Was that the same old piano? thought Susan, as she stood by the instrument watching Lancy's fingers passing over the keys. Why, it seemed to be a thing of life; and she moved away almost in awe at the sounds that came forth from the hitherto despised keys.

Presently Dexie began to sing, low and softly at first, then her expressive voice swelled forth, thrilling the listeners that gathered at the door. Susan slipped away, her eyes full of tears.

"Oh! if I could only play and sing like that I would wish for nothing more," said she to her sister. "That anthem means more than the mere words and music."

"Yes, it sounds like family prayers," replied her sister. "I declare I don't know what I am crying for. I wonder if it would be a sin to mash these potatoes while that singing is going on; they will be getting cold, I'm afraid."

But the closing words rang out joyously, "But Thou hast been merciful and heard us; therefore Thy name will we praise all the day long."

Not until she had finished did Dexie realize that she had so many listeners, but she turned a bright face to the group at the door.

"I did not know we had such an audience."

"Don't stop, friends," said Mr. Taylor, coming into the room. "Such music is quite a treat. I guess, Susan, there is more in that piano than you ever dreamed of. Let us hear something else."

Lancy rose from the music-stool, saying to Dexie:

"Play 'The Mocking Bird,' and I'll sing to your whistle."

A moment later Dexie's supple fingers were dancing over the keys in a delightful prelude. Then Lancy's voice filled the room as he sang the well-known song, accompanied by the exquisite notes of the southern mocking bird, and the continuous warble that poured from Dexie's throat during the chorus made her listeners start as if a veritable bird were concealed in the room.

"Well, that spoils the old proverb from this time forth," said Mr. Taylor, as he leaned back against the wall and thrust his thumbs into the armholes of his vest. "Whistling girls and crowing hens will hereafter have a chance to be heard. Old saws ain't always true, eh, Miss Sherwood?"

"Well, I never heard a hen crow yet, Mr. Taylor," and Dexie laughed softly, "and I do not know what is their usual fate, but the proverb does not alarm me in the least."

"Do whistle another piece, Miss Sherwood," said Susan. "It will give us great pleasure to hear you."

Lancy turned over the leaves of a book, then placed it on the piano, saying:

"Try that, Dexie, and I'll whistle with you."

It would be hard to express the pleasure that this exquisite bird-song gave to those who listened. All the songsters in the woods seemed let loose in the room, now singing together in full chorus, then singly or in pairs they twittered and trilled as Dexie's soft whistle followed or joined Lancy's stronger notes, while such bird-like notes came from the keys before her as might have deceived the very birds themselves.

"Nothing will surprise me after this," cried Susan, when the song had ended. "I heard my music-teacher play that once, and I thought it the tamest thing I had ever heard; of course he did not try to whistle it too, but the music itself sounded quite different."

"Perhaps your music-teacher never took the trouble to listen to the birds themselves; that makes a difference, you know," said Dexie.

Just then Mrs. Taylor came into the room, saying:

"I think you must come to dinner, but you must give us some more music afterwards. Really, Susan, that old piano is not such a poor affair, after all; is it, now?"



CHAPTER IX.

As was expected, they found there was much anxiety at home over their long absence. Mr. Sherwood was on the watch when the sleigh drove up, and was beside it in time to help the muffled figures alight, and anxious to hear the particulars of their protracted drive.

"Let me go into Mrs. Gurney's just a minute, papa," said Dexie, "and I will tell you all about it when I come back."

Then they found themselves pulled through the hall by the eager children, who had been watching for their appearance for hours, and into the sitting-room where Mrs. Gurney sat with a white, anxious face, waiting their arrival.

In a few minutes the story of their detention was told, Lancy telling his part and Elsie hers, Dexie finishing the story by confessing to the extreme measures used to keep Elsie awake, not sparing herself in the least when telling of the quarrel she had provoked, and there was a suspicious moisture in Mr. Gurney's eyes as he listened to the story.

"You have been in great peril," said he, as he drew the girls to his side. "Let us all kneel a moment and return thanks for the safety of these dear ones;" and all knelt, just as they were: Mr. Gurney with one arm around Elsie, the other around Dexie; Lancy with his fur coat still on, and the whip in his hand; the little ones, who had pressed into the room, dropped to their knees, their arms full of toys; Mrs. Gurney with the baby in her arms—all knelt, while a few earnest words went up from a father's grateful heart.

Mrs. Gurney insisted that Elsie should go up to bed at once, and be doctored for the cold she had evidently contracted, and pressing a kiss on Dexie's cheek, she followed her daughter upstairs.

But for all their care Elsie was confined to her room for several weeks, and her recovery was slow and tedious. They were all thankful, though, that nothing more serious resulted from exposure to the storm, which was the worst that had visited the country for several years.

Dexie had to tell the story over again when she went home; but she made light of it all, making much more fun out of their grand ride on horseback than either she or Elsie had experienced while partaking of it. But the whole story came out when Lancy came in during the evening, and Mr. Sherwood's look of tender solicitude contrasted strangely with the mother's apparent unconcern, as the story of their adventure was related at length.

"I am forgetting that I was sent in here with a message," Lancy said, a few minutes later. "Elsie has been asking to see you, Dexie, and mother wishes to know if you are too tired to run in a few minutes."

Dexie followed Lancy into his own door, and running swiftly up the stairs was soon bending over Elsie, who was wrapped up like a mummy.

"I did not want to see you for anything very particular," Elsie said, in answer to Dexie's inquiry. "But I could not go to sleep for thinking of last night. It seems so good to be in my own bed again, safe, after all my fears, that I wanted to tell you once more how sorry I am for being so cross with you; for I was awful cross, Dexie, when you talked so harshly to me."

"Now, Elsie! don't speak as if there were anything for you to be sorry for, or I shall have such qualms of conscience as will surely make me ill," was Dexie's laughing reply.

After a few minutes' chat, Dexie left the room to return home, but Lancy was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, and he drew her into the parlor, saying:

"Stay with me a little while, Dexie, do; no one will disturb us here, and I want to have a 'sing.' Your father or Gussie are sure to be in the parlor if we go into your house."

"Well, it will have to be a short 'sing,' Lancy, for the drive in the wind has made me sleepy."

