long, happy dream, while she spent hour after hour amusing her brother during his tedious convalescence, or left him to Mrs. Pennypoker's care when she escaped to the parlor, to enjoy the doctor's short, but frequent calls. Ned had been as rapturous as his sister when the good news was told to him; and he had saluted the doctor as Brother Brownlee upon the occasion of his next visit.

"It's just too jolly," he had said, with the first return of his old, irrepressible manner. "I'd rather have you take Lou than anybody else I know; and I'm no end glad I helped it on. You know you'd never have come to the point, if I hadn't scared you both out of your senses; but"—he paused, and then asked wickedly, "but I say, Lou, what do you suppose the Reverend Gabriel will have to say about it?"

The Reverend Gabriel, in the mean time, had kept himself informed on the subject of Ned's illness, and although he had held himself at a prudent distance from all danger of infection, he had not neglected the young invalid. As soon as it was definitely known that the boy was on the way to recovery, Dr. Hornblower had sent him, through the safe medium of the post-office, a little book of "Sick-room Meditations," whose black cover bore the cheering design of a tomb under a pair of weeping willows. Though the gift was doubtless intended in all kindness, it was received with more amusement than gratitude, and Ned kept it under his pillow to read aloud choice bits from it, whenever Louise and Dr. Brownlee were together in his room.

But, during the weeks that the Reverend Gabriel had been unable to call at the Everetts'; he had been slowly making up his mind upon a matter of weighty importance; and now at length the time had come for him to carry out his intentions.

The Reverend Gabriel Hornblower, it should be stated, was a romantic soul; and, in his tanned, weather-beaten old body, there throbbed a heart as ardent as ever beat in the breast of a boy of eighteen. Its manifestations, however, were often a little eccentric, for its owner was as ignorant and unworldly as a child. For years he had fed his elderly imagination upon the most impassioned love scenes to be found in the pages of novel or biography. Unfortunately for him, there was nothing in the least modern about his literary taste; but he had confined his reading to the histories of the Evelinas and Cherubinas of yore, until his idea of the tender passion was as old-fashioned and stilted as the books from which it had been derived. Nevertheless, the Reverend Gabriel was becoming weary of boarding-house existence, and beginning to long for the comforts of home and the charms of conjugal society.

It would be hard to say whether the sight of Louise Everett's blonde beauty, or the contemplation of his own frayed cuffs and ragged buttonholes had been the moving cause; but the result was the same. Upon this particular afternoon, he had spent an hour in reading over one of his old favorites; then, seizing his hat and cane, with an air of desperate resolution, he had hurried out of the house, and up the street towards the Everetts'.

He was ushered into the parlor by Wang Kum, who assured him that Louise would soon be at home, and rolled out the great leather-covered chair from its accustomed corner, in order that the Reverend Gabriel might be as comfortable as possible, while he awaited her coming. Then he withdrew, leaving the guest to his meditations.

They were not altogether enjoyable ones, however. Wang Kum had told him that Louise was riding with Dr. Brownlee, and the Reverend Gabriel, with the jealous eye of a lover, was not slow to discern a possible rival in the handsome young man, who had been a constant attendant at the house, during the past few weeks. Moreover, the room was very warm, and the Reverend Gabriel was beginning to grow a little uncomfortable, for Wang Kum, with the keen malice of his race, had carefully arranged the chair directly opposite the register, which brought the heat from the stove in the next room. Dr. Hornblower had been feeling rather nervous, all that day; now he feared that he was becoming feverish. He drew his hand across his moist brow, and sighed anxiously. Could it be that he was going to be ill?

At length Louise came in. She looked so bright and pretty in her dark habit, and with her golden hair loosened by the wind and curling about her face, that the Reverend Gabriel felt his admiration momentarily increasing, while he gazed at her. And yet, something in her fresh, girlish beauty made him long to draw back from his coming interview, as he rose to greet her, and caught sight of his own dull, brown face in the mirror above her head.