When Mrs. Gurney passed the door a few minutes later, and peeped into the dimly lighted room to listen to the soft strains that met her ears, she smiled and softly withdrew, for Lancy was seated at the instrument, and Dexie stood by his side, her hand resting carelessly on his shoulder, while they sang what Mrs. Gurney knew was their private thanksgiving.

As the last notes died away, Lancy turned on the music-stool and took her hand; Dexie's thoughts had been so engrossed that, for the moment, she let it rest there, when she heard the low-spoken words: "I want to tell you something, Dexie."

Instantly Elsie's words flashed into her mind, and she tried to break away from the arm that encircled her waist.

"Let me go, Lancy," was the startled cry. "It is time I was home."

"I will take you home presently, Dexie; I want to talk to you a few minutes first," and catching her hands in his he held her close.

"But I do not want to be held here! Oh, Lancy! let go my hands. I must go home."

"Be quiet and listen to me a minute, Dexie; only a minute. I want to tell you that, when I left you both in the sleigh last night, I felt far worse about leaving you than my own sister. Do you know why, Dexie?"

"I don't want to know, Lancy. I don't want to hear another word."

"You can't get away from me, Dexie; so don't try. I want to tell you," he added, in a lower tone, "that before last night I never knew why it was that I liked to spend all the time I could with you. I thought it was on account of our music, but as I walked through the storm last night the truth came to me. I love you, Dexie, and that is why my heart kept me up till I found help. I was almost wild with fear that something would happen to you before I could get you safely sheltered. Yes, darling, I love you; and the thought has made me feel so light of heart that I could sing all the time for very joy."

"Oh, Lancy! how can you talk so. You have spoiled all our good times together, for I'll never come in here again when I know you are home," and she turned her face away from his earnest gaze.

"Oh, yes, you will; you will not be so unkind as that. If you refuse to come in here I will go into your house just twice as often; so you can't get rid of me, Dexie," was the smiling reply.

There was a moment's silence, when Dexie said: "It will be a pity for us to quarrel, Lancy, but you must not talk to me like this any more. Really, I did not think you could be so silly. Think how they would all tease us if anyone should find us here; and you know Gussie would make my life a misery if she guessed you had been talking such nonsense."

"It is not 'nonsense' to tell you that I love you, but my love shall not be a source of annoyance to you; no one need know it. Everything will be as usual, only, Dexie, you will know that I love you, and I will know—well, what, Dexie? You do not dislike me any more than you did two days ago, do you?" he whispered.

"I have not changed in the least, but I shall dislike you very much, Lancy, if you do not try and forget what has been said here this evening."

"I cannot forget it even if I wanted to, Dexie. Do not think that I want to vex you, dear, but I want you to understand me. Now, there is only one thing more, Dexie," and his voice grew tender; "that kiss you gave me last night in the sleigh seems to be resting on my lips yet, and has been a sweet memory all day long. But, Dexie," and he laughed softly, "you know it was a very cold kiss, after all. Give me a warm one to take its place, and I'll let you go."

Dexie shook her head and tried to draw back from him. She felt so distressed that the tears were on the point of falling. She had gone through so much during the last few hours, and this unexpected interview tried her more than Lancy was aware.

"Only one kiss," he urged. "You gave it willingly last night, darling."

"But things are not the same as they were last night."

"No, I love you better, Dexie. May I?" But without waiting for permission he kissed the face so near him, and found it wet with tears.

"Dexie, darling, I did not think you would care so much. Forgive me if I vexed you; you kissed me last night without a word."

"But you are not the same, and there was a reason last night. It is not fair, Lancy. You have quite spoiled our good times for the future."

"No, not spoiled them, only made them dearer. Dexie, you shan't be vexed with me. Come over on the sofa and let me talk to you."

"No; you said you would let me go home, and I want to go now, this very minute."

"Very well." He rose and pulled her shawl over her shoulders, then followed her silently into the shelter of her own door. He would have followed her into the house as well, forgetting that Dexie's face would tell tales, but she stopped him at the door.

"I don't want to see you any more to-night, Lancy; I really don't," she said, as they stood a moment in the front hall.

"You are displeased with me for telling you that I love you. Perhaps I should have waited a little longer before speaking about it; but, Dexie, I couldn't keep it to myself. I had to tell you."

"I would not have been any more pleased to hear it, even if you had kept it longer;" and, lifting her eyes to his face for a moment, added, "I am not exactly vexed with you, Lancy, but I'm not pleased either. Now, go home; do." Being thus summarily dismissed, there was no choice left him; but before he turned to obey her command, he raised her hand to his lips, and whispered a tender "Good-night, Dexie."

She stood and watched him down the steps, then turned and went quickly to her own room, and locking the door behind her threw herself face down on the bed, and for a few minutes wept without restraint. She felt completely unnerved; so much had happened during the last twenty-four hours that had tried her strength and courage, that Lancy's declaration had filled up the measure of her strength.

But her thoughts, always rapid, soon worked out a semblance of order from the confusion that filled her mind, and she dried her eyes and began to review her conduct in the light that others probably judged her.

She would not deny, even to herself, that she preferred Lancy's company to that of any of her male friends; but they were both so young that it was ridiculous to even imagine that their intimacy meant more than common friendship. However, if Lancy chose to be silly, that was no reason that she should become sentimental also. She was not obliged to fall in love just because Lancy fancied himself in that condition. It would be horrid not to see him or sing with him again when their voices chorded so well together; and Lancy never misunderstood her, if everyone else did. Yes, it would be very hard not to be friendly with him; but, there! surely one can be friendly with a gentleman without being expected to fall in love with him, and she felt positive that if there were a Prince Charming for her, his name was not Lancy Gurney.

Having thus decided the matter satisfactorily to herself, she rose and quickly prepared herself for bed; for several days after she took good care not to be left alone with Lancy, and she kept him at a distance by her saucy speeches.

But his manner to her was the same as usual. The tender look in his eyes, when they met hers, was the only reminder of his words. The knowledge of his love, too, ceased to annoy her, or it was crowded back by the many incidents that filled her life at this time; but it was there, ready to spring up at the slightest touch.



CHAPTER X.

The first day of April dawned brightly. The warm rays of the sun seemed doubly welcome after the cold, stormy weather of the previous month, and the streets were filled with people, who were out enjoying the sunshine regardless of the mud that covered their feet at every step.

But Nova Scotians are a courageous people the whole country over, as witness the intrepidity with which they walk to and fro, year after year, through mud that seems in some places almost bottomless; for, strange though it may seem to outsiders, who cannot expect to learn the secrets of the learned road commissioners, the more time and money spent on a road the softer and muddier it seems to become.

It is a fact that can be vouched for by many responsible persons, that once, while a poor man was walking along one of the country roads in early spring, he sank so deep in the mire that, on putting forth his strength to lift his leg, he pulled it apart above the knee, leaving the lower half sticking in the mud! Fortunately he was carrying a strong cane, and by leaning upon it he managed to keep upright until help arrived, when he was rescued from his perilous position. After much difficulty, the imbedded limb was extracted from the mud, and safely fastened again in its place—it was made of wood!

But, leaving facts for fiction, let us step into the Sherwood household, and we will find Mr. Sherwood busy preparing for another trip to Prince Edward Island.

Mr. Plaisted had arrived from New York a few weeks previously, and was to accompany him, though the departure of this gentleman would cause no regrets in the household, for his true nature had been revealed during his stay amongst them. His bland and courteous manner was not inborn—it had but a surface character; and if "to know a man you must live in the house with him," then it took but a short time to become thoroughly acquainted with Mr. Plaisted. If he had not been so puffed up with conceit, he would have felt the altered atmosphere around him; but he was not sensitive—not in the least—and he could stand an unlimited amount of snubbing without being touched. His familiarity had indeed "bred contempt," and the hope of his speedy departure alone kept back the threatened storm. Even Nancy in the kitchen had been heard to say that, "if the scented dandy didn't kape out ov her kitchen wid his imperdent speeches, she would give him wan blow wid her fist that would spoil his beauty for him," and threatened to "give warnin'" if the mistress did not keep him to his own quarters.

Mrs. Sherwood was more than satisfied to leave all unpleasant things for Aunt Jennie to settle. It was quite convenient to be an "invalid" when there was trouble below stairs, and it required more than a hint to make Plaisted see that he was transgressing all rules of hospitality. When Mr. Sherwood announced that the Straits were opened, and they would leave at once to catch the first boat, they were all willing to "speed the parting guest," even though he would take Mr. Sherwood away with him also.

Strange though it may seem, Gussie was the only one who saw no fault to find in Mr. Plaisted. He was too free with his compliments to be anything but pleasant company to her. She was willing enough to listen to his soft speeches, for in her eyes he was a hero of romance, and the warning words and admonitions of Aunt Jennie only served to exalt him higher in her estimation.

Dexie treated him with such frigid politeness that he did not care to meet her cold stare more often than necessary; so, when he sought Gussie's society, Mr. Sherwood or Aunt Jennie were the only ones likely to interrupt the tete-a-tete.

But things were not always to run so smoothly for Mr. Plaisted, and this first day of April brought such discomfiture that his fastidious feelings were very much upset. About noon, when the streets were thronged with pedestrians returning from work or school to the mid-day meal, Dexie noticed Mr. Plaisted sauntering toward the house, twirling his light cane and looking as if he thought himself the pink of perfection. But what was it that was fluttering in the breeze behind him? Some urchin—exasperated, no doubt, by Plaisted's immaculate appearance—had fastened to his coat-tails a bunch of dirty rags, and as Dexie watched him from the window, she was convulsed with laughter as she saw him lift his hat and bow profoundly to the two Desbrasy girls on the opposite sidewalk, who immediately pulled out their handkerchiefs and applied them to their faces; but he walked on, unconscious of the diversion he was causing to the passers-by. As he came into the house, Dexie struck an attitude, and exclaimed, in a tragic voice, "I could a tale unfold!"

Plaisted stood in the doorway, and looked at her in amazement.

"Dexie, don't be a fool," said Gussie, looking up from her wools, and frowning at her sister's strange behavior.

"No, Gussie; I don't intend even to try and be one, for when Mr. Plaisted assumes that character, no one else has a possible chance either as court fool or April fool."

Plaisted was too surprised to speak, and Dexie took no heed to his darkening brow, but continued, "So you have been studying Shakespeare, and this is a practical illustration, I presume; or possibly you are posing as a disciple of Darwin, and, to prove his theory, have unfolded your tail to the public gaze. I have often wondered what it was you needed to make you a perfect specimen of what Nature intended you to be." Then, catching his arm, she turned him about that Gussie might see, adding, "He is quite complete now, Gussie—see! This is a specimen of the species known as the 'missing link.'"

"For goodness' sake! how long have you been carrying that?" cried Gussie, quite horrified at the sight.

Plaisted turned his head, and understood at a glance the meaning of Dexie's words. Then, angrily grasping the cause of offence, he endeavored to remove it, till an ominous sound of tearing cloth caused him to desist.

"Take it off! take it off! You, Dexter!" he cried, backing around to her. "Take off that trash, I say!"

But that word "Dexter" sealed all chance of help as far as Dexie was concerned, for she put her hands behind her back and surveyed him scornfully.

"Not I! I wouldn't disfigure you for worlds; it quite completes your appearance. It would be a sin to remove what Nature seems to have forgotten in your make-up."

"Do take it off for him, Dexie," said Gussie, coaxingly. I would myself, only I don't want to dirty my hands."

"And do you think that Dexter is going to soil her beautiful hands by touching the dirty rags? No; Dexter is not! There might be smallpox on them for all I know; I'm sure they're spotted enough."

Plaisted turned and twisted himself this way and that, in vain endeavors to reach the back of his coat, but could not manage it; and as he stood for a minute, his hands held out in front of him, while he looked over his shoulder at the unwelcome appendage, he did indeed present a woful figure.

"Why don't you take your coat off?" Gussie said at last.

"Oh! confound it; I never thought of that," as he twisted himself out of his coat.

"Why, of course you didn't think of it," retorted Dexie. "How could you be expected to? Everybody knows that creatures with tails are not supposed to think at all."

"Dexie, I'll tell papa if you won't stop; you are impudent," Gussie said, sharply.

"Do tell papa, Gussie. I only wish he were here to see the sight himself. He does not know what he is missing by being late for dinner. It is too bad that he must get the story second-hand, when he might have enjoyed the edifying sight himself if he had only been on time."