"I hope I haven't kept you waiting too long," Louise said courteously, while she unbuttoned her gloves and slowly drew them off. "It is such a glorious day that we stayed out a little longer than we meant to."

"It is a fine day, a very fine one," returned the Reverend Gabriel, eagerly catching at the safe topic of the weather.

"Yes, and we were shut in so long that I enjoy being out, more than ever," said Louise, while she speculated vainly as to the doctor's motive for this call.

"You have had a painful experience," he answered gloomily; "a trying and painful experience; but I trust that you are benefited by it. My thoughts were continually with you during the—um—the ordeal."

"Thank you, Dr. Hornblower," Louise returned gratefully. "Our friends were all very kind."

"Doubtless they were," responded Dr. Hornblower, as he sympathetically wiped his eyes. "We were all grieving over the prospective demise of a young brother. And yet some consolation would have reached you, Miss Everett; love is the only pocket-handkerchief to wipe the mourner's eyes."

Louise blushed hotly at the reference. Although she had made no secret of the matter of her engagement, still she was a little surprised to have the Reverend Gabriel allude to it in such an unexpected fashion. But she was determined to carry off her embarrassment as easily as possible, so she smiled brightly, as she said,—

"Then you have come to congratulate me; thank"—

"Pardon me!" interrupted Dr. Hornblower, as stiffly as if his rheumatism had suddenly penetrated from his joints to his manners. "It is not yet the time for congratulation; and, when the hour comes, it is I who will receive them."

"You?" And Louise stared at the Reverend Gabriel in unfeigned astonishment.

"At least, so it is to be hoped," returned the doctor gravely.

For a moment, there was an awkward pause, while Louise wondered whether the worthy minister had suddenly taken leave of his senses, and the doctor writhed uneasily in his chair, as he realized that his hour had come. The hush was beginning to be painful, and Louise was just opening her lips to speak, to say something, no matter what, when she was suddenly struck speechless by seeing the Reverend Gabriel lay his hat and cane on the floor beside his chair, then clumsily kneel down before her and clasp his hands. For one brief instant, she supposed that he was about to give her the benefit of his professional services, and she composed her face to listen with befitting gravity; but his first words dispelled the illusion.

"Louisa," he began, in a tone so devoid of expression as to suggest the possibility of his having written out the words and committed them to memory; "Louisa, behold me a suppliant before you, begging, imploring"—

But Louise had started from her chair, and stood facing him, her cheeks white with mortification for herself and pity for him.

"Dr. Hornblower," she begged hastily; "get up, please! You mustn't say any more."

"But you do not catch my full meaning," he went on. "I ask you"—

"Get up at once," she repeated. "You mustn't say it; it's impossible! Suppose some one should come in. Oh, do get up!"

Yielding to her evident alarm, he awkwardly scrambled to his feet, and threw himself down in in his chair once more, with a force that pushed it back against the opposite wall.

"Truly, I never thought of such a thing," Louise said penitently. "I always supposed that you came to see Cousin Euphemia, not me; or I might have prevented this."

"Why should you, Louisa?" returned the Reverend Gabriel, with a cheerful assurance that grated upon her ears. "I am willing to wait and hope; my heart is eternally yours."

"Oh, I hope not!" she answered quickly. "Really, Dr. Hornblower, it never can be, never could have been; I never even thought of such an idea. You have always been very kind to me, I know," she went on hesitatingly, trying to soften her words a little; "but I thought it was only because you felt a fatherly interest in me."

"I'm not so old as you seem to think," began Dr. Hornblower testily; then, bethinking himself that this was not according to his models, he made a dramatic pause, before he asked his final question, "Is there, then, Another?"

Louise hung her head and blushed.

"I'm afraid there is," she faltered.

"And his name?"

The girl looked at him haughtily; then her face softened, as she thought of the mortification that she was inflicting upon the old man before her, and she answered gently,—

"It is Dr. Brownlee."

Once more the Reverend Gabriel hesitated. He had carefully rehearsed his part, until he was thoroughly familiar with it; but his imaginary interviews had taken only the one form, and he had never counted upon such an ending as this. However, he was resolved to carry it through to the close; and, after a hasty review of the ways of rejected lovers, he recalled the case of the luckless Alphonso Ludovico, and felt himself prepared to meet the new emergency.