"I'd like to see the wretch that put that trash on my coat," said Plaisted, as he flung the mass into the grate. "By George! I'd fix him."

"I'd give a lot to see him myself," said Dexie, exultingly, from the other side of the table; "and he should have at least a quarter for that piece of work, though I'm sure it was worth a whole dollar to see you strutting up the street with signals of distress waving in the breeze behind you. Ha, ha!"

"I believe you did it yourself before I went out," he said, white with rage.

"Oh! I do wish I had! How I do wish I had thought of it! How proud I should feel if I had been the one to give the citizens of Halifax such a grand idea of what the lost species are like; and how generous of you, too, to give a free exhibition of yourself, in your proper form, when you might have gone to the dime museum and earned a fortune!"

Plaisted felt too wrathy to reply, but he gave her a look that was meant to annihilate her; then turning to Gussie, who seemed to sympathize with him, said,

"I met those Desbrasy girls as I was coming up the street, and I do believe they saw it. Confound the thing! I remember now that they pulled out their handkerchiefs directly I bowed. I daresay they were laughing at me!"

"Laughing! not they!" put in Dexie. "They happened to see your feet, and were weeping with envy because theirs were so much bigger! Don't fret, Mr. Plaisted, you are not worth looking at without this finishing touch," and with a scornful laugh she passed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Plaisted drew a sigh of relief when his tormentor vanished.

"Bless my soul! what a tongue that girl has," and he wiped the perspiration from his brow. "I hope she don't often let her temper loose like that."

"Well, no; but you have only yourself to blame for it, and I was almost going to say that it serves you right, too."

"Why! how's that?" said Plaisted, in surprise.

"Well, you know very well that you have tormented Dexie about Lancy Gurney till you have aroused her temper quite often; but you might have escaped if you had not insulted her just now."

"Insult her! How, pray? I'm sure I did not."

"You called her 'Dexter,' and that is a name she can't stand from anybody. I believe she would have taken off those rags for you if you had spoken to her as 'Dexie,' for she really is obliging, you know, though she did enjoy seeing you made an April fool."

"Bless my soul! I never noticed that I called her Dexter; and so that was the spark that caused the explosion? Well, I shall not forget it in a hurry."

"She generally succeeds in paying back, with double interest, anyone who uses that name to her, as I know to my sorrow," said Gussie, with a shake of her head. "Yet, after all, I don't blame her much, either; but it is the one spot in her make-up that seems vulnerable."

"Well, it is a good thing that I am going away so soon. I expect she will make it hot for me while I am here."

"Oh, no! I guess you are safe, Mr. Plaisted. The storm is over for this time, unless you care to brew another like it; the one word will do it, you know," and she looked up with a smile.

"Thanks; I beg to be excused! That one experience is enough to last me for one while. Ugh! I wonder if there was any disease on those dirty rags," looking at his fingers and then on his coat, as if in doubt which would be the first to break out with it.

As he left the room to smooth out his ruffled plumage, holding his coat at arm's length before him, the sounds of laughter in the next room greeted his ears. As he listened a moment he heard Dexie relating the particulars of the scene in the parlor, and he shook his fist in the direction of the sound. This relieved his feelings somewhat, and he vowed a hasty vow that, for the future, he would leave Dexie Sherwood and her doings alone. He would have spared himself many unpleasant moments if he had kept his vow.

During the time that Mr. Plaisted was staying with the Sherwoods, Gussie had been very cool to Hugh McNeil. As the former was about to leave the city, Gussie thought it time to recall her old "stand-by," and was surprised to find that Hugh was less ready to return to her side than formerly. A feeling of jealousy arose in her heart when she saw that Hugh's attentions were transferred to Dexie.

Hugh had not ceased to come in during the evenings, as usual, even though Gussie was cool and abrupt with him. Not wishing Hugh to feel hurt by the change in her sister, Dexie had talked to him, and had played and whistled for his amusement, till the little spark of kindly regard which had formerly represented his feelings for Dexie was fast being fanned into a flame of passion by these little attentions, which were bestowed in a friendly way, and for her sister's sake.

Dexie was not aware of the change in Hugh McNeil until Mr. Plaisted had left the city, and she was surprised and displeased to see that Hugh now ignored Gussie's presence almost as much as Gussie had his when Mr. Plaisted was near, and turned to her instead.

It was hard to define her true feelings, but when she understood that Hugh had mistaken her friendliness, her whole being seemed to rise up in a vigorous protest. As it is "an ill wind that blows nobody good," Lancy was made happy again by Dexie's presence. She no longer sought to evade him, and her soft, rippling laughter, mingling with the low tones of Lancy's voice, was again heard as they lingered over the piano together.

This made Hugh mad with jealousy, and the fact became so plain to Dexie that her manner was even more gracious to Lancy when Hugh was by to observe it.

But Hugh's sturdy Scotch nature came to the front, and he made a mental resolve to win her in spite of everything; even his master's son should not take Dexie from him. He would wait, but would not vex her by pressing his suit at present when it seemed so distasteful to her; she might smile on someone else instead of Lancy, then he could watch her less easily. He would not meddle with the existing state of things.

Yet he had one bit of comfort given him. He it was who hastily appeared in the Sherwood household one morning with the startling intelligence of the assassination of President Lincoln.

The events "at home" were closely watched by all the family, and this unexpected calamity, just at this time, was as much of a blow to them as to those nearer the scene of strife.

Hugh had always been "Mr. McNeil" to Dexie. She had never used the more familiar name, as the rest of the family were in the habit of doing; but when she heard him tell his news, she caught his arm, and exclaimed:

"Oh, Hugh! do you think it is true, or only a report? Tell us, quickly!" and she looked eagerly into his face, as if to read the truth there.

Hugh longed to clasp the hand that rested on his arm for a moment, for during all their intercourse she had never called him "Hugh," and it thrilled his heart as it fell from her lips. He wished that he might be the bearer of any news, however unwelcome, if it would cause her to forget her reserve and repeat again that little word "Hugh."

But nothing happened, and matters went on about the same during the weeks that followed.