"It is the end," he said slowly. "Pardon my intrusion, Miss Everett; I will no longer impose upon your kindness. I go forth upon my lonely way."

He started to rise from his chair, but came to a sudden pause, while a sound of rending and cracking broke the silence that had followed his tragic words. All unconsciously, Wang Kum had given him the sticky chair; and the heat of the room and the doctor's feverish agitation, had combined to produce the catastrophe. The Reverend Gabriel Hornblower was trapped as effectually as a fly in a pool of molasses, and could only struggle helplessly in his efforts to free himself.

Louise came to his relief, and together they succeeded in separating his coat from the chair-back, and he took his ignominious departure. The young girl stood looking after him, until he disappeared around the corner, then she fled to her own room, and into the very depths of her closet, to smother the sound of her hysterical laughter. But when at last she grew quiet, her face became very gentle once more, as she said to herself, in a tone of womanly pity,—

"Poor old man! But at least, I can keep his secret; not even Winthrop shall ever know."

In the mean time, the Reverend Gabriel had slowly betaken himself to his lonely room, where he laid aside his hat, and approached the mirror.

"No," he said to himself, as he stood gazing at the reflected face before him; "it wouldn't do; it wouldn't do. She's too beautiful; and I'm—too old." And he seated himself in his worn old easy-chair, and took up the book he had laid aside an hour before.



CHAPTER XVIII.

UNDER ORDERS.

It was less than two weeks after the Reverend Gabriel's call upon Louise, that Mr. Burnam came up from his office, one noon, with a letter in his hand.

"Well, daught," he called, as Allie ran out to meet him; "where's mamma? I have some news for her."

"News! What is it? Nothing very bad, I hope," she answered, as she seized his hand in both of hers, and hurried him towards the house.

"That depends," he said laughing. "Wait till we get into the house, and then I'll tell you."

"I don't believe it's much of anything," she declared scornfully. "If 'twas, you never could wait to tell us."

"We'll see about it," responded her father, as he entered the house.

But it was not until they were all seated about the lunch table that he would tell them his news. From the central office of the railway by which he had been employed for the past five years, a letter had come to him, that very morning, offering him the position of consulting engineer for the company, an advance which would bring him much honor and more salary. For a few moments there was a babel of congratulation and rejoicing; then Mrs. Burnam put an end to it all by asking quietly,—

"And when shall we have to leave here?"

"Leave?" And Allie turned to stare at her mother in consternation.

"Yes; of course we shall have to go away from Blue Creek very soon," answered her mother cheerfully; for, though at heart she was as sorry as Allie to leave her pleasant friends in the little camp, she was unwilling to let her one regret throw a shadow over her husband's happiness in his promotion.

"Leave Blue Creek, and the Everetts, and Marjorie, and all? Let's not go," urged Howard. "The old road isn't worth it, papa."

Mr. Burnam laughed.

"I'm sorry you don't think so, Howard," he answered; "but I'm afraid we must go. St. Paul isn't a bad place to live in; and we should have had to leave here this spring, anyway, for my present survey won't take me much longer. I'm to report for duty in two months," he added, turning to his wife once more. "Will that give you time to get ready?"

"Two weeks would do," she said promptly; "I haven't been your wife all these years for nothing. I'm sorry to go away from here, of course, for we've made pleasant friends; but I sha'n't be sorry to have a settled home. Besides, it's time the children were in some good school, if they're ever going to college."

"What do you think about it all, Charlie?" asked his uncle. "You haven't told us, yet."

"I'm about as much mixed up as Auntie is," he replied slowly, while he gave Allie's hand a consoling pinch, as it lay on the table, toying with her fork. "I don't want to leave the doctor, and the boys, and all, and this place has been immense fun; but, as long as I can be with you people, I don't mind much else, and, if we go to St. Paul, I can stay with you till I'm ready for college,—that is, if you'll keep me."

"We won't send you off just yet," returned his uncle. "Howard and Allie would have something to say about that, I fancy. Let me see; this is May, and I have to be ready by the first of July. We shall have to leave here the last week in June, so you must make the most of your time till then."

"Oh, dear!" sighed Allie, as she and the boys were starting for the Everetts', that afternoon, to tell the great news. "We never stayed so long in one place before, and I began to hope we'd live here always. We've had such good times, too, 'specially since Charlie came; and I don't want to leave all these people."

"'T isn't all of them, though," responded Howard. "There aren't so many I care about, if we could take the Everetts and Fishers and Dr. Brownlee along with us."

"And the mountains, and Wang Kum, and our ponies," added Allie. "Janey says she'll go too. But it's no use to try to count up what we're leaving, or I shall just sit down and begin to cry."

"Better not," advised Howard practically; "it's no end dusty, and we can't spend time to brush you off. Besides, St. Paul is right on the way to everywhere, and we shall see people when they go East. Don't you go to being in the dumps, sis; 't won't mend matters to grumble, and we've moved before without its killing us."

But in spite of his advice to his sister, Howard was the most disconsolate member of the party, as they sat on the Everetts' front steps, talking of the separation in store for them.

"It's a perfect shame," lamented Marjorie, who had joined them there. "You belong to us, and oughtn't to go away. I had it all planned out, too. We were all going to grow up here together, and have ever so much fun. Allie and I would keep old maid's hall, and have you four boys board with us. Howard would be a civil engineer, and Charlie a doctor, and Grant have a store, and Ned be a minister; and we'd just have an elegant time."

"'Specially me!" remarked Ned, in a tone of supreme disgust. "I've no desire to step into Dr. Hornblower's shoes, when the old man finally gives up and goes over the range. Preaching isn't in my line; I'll help Charlie keep his apothecary shop, and sell patent medicines. But, honestly, with half of us gone, the rest will be dismally lonesome. We shall need Allie to keep us straight, and Howard to keep us stirred up."

"And Charlie for general all-overishness," added Marjorie. "Say, Howard, do you remember the day we put Vic into the empty barrel, and turned a bushel basket over him, 'cause he would follow us, every step we took?"

Howard chuckled at the recollection.

"Yes. How he did yell! But do you remember the time we shut Marjorie up in the office closet, Ned, and then went off and forgot her?"

"That must have been before I came," said Charlie. "How did she get out?"

"What a question! didn't you ever hear Marjorie squeal?" asked Grant scornfully. "But, I say, you lads, do you remember that day that Charlie Mac came, and we"—Grant paused abruptly.

"We what?" demanded Charlie.

"Oh, nothing." And Grant retired behind Marjorie, to blush unseen.

"What was it?" urged Charlie again. "Go on and tell, Grant."

"You hush up!" And Ned gave his brother a threatening glance.

"I'm going to tell, then, if you won't," said Allie laughing. "If we don't, Charlie will think it's something ever so much worse that 't is. All was, the boys didn't mean to like you anyway, and didn't want you to come. The day you came, they went down to the station, and hid around, waiting to get a look at you, to see what you were like. And the worst of it all was"—Allie paused mischievously, and then went on; "they found you weren't half so bad as they supposed you were going to be."

"If we could only go back again, and start there all over fresh!" sighed Marjorie.

"We couldn't have a bit better time than we have had," returned Charlie. "We've made the most of our chance, and we may as well be thankful for it. Oh, but didn't I feel shaky, that first morning, when the train stopped, and I had to get out! Allie looked about ten feet high and thirty years old, when I saw her standing on the platform; and I was sure I was going to be afraid of her. Wasn't, though," he concluded, giving her hair a friendly tweak.

"Besides, 't isn't quite so bad as if we had to go right away," added Allie hopefully, as they rose to go home. "We have two months more; and there's time for ever so much to happen, between now and then."