Mr. Sherwood did not return home for some time, for, after selling his horses, he made a lengthy visit to his mother, who was not in the best of spirits at this time. She was alarmed at his boldness in coming to see her, though he assured her he had taken all precaution, her old enemies need not hear of his presence. His visit so cheered her that he saw she needed something to take her thoughts away from herself, and from the conflict that engaged her mind.

Having expressed a desire to have one of her granddaughters come and live with her for a season, and having a preference for Louie, who seemed to be a part of the dear old southern home whose name she bore, it was decided that Mr. Sherwood should bring her to the old homestead for a long visit.

Dinah had been sorely missed by her mistress, though she was slow to acknowledge it; but, at Mr. Sherwood's suggestion, it was decided to bring her back with Louie, that the faithful old nurse might spend her last days with those she had known and loved all her life.



CHAPTER XI.

The influence which a family like the Gurneys unconsciously exert over those brought in contact with them, was not without effect on the lives of their next door neighbors. As Dexie was so intimate with the family, and spent so much of her time amongst them, she was the first to feel it, and the controlling power which governed the Gurney household was finding root in her heart also. She did not realize this herself, but the signs were apparent to those accustomed to look below the surface for the motive that governs all actions.

Aunt Jennie saw more of Dexie's inner life than did her own parents. To them she seemed the same good-natured, light-hearted girl, growing, perhaps, a little more thoughtful and attentive than they could have expected, considering her active nature; yet, if they had thought to compare even the Sunday life of the household with what it had been when they first came to Halifax, they would have been surprised at the change in themselves.

Formerly it was the custom to spend the greater part of the Sabbath morning in bed, and, after a late breakfast, Mr. Sherwood read the American papers until dinner was served. In the evening a walk was indulged in, or, if a popular preacher was announced to appear in any of the churches, he would attend, taking some member of the family with him; but it was seldom that Mrs. Sherwood attended public worship. As the head of the house passed the Sabbaths in this careless fashion, the rest of the household felt free to spend it as it pleased themselves also.

No one seemed to hold the day any more sacred than the other six, except Aunt Jennie; but as Dexie came to note the difference in the Sunday life of her next-door neighbors, and mentally compared it with how the day was spent at home, she inwardly resented the feelings that would intrude themselves, for they pointed out the fact quite plainly that there was something needed in their lives at home which was engrafted in the household next door; and, though she scarcely knew what to do to remedy a difference she did not care to define even to herself, yet she silently resolved that an outward form at least, similar to what she saw next door, should yet be practised at home, for she could not bear the silent reproach any longer.

When Dexie opened her heart to Aunt Jennie about it, she found that the same thing had troubled her quiet auntie for a long time; so together they laid plans that eventually brought about a different Sunday life from that the family had hitherto known. Yet the change began in a very commonplace way, too; for instead of enjoying the extra sleep that the family usually indulged in, they were aroused one Sunday morning by repeated calls to breakfast—calls which were hard to resist when the opened doors let in such appetizing odors from the kitchen, where Aunt Jennie was superintending the morning meal. And if their olfactories were closed to this appeal, their ears were not so easily shut to the sounds that Dexie was bringing forth from the piano, as hymns, anthems and psalms followed in succession, and made further sleep impossible.

"What has got into you all this morning? Have you forgotten it is Sunday?" said Mr. Sherwood, appearing at last. "How can anyone sleep with all this racket going on, Dexie?" he added, stepping into the parlor. "What on earth made you rout us out of bed at this hour? Why, it is not nine o'clock yet!"

"Oh! you slept long enough papa. I am sure we don't need more sleep on Sunday morning than we do any other day. You'll not be sorry you got up when once you have tasted some of the good things auntie has made for breakfast," and she raised her mouth for a kiss, then led him to the table.

Gussie made her appearance in time to sit down with the rest, but she looked cross at Dexie for having disturbed her.

"This is the first Sunday morning we have all met at the breakfast table for months, I do believe," said Mr. Sherwood, leaning back in his chair, as he finished the meal. "But where are the papers this morning? What! still in the office? However am I going to pass the day without my papers? Strange that no one thought of going for them last night."

Someone had thought of it, but had purposely forgotten again, hoping that he might be induced to attend some place of worship in the morning, if for no better reason than to pass the time away.

The Gurneys were members of the Episcopal Church and attended at St. Paul's. Dexie had often accompanied them on Sundays, and had grown familiar with the service that was, in after-life, so dear to her; but, knowing that her father disliked that form of worship, she intended to persuade him to attend St. Matthew's (Presbyterian), as she knew he had a great respect for the officiating clergyman.

"Well, papa, since the time will seem long to you with nothing particular to do, why not come with Gussie and I to hear Dr. Grant? They have a fine choir at St. Matthew's; so we will be sure to enjoy either the sermon or the singing, if not both."

"Oh, I'm not going out this morning, Dexie, so speak for yourself," said Gussie. "It is a horrid bother to dress up so early in the day. I have a nice book to read, so, if you want to go out, you can go with the Gurneys, as usual."

"But I would rather go some place with papa," said Dexie; "and it will be nicer to make a family party of it. Besides, I want to hear what the new singer is like, and of course I can't go alone. You remember Cora Beverly was talking about her, and says she has the sweetest voice she ever heard. You will come with us, won't you, papa?" she asked, coaxingly, as she went behind his chair and stroked his hair.

"Well, I'll see, by and by," Mr. Sherwood replied. "I may go with you this evening, though."

"Now, papa, what will prevent you from coming this morning? I do think you will be most unkind if you refuse, for I have set my heart on hearing that singer. Now, do say 'yes,' papa."

"Well, you little torment, yes, then! Now, leave my hair alone, or you'll have my head as bald as the back of my hand," holding her away at arm's-length.

Dexie bent over and gave him a final kiss; then, turning to Gussie, said:

"Did you see how nicely I have done up your frills and laces, Gussie? That pretty cream lace will look lovely with your new dress, if you frill it around the neck."

"New dress, indeed! Old made over thing, you'd better call it!" was the scornful answer.

"Well, it is too bad that it was not made up to suit you at first. Now that it has been altered, it looks quite stylish, and becomes you splendidly, and this is just the day to wear your new hat."

This bit of flattery had the desired effect. Gussie decided that it really was too fine to stay indoors, so she rose from the table to begin her preparations for church.