But the two months hurried past them, and, before any one realized it, the Burnams were on the eve of their departure. As Marjorie had said when the subject was first mentioned, it was harder to stay than to go, for those left behind had to keep on in the same old routine, where they so keenly felt the loss of their friends who, on their side, were full of anticipations for the new places they would see, the new acquaintances they would make, while the bustle and excitement of packing kept them too busy to realize all that they were leaving behind them.

It had been decided that the Burnams were to go away from Blue Creek the last week in June, and, soon after this plan was arranged, Louise and Dr. Brownlee had announced their intention of being married on the twenty-fourth, in order that their friends might be present at the wedding, so the last few weeks had found the Everett household in as great excitement as were the Burnams. It was to be only a quiet church wedding, followed by a small reception. Louise had reduced Allie and Marjorie to a state of speechless delight, by asking them to be her bridesmaids; while the doctor had laughingly protested that Charlie and Ned should act as ushers, since they had been instrumental in bringing himself and Louise together. After a little discussion, this plan had been adopted, and the four young people were much impressed with their consequence, in taking part, for the first time, in so important a ceremony.

On the evening before the wedding, they all walked up together from their rehearsal in the chapel, and stopped for a little while on the Everetts' front steps, where they were joined by Howard and Grant.

"To-morrow, and the next day, and the next, and then it will all be over," said Marjorie pensively.

"I honestly haven't had time to think about it, this last week," said Allie. "We've been so topsyturvy and busy that I haven't thought of anything but packing and the wedding."

"No; we'll be the ones to do the thinking," said Ned, as he stretched himself out at his ease, on the railing to the little porch. "With Lou married, and you three going, there's nothing else left for us to do. I'm going to turn hermit, and move up the gulch."

"I wouldn't, before fall, if I were in your place," returned Howard, in a tone too low to catch the ears of the others.

"What's next fall?" asked Ned listlessly.

"Don't you give it away that I told you," said Howard, while he joined his friend on the rail; "but I happened to hear your father talking to my father, to-day; and it's all settled that you and Grant are coming to St. Paul, next winter, to board with us, and go to school. Hush up!" he added, as Ned gave a little exclamation of delight. "Don't tell the others, for I oughtn't to have said anything about it; but I couldn't hold in any longer."

For an hour more, they sat there; then Grant's voice broke the hush, as he put his head in at the open window of the parlor, where his sister and Dr. Brownlee were sitting in the moonlight.

"That's the seventh time you've said good night, Lou," he remarked, in a hollow tone; "and I should think the eighth 'most ought to do the business, unless you want to be dead sleepy, to-morrow night, while you're in the middle of being tied up."

The next evening found the chapel crowded. Every seat was occupied, and the side aisles were filled with the miners and their wives, who stood waiting to look on at the marriage of "our Miss Lou," for she was a favorite with them all. At length the murmur of voices died away, as Mr. Nelson took his place in the chancel, while the little organ pealed out the opening strains of the wedding march. A moment later, the doors swung open and the bridal party entered, Charlie and Ned leading the way, with Allie and Marjorie following them, while Mr. Everett and his daughter came after them. Louise was beautiful, in her simple white silk gown, although she looked a little pale and nervous, as she saw so many eyes turned upon her. Then she forgot it all, all the crowd and the excitement, and even the friends gathered about her, and her face grew radiant with her love, for Dr. Brownlee had met her at the head of the aisle, to lead her forward to the altar; and above the low notes of the organ, she heard the quiet, earnest voice, as it followed Mr. Nelson's through the familiar words,—

"I, Winthrop, take thee, Louise, to my wedded wife."

Their troths were plighted, the ring was slipped into place, and the blessing was pronounced. Then, as Winthrop Brownlee and his bride turned to face the congregation once more, the organ rang out in a triumphal march, and the bell in the little tower overhead burst into a merry peal. The sound rolled far up and down the valley, and the mountains echoed back the happy tidings; then the evening quiet once more descended upon Blue Creek Canon.



L'ENVOI.

The last leaf ended, ere you lay My book aside, and turn to rest, Read here, old friends, between the lines, My loving memories of your West.

The distance shortens to my eyes; To-morrow's sun will sink to rest Behind your hills. One day is all That separates us, East and West.

Then hasten forth, my little book, Speed on your way, nor pause to rest; But, turning towards the setting sun, My greetings bear from East to West.

"TREMONT," Twenty-seventh May, 1892.



Other Books Published by T. Y. CROWELL & CO.



ANNA CHAPIN RAY'S BOOKS.

"A quiet sly humor, a faculty of investing every-day events with a dramatic interest, a photographic touch which places her characters before the reader, and a high moral tone are to be remarked in Miss Ray."—Detroit Tribune.

HALF A DOZEN BOYS.

HALF A DOZEN GIRLS.

IN BLUE CREEK CANON.

CADETS OF FLEMMING HALL.



MRS. SARAH K. BOLTON'S FAMOUS BOOKS.

"The most interesting books to me are the histories of individuals and individual minds, all autobiographies, and the like. This is my favorite reading."—H. W. Longfellow.

"Mrs. Bolton never fails to interest and instruct her readers."—Chicago Inter-Ocean.

"Always written in a bright and fresh style."—Boston Home Journal.

"Readable without inaccuracy."—Boston Post.

POOR BOYS WHO BECAME FAMOUS.

Short biographical sketches of George Peabody, Michael Faraday, Samuel Johnson, Admiral Farragut, Horace Greeley, William Lloyd Garrison, Garibaldi, President Lincoln, and other noted persons who, from humble circumstances, have risen to fame and distinction, and left behind an imperishable record.

GIRLS WHO BECAME FAMOUS.

A companion book to "Poor Boys Who Became Famous." Biographical sketches of Harriet Beecher Stowe, George Eliot, Helen Hunt Jackson, Harriet Hosmer, Rosa Bonheur, Florence Nightingale, Maria Mitchell, and other eminent women.

FAMOUS MEN OF SCIENCE.

Short biographical sketches of Galileo, Newton, Linnaeus, Cuvier, Humboldt, Audubon, Agassiz, Darwin, Buckland, and others.

FAMOUS AMERICAN STATESMEN.

A companion book to "Famous American Authors." Biographical sketches of Washington, Franklin, Jefferson, Hamilton, Webster, Sumner, Garfield, and others. Illustrated with portraits.

FAMOUS ENGLISH STATESMEN.

With portraits of Gladstone, John Bright, Robert Peel, Lord Palmerston, Lord Shaftesbury, William Edward Forster, Lord Beaconsfield.

FAMOUS EUROPEAN ARTISTS.

With portraits of Raphael, Titian, Landseer, Reynolds, Rubens, Turner, and others.

FAMOUS AMERICAN AUTHORS.

Short biographical sketches of Holmes, Longfellow, Emerson, Lowell, Aldrich, Mark Twain, and other noted writers.

FAMOUS ENGLISH AUTHORS OF THE 19th CENTURY.

With portraits of Scott, Burns, Carlyle, Dickens, Tennyson, Robert Browning, etc.

STORIES FROM LIFE.

A book of short stories, charming and helpful.



COUNT TOLSTOI'S WORKS.

ANNA KARENINA.

"Will take rank among the great works of fiction of the age."—Portland Transcript.

IVAN ILYITCH, AND OTHER STORIES.

"No living author surpasses him, and only one or two approach him, in the power of picturing not merely places but persons, with minute and fairly startling fidelity."—Congregationalist.

CHILDHOOD, BOYHOOD, YOUTH. With Portrait of the Author.

A series of reminiscences and traditions of the author's early life.

MY CONFESSION AND THE SPIRIT OF CHRIST'S TEACHING.

A companion book to "My Religion."

MY RELIGION. A sequel to "My Confession."

"Should go to every household where the New Testament is read."—New York Sun.

WHAT TO DO. Thoughts evoked by the Census of Moscow. Containing passages excluded by the Press Censor of Russia. A sequel to "My Confession" and "My Religion."

THE INVADERS, AND OTHER STORIES. Tales of the Caucasus.