"Seems to me you have taken to psalm-singing very suddenly," said Gussie, as Dexie accompanied her preparations with some song of David that was unfamiliar to Gussie's ears.

"Oh, no! they sing psalms every Sunday at the Episcopal Church," and Dexie hummed away with a light heart.

"But not to such tunes as that! They go hopping along on one note, like a hen with a sore foot, and then end up altogether differently from what you expect. Chanting is not singing, and I think it sounds ridiculous."

"Well, a hen with a sore foot would sing a mournful song, I fear; but if you would come to St. Paul's some morning and hear them sing the Te Deum, you would not think there was anything mournful about it. It sounds just glorious! Everyone might not think so," she added, noting her sister's scornful look; "but everyone does not admire psalm-singing after the Presbyterian style, either. However, chant, psalm or hymn, it's all one to me so long as I know the tunes, for I hate to stand as dumb as a post when I go to a place of worship. Some people are content to have nothing more to do in the service than say 'Amen' at the close of the benediction, but I think a responsive service claims the attention of careless churchgoers, and gives people something else to think of besides the style of the garments of those around them."

"Well, I enjoy looking at the styles when I go to church, and I hope people will think my hat is becoming," said outspoken Gussie; "I believe other people put on their fine feathers on Sunday with the same object. However, I do believe that an ugly hat is as conspicuous as a handsome one."

"Well, I suppose it is! I wonder if there is such a thing as a 'happy medium' in trimming a hat. Dear me! what a lot of things a person has to think of in this world!" and with a sigh she followed her sister downstairs.

Aunt Jennie watched them depart with a prayer in her heart that some message might reach the heart of her careless brother-in-law, and she seemed to have had her prayer answered, for he was willing enough to attend the same church the following Sunday.

But Gussie was not attracted either by the sermon or the singing. Something else had to be the attraction to draw her out of a Sunday morning, unless she was urged with a persistency that would have moved a mule in the tantrums.

But when Mrs. Sherwood announced, one Sunday morning, that she would accompany the rest to church, Dexie felt that her happiness was complete. She knew it was owing to Aunt Jennie's influence that her mother had put forth this extra exertion, and though it was Sunday, Dexie felt like dancing a jig around the floor, for her mother had become even more indifferent than her easy-going father in matters pertaining to religion.

In the Gurney household there was no day in the week so gladly welcomed as the Sabbath, and of a family containing so many young children this is no light thing to say.

In the first place, the little ones were so anxious not to lose any of the many extra treats that this glad day afforded them, that they put on their best behavior with their Sunday garments—and where is the person, little or big, that does not feel more important in his best clothes, and act accordingly.

Then instead of having breakfast in the nursery, with nurse at the head of the table, the family met around the one table, below stairs; and to the little ones this was a treat indeed. Having the children around him only one day in seven made it quite a change for Mr. Gurney also, though it wearied while it delighted him; and each succeeding Sunday he more fully realized the blessing he possessed in his good wife, for he had none of that patience and tact that is required to keep such a family in order.

Then on fine Sundays all the children went to church, except the two youngest, and the advent of a new member in the family was hailed with delight by one of the family at least; for of course a baby, however new, counted one, and it was warmly welcomed by the one who was thus raised to the dignity of a church-goer.

We must not forget the treat that was reserved for Sunday afternoons, for directly after Sunday-school there was sure to be in readiness for each member of the family a plate containing what the children called "goodies." This was a mixture of confectionery, dates or figs, apples, nuts, pears or oranges, or other fruits as the season might be. As Dexie Sherwood was expected to spend this part of the day with the family, her plate was regularly prepared with the rest; and until the time that Lancy had made known his feelings for her, Dexie had enjoyed the tete-a-tete which he always managed to arrange in some quiet corner. Even now she was not always able to avoid it, without being positively rude, for she could not make Elsie see that her presence was necessary when Lancy managed to give his sister the impression that it was otherwise; it was quite clear that Mother Gurney saw nothing amiss in Lancy's desire to take Dexie "somewhere out of the noise," for the little ones made much of their Sunday freedom.

It was during one of these Sunday afternoon chats that a better understanding was arrived at between Lancy and Dexie. They were sitting in the parlor, with a screen drawn between them and any chance observer, their plates on a small table near them, when Dexie playfully tossed over a piece of confectionery bearing the words, "You look unhappy."

Lancy looked up with such a tender look in his eyes that Dexie instantly repented her action, but it was too late, and she dropped her eyes to read the sweet messenger that fell in her lap, "You have my heart."

Dexie had no answer except, "Do forgive me," and she tossed it over with a look in her eyes that filled Lancy with an unutterable longing to take her in his arms.

"What shall I forgive you for?" he said, laying his hand on hers. "I am not unhappy, only when I see how you try to avoid me. I have kept my promise, and have not spoken a word that could annoy you. Why do you try never to be alone with me? It is hard to forgive you for that," he said, in a low tone.

"I did not mean anything by those silly candies; I was only in fun."

"Then you don't want to be forgiven, is that it? or do you mean that you are going to be good to me in the future?"

"I don't know what 'being good' implies, so I won't promise," she replied, smiling.

"It means that you will not act as if you were afraid to be alone with me a minute, and to talk to me as freely as you did before, well—before that snowstorm. You have never put your hand on my shoulder, and asked me to take you any place since then. You don't know how I miss the pleasant hours we used to spend together, or the delight I felt in the pressure of the hand that has never willingly touched mine since I spoke to you here in the parlor. The Dexie I knew a few weeks ago seems to have gone away, and I miss her very much, indeed."

"I can't be the same as I used to be, Lancy. Something is different, and I'm so afraid someone will make remarks about us if we are so much together as we used to be."

"What kind of remarks? tell me, Dexie. Something we would be ashamed to hear?" and he smiled into her distressed face.

"You know what I mean very well, Lancy, and I couldn't bear it."

"Did you ever hear any remarks before—before that snowstorm?"

"No! I never thought there was anything to make remarks about, but I have been looking at things differently lately."

"In what way, Dexie? Do tell me?" and he caught her hands in a firm clasp.

"Don't, Lancy! Please stop! There has been enough said and done already to make people talk if they knew about it."

"Only a few words, and one little kiss, that was all, Dexie. If the thought of what people might say keeps us apart, you are very foolish, for if we were never to speak to each other again we would be accused of having had a 'lover's quarrel,' so don't keep me at a distance any longer on that account. You are making us both miserable for nothing; for I don't believe you are enjoying yourself a bit under the new rule that you have set up. Confess now, are you? honor bright, Dexie?" and he looked eagerly into her eyes.

"Well, no, Lancy," and she looked up with a smile. "It isn't quite so nice as it used to be, and I have stayed home several times when I wanted to go out. I am not shy, naturally, you know, and I would have asked for your escort if there had not been reasons to prevent me. Hugh has been very anxious to show his gallantry, but nothing would tempt me to go three steps with that big Frenchman."

"Well, I wish Hugh could hear you say that, Dexie, for I was beginning to feel jealous. He talks so much about you I was afraid he had entered the lists against me."

"Lancy, what nonsense you talk! Hugh is Gussie's particular property. What made you fancy that I had stepped into her shoes?"

"Nothing that need vex you, Dexie, so don't frown; but he told me in confidence, you know, that you were—but there; it was in confidence, so I won't repeat what he said. I know he cares more for you than for Gussie, and the fact don't please me very well."

Dexie was silent for some minutes. The remembrance of certain looks and speeches that Hugh had lately addressed to her were now explained; he thought she had quarrelled with Lancy, and he was anxious to take Lancy's place. She lifted her eyes, saying:

"Hugh shall have no chance to think any such a thing. But I know how it has happened. Gussie had no eyes for anyone else while that Plaisted was here, so I had to entertain Hugh occasionally; but dear me! how soft he must be, if my foolish songs have turned his brain."

And then, looking shyly into his eyes, she added, "I won't run away from you any more, Lancy. We will go back to our old ways, but don't talk any more nonsense to me, and we will be chums again. Is it a bargain, Lancy?"

Lancy bent nearer to the curly head that was bent to hide her blushing face, then, seizing her hands, held her close as he whispered, in a tender voice:

"That's my Dexie back again! I won't annoy you with words, but you know what my feelings are for you all the same. Now, seal the bargain, Dexie," and he turned her face to his.

Well, the perversity of girls! is there anything equal to it? Must it really be confessed that the girl who thought that one little stolen kiss was worth crying over should raise her pretty mouth to receive a much longer caress; yes, and enjoy it, too! But there! come to think of it, that first kiss in the parlor was a one-sided affair, reluctantly received; and a one-sided kiss is like—is like—well, whatever is it like? We give it up!



CHAPTER XII.

Returning home by way of Eastport, Mr. Sherwood took passage in a vessel bound for Londonderry, a small seaport on the Bay of Fundy, and from there he travelled by stage to Truro, where he took the train for Halifax.

While on the train an incident took place which, while affording amusement for the passengers, led to after-results that were quite surprising to the Sherwoods.

It seems that a countryman, hailing from Prince Edward Island, had accompanied the vessel in which he had shipped the surplus oats and potatoes that had grown on his farm, and the vessel had arrived in Halifax a few days previously. This being his first trip "abroad," he had determined to see all the sights which the city of Halifax afforded while he waited for the vessel to discharge her cargo and prepare for the return trip to Charlottetown.

His innocent air soon attracted the attention of some sharpers, or "confidence men," as they would have been termed in a later day, and thinking he had met the "gentry for shure" in the well-dressed scamps that were so friendly to him, the countryman willingly accompanied them to an uptown resort, where he was treated to drugged liquor, and then robbed of the tidy sum that the sale of his produce had brought him. Then, adding insult to injury, they had taken him to the depot, and, placing a ticket for Truro in his hatband, they put him on board the cars and left him to his fate.

He was put off the train at Truro in a dazed condition, and passed the night in some out-of-the-way corner of the freight house, where he slept off the effect of the liquor.

His alarm and astonishment when he came to himself and found he was alone and in a strange place, and with empty pockets, was both painful and ludicrous to witness. His distress seemed all the greater in that he had not the faintest idea where he was or how to get back to his vessel waiting alongside the wharf in Halifax.

It took some time to make his story understood, but when it became known to the men about the depot they gave him a good breakfast, and determined to get him "dead-headed" to the city, as the farmer felt sure he could easily find the thieves and recover his money if he once got back to Halifax. He had never seen a train of cars in his life, being too drunk the night before to know how he was travelling; so when the train steamed into the depot next morning, after announcing its approach by ear-splitting shrieks, he dropped out of sight behind a pile of boxes, thinking that some wild creature was let loose upon the streets. Before he could collect his scattered senses he was seized by strong hands and stowed away in a corner of a freight car, where, upon bags of potatoes, he was told to "sit down and keep out of sight." For the first few miles he literally obeyed the injunction, for he shook and trembled with fright, and with every shriek of the engine he ducked his head, thinking his very life was in danger; but as time went by and he still found himself whole and uninjured, he took courage, and sat up and looked about him as well as the dim and close car would permit. By and by the motion of the car caused the door to slide open a few inches, for, fortunately or unfortunately, the door had been left unlocked, so he crawled cautiously forward and peered through the opening, wondering greatly at the frightful speed of the "animal" that was drawing them along, but he concluded that it was "michty encouragin'," for at the pace they were going he would soon be within reach of the rascals who had emptied his pockets.

Not content to let well enough alone, he disregarded the injunction given him to "stay there," and when the train stopped for a few minutes at Shubenacadie, a station on the line, he stepped out on the platform to have a look about him; but not being quick or daring enough to step back on the moving train, he came very near losing his ride.

Fortunately, one of the train hands who had befriended him at first, saw him as the train moved along, and pulled him aboard the second-class car as it passed them.

Having previously been stowed away among the freight, he had no idea of the accommodation for travellers behind him, and the sight of so many people, sitting quietly on the seats, filled him with awe.

But the good-natured brakeman now drew him inside the car, intending to place his wandering friend back into his former quarters as soon as the train stopped at the next station.

When the eyes of the countryman had taken in the scene, the thought immediately suggested itself that this must be some sort of a meeting-house or chapel that was travelling along.

He stood for a few minutes regarding the people before him; then turning a solemn face to the brakeman asked, in a properly subdued voice, as became the situation:

"Is there preachin' here the day?"

Not comprehending the meaning of this question, but thinking the countryman meditated a religious attack on those who were present, the brakeman replied:

"Not to-day; these are good Catholics."

"Ye dinna tell me!" and his eyes and mouth expanded in surprise. "An' are they repeatin' their prayers?" he innocently asked.

"Oh, yes, everyone of them," was the reply.

"Then let me oot o' this!" he cried, reaching for the door. "It's to Halifax I want to go, so open the door an' let me oot o' this."

"There! sit down and be quiet, or you'll get put out fast enough," replied the brakeman, giving the man a shove into the seat. "You sit still where you are, mind, or you'll get into trouble," he added, as he turned to attend to his duties outside.

Here was his chance. Our friend from the country felt that he was in trouble already. He had no intention of joining the worshippers, for he was a member of the good old Scotch Kirk; so he opened the car-door, and stepped out to the platform outside.

The swift, sidelong jerks almost took him off his feet. Grasping the hand-rail, and looking around for some means of escape, he cautiously stepped across into the better furnished first-class car behind.

"Bless me, but I'm in luck!" was his inward comment, as he beheld the comfortable seats. Taking the first empty one, he sank down on the cushions with evident delight shining from his eyes at his blissful surroundings.

But the argus-eyed conductor soon spied him, and not recognizing him as a ticket-holder, swooped down upon him at once.

"Your ticket, sir."

"The same to yersel', ma frien'!" was the courteous reply, thinking this some new form of salutation.

"Here! no nonsense! where's your ticket? let's see where you're going."

"Weel, sir, I'm hopin' to get to Halifax some time 'fore long. We seem to be gaun as the craws flee, so nae doot we'll soon get there. Does this—er—buildin'—stop there for victuals or—or onythin'?"

The conductor, thinking him out of his mind, said more mildly:

"Who came with you? Who is looking after you aboard the cars?"

"Oh! a nice young chiel yonder; but he left me alane there, so I stepped oot withoot his kennin' an' popped in here."

"Ah, yes; just so. I've no doubt there is a spare room in one of the public institutions awaiting you. What sort of a looking man has you in charge?"

"Oh! he's a clever young chiel, wi' a door-plate on his bonnet; the sexton, I tak' it."

Not making much out of this information, the conductor left him to make inquiries ahead, tapping his forehead significantly to some passengers near, who had overheard the conversation, and who, as soon as the conductor was out of sight, began to question the "harmless lunatic."

His answers to their inquiries were not more clear than those the conductor had elicited, and Mr. Sherwood, who sat a few seats behind, becoming indignant at the rude jokes that were being made at the expense of the unfortunate man, stepped forward to interfere.

Surely he had seen the man before. He gazed at the man's distressed face, but could not place him.

"What's the trouble, my friend?" he asked, sitting down in the seat behind and leaning over to speak to him.

"I'm shure I dinna ken, sir, at a', at a'. There's a mistak' afloat somewhere. I never was in sic a fix afore. This is a queer kintry, I tak' it."

"Where are you from?"

That question set him on the right track at once. He could tell his story if once he started at the beginning, though he found it impossible to make these strangers comprehend his present dilemma; so beginning from the time he left his own dooryard with the last cartload of potatoes, he gave them a detailed account of his wanderings up to the time when he met the fine young gentlemen in Halifax. But he had no idea how he got to Truro; that was all a blank to him. When Mr. Sherwood explained that the train on which he was riding was a public conveyance which went back and forth daily to carry passengers and freight, he could scarcely believe it. His own explanation seemed the more plausible, for did it not agree with what the young sexton told him? He had been befooled once too often to listen to the many explanations of those around him.

But the conductor now appeared, having found out all there was to tell about the man, and feeling annoyed at his mistake, now demanded of the countryman either his ticket or his fare, and threatened to put him off the train at the next station if he did not produce either the one or the other.

"But, ma guid man, I haena a copper aboot me, or it's wullin' enough I'd be to gie ye a shullin' or so for this fine drive."

"Well, off you get then the next time we stop."

"But shurely ye wadna be pittin' a puir man oot o' yer waggon, or chapel, or whatever ye ca' it, whan there's sae mony empty pews? I'm no croodin' onyane, an' I'm wullin' enough to sit onywhere."

"We don't take people on the cars for nothing," said the conductor, decidedly. "If you can't pay, you can't ride."

"Weel, it's the rich anes that's aye the stingiest, shure enough," replied the man, more to himself than to the brass-buttoned figure before him. "But ye widna fin' the like o' yersel' owre in ma kintry, let me tell ye! The puirest farmer widna refuse to gie a stranger a lift if he was gaun the same way as himsel', even if it was only a kairt that he had, an' it loaded to the brim."

"Can't help it," replied he of the buttons, with a grin. "Off you get at the next station, or we'll put you off without ceremony."

"But I'll no gang aff, if I may be sae bold as to tell ye!" said the now angry farmer. "Ye took me to Truro against ma wull, for why did I want to gang to a place that I never heard o' afore; so, then, ye'll tak' me back to Halifax again, wullin' or no, an' whan I get my money back I'll sen' ye the price o' the drive. If ye think I'm croodin' the gentlemen, I'll gang oot an' sit on the steps o' yer backdoor, but, guidness only kens! there seems room enough in these empty pews for a dizzen o' ma size."

"Here, conductor, I'll pay the man's fare," said Mr. Sherwood, who had listened to the conversation with ill-concealed amusement.

This being satisfactory to the conductor, the man was allowed to keep his seat in peace, and, engaging him in conversation, Mr. Sherwood discovered that he had been the guest of the man's brother during one of his trips to Prince Edward Island. His home was on the north side of the island, and the farm of Roderick McDonald was well known as one of the best-paying places on the "Garden of the St. Lawrence."

On finding that the man beside him was the Yankee horse-buyer, Mr. McDonald rose and shook his hand with a warmth that showed his pleasure at the meeting.

This unexpected kindness from one whom he had learned to consider as a man of unlimited means and unusual smartness, quite set him up in his own estimation.

He began to feel quite elated at his present position, and felt himself a hero as he related to the attentive strangers the many strange things he had seen since he left home, quite ignoring the fact that some of his listeners might have been "abroad" as well as himself.

But it was impossible to put a damper on this loquacious countryman, even though he loudly set forth his own ignorance.

"Oh! but I'm a great traveller