"Marked by the wonderful dramatic power which has made his name so popular with an immense circle of readers in this country and in Europe."—Portland Press.

A RUSSIAN PROPRIETOR, AND OTHER STORIES.

"These stories are wholly in Tolstoi's peculiar manner, and illustrate once more his wonderful simplicity and realism in the domain of fiction."—Sun, New York.

NAPOLEON AND THE RUSSIAN CAMPAIGN. With Portrait of the Author.

THE LONG EXILE, AND OTHER STORIES FOR CHILDREN.

A notable addition to juvenile literature.

LIFE.

A vigorous and lofty argument in favor of the eternal verities of life.

POWER AND LIBERTY.

A sequel to "Napoleon and the Russian Campaign." An ingenious reconciliation of the theories of fate and free will.

THE COSSACKS.

"The most perfect work of Russian fiction," said Turgenief.

SEVASTOPOL.

The most relentless pictures of the realities of war.

TOLSTOI BOOKLETS:

WHERE LOVE IS, THERE GOD IS ALSO. THE TWO PILGRIMS. WHAT MEN LIVE BY.



PUBLICATIONS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE.

JED. A Boy's Adventures in the Army of '61-'65.

A story of battle and prison, of peril and escape. By WARREN LEE GOSS, author of "The Soldier's Story of his Captivity at Andersonville and other Prisons," "The Recollections of a Private" (in the Century War Series).

In this story the author has aimed to furnish true pictures of scenes in the great Civil War, and not to produce sensational effects. The incidents of the book are real ones, drawn in part from the writer's personal experiences and observations as a soldier of the Union, during that war. The descriptions of the prison are especially truthful, for in them the author briefly tells what he himself saw. One of the best war stories ever written. Boys will read it with avidity.

THE WALKS ABROAD OF TWO YOUNG NATURALISTS.

From the French of Charles Beaugrand. By DAVID SHARP, M.B., F.L.S., F.Z.S., President of the Entomological Society of London.

A fascinating narrative of travel and adventure, in which is introduced much valuable information on natural history subjects, and a reading of the book will tend to foster an interest in zooelogy.

FAMOUS MEN OF SCIENCE.

By SARAH K. BOLTON, author of "Poor Boys who became Famous," etc, Short biographical sketches of Galileo, Newton, Linnaeus, Cuvier, Humboldt, Audubon, Agassiz, Darwin, Buckland, and others.

THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. Pictures of the Reign of Terror.

By LYDIA HOYT FARMER, author of "Boys' Book of Famous Rulers," etc.

To those who have not the leisure to make an exhaustive study of this remarkable epoch in the world's history, this volume offers a rapid and clear resume of its most important events and thrilling scenes.

ROLF AND HIS FRIENDS.

By J A K, author of "Birchwood," "Fitch Club," etc.

A healthful, stimulating story, showing the advantage that every boy must necessarily gain from association with intelligent, progressive young people, no matter what their color or condition in life may be. The incidents are fresh and natural, the conversations bright and piquant, and the interest well sustained, while incidentally there is a valuable leaven of information.

CECIL'S KNIGHT.

By E. B. HOLLIS, author of "Cecil's Cousins," etc. A story of no impossible knight, but of a very real, natural, and manly boy, who, through perseverance, good sense, and genuine courage, fought his way from poverty to success.

"We recommend 'Cecil's Knight' as an excellent book to put into a boy's hand.—" Beacon.

RED CARL.

By J. J. MESSMER. A story dealing with the labor question, socialism, and temperance, and one of the best, all points considered, that treats of these subjects popularly.

"It would be difficult to find a healthier, more stimulating, and more suggestive story to put into the hands of the young."



T. Y. CROWELL & CO.'S NEW BOOKS.

CHARLES DICKENS'S COMPLETE WORKS.

A new illustrated edition, in 15 and 30 volumes. This edition will meet the (hitherto unfilled) wants of those desiring the works of Dickens in good clear type, well printed on fine paper, handsomely illustrated, tastefully bound, and suitable for library use, at a moderate price.

RECOLLECTIONS OF A PRIVATE.

A Story of the Army of the Potomac. By WARREN LEE GOSS, author of "Jed." With over 80 illustrations by Chapin and Shelton.

Among the many books about the civil war there is none which more clearly describes what took place among the rank and file of the Union Army, while on the march or on the battle-field, than the story given by Mr. Goss in this volume.

"It is one of the handsomest, as well as one of the most valuable works in American war literature."—Boston Globe.

MAKING THE MOST OF LIFE.

By Rev. J. R. MILLER, D.D., author of "Silent Times."

The following is an extract from Dr. Miller's preface: "These chapters are written with the purpose and hope of stimulating those who may read them to earnest and worthy living.... If this book shall teach any how to make the most of the life God has entrusted to them, that will be reward enough for the work of its preparation."

DOCTOR LAMAR.

A powerful work of fiction by a new author.

There can be no doubt that "Doctor Lamar" is a remarkable novel. It has originality in subject and treatment. The hero is drawn with a master hand. The picture of the heroine is a revelation of innocence and beauty of the most exquisite English type. The love story which runs through the book, like a golden thread, is an idyl. Few novels are so well calculated to appeal to a large class of readers, comprising, as it does, food both for thought and recreation.

A WEB OF GOLD.

By KATHARINE PEARSON WOODS, author of "Metzerott, Shoemaker."

"One of the strongest books of the year."—Buffalo Express.

JULIUS WOLFF'S NOVELS.

Delightful stories of old-time life in Germany.

The Saltmaster of Lueneburg. The Robber Count. Fifty Years, Three Months, Two Days.

TENNYSON'S GREATER POEMS.

Volumes are sold separately or in sets, and comprise the following: "Idylls of the King," "In Memoriam," "The Princess."

THE ALHAMBRA SERIES OF NOTABLE BOOKS.

The Alhambra, by Irving Romola, by Eliot Lorna Doone, by Blackmore Scottish Chiefs, by Porter Notre-Dame, by Hugo Sketch Book, by Irving



THE LOTUS SERIES OF POETS.

Robert Browning's Poems Lalla Rookh, by Moore Mrs. Browning's Poems Lucile, by Meredith Lady of the Lake, by Scott Tennyson's Poems



THE FOUNDING OF THE GERMAN EMPIRE

BY WILLIAM I.

Based chiefly upon Prussian State Documents.

Translated from the German of HEINRICH VON SYBEL by Professor MARSHALL LIVINGSTON PERRIN, of the Boston University

The welding together into a mighty united nation of the petty dukedoms and principalities which fifty years ago made up the heterogeniety of Germany was the greatest political feat of this century. Dr. Von Sybel, pre-eminently fitted by nature and training to be the historian of this tremendous creation, had the additional advantage of access to original sources of information in the archives of Prussia, Hanover, Hesse Cassel, and Nassau, and the State papers and diplomatic correspondence preserved in the foreign office at Berlin. His history, therefore, may be accepted as absolutely authentic, and that it has been so accepted is shown by the universal chorus of praise from German critics which greeted its first appearance, and by the fact that within two months of publication fifty thousand copies were sold. Sybel's style is remarkably smooth and attractive, full of vigor, life, and movement, and it has been admirably rendered into idiomatic English by Professor Perrin, whose long residence in Germany made the language like his mother tongue to him. Finely engraved portraits of the Emperors William I., Frederick, and William II., and of Bismarck and Moltke, give additional value to the volumes.

"Since the death of Ranke, Von Sybel has occupied unquestionably the first rank among German historians."—American Hebrew.

"The translation of this admirable history is very well done indeed. It reflects few of the German involutions, and reads smoothly and flowingly. Of the history itself, it must be said that nothing comparable to it in fulness, clearness, trustworthiness, and vigor, has been written concerning the great events of which it treats."—N. Y. Tribune.

"No reason to believe that it will be superseded during the present generation."—N. Y. Sun.

"No more important historical work has appeared in the last decade."—Nation.

THE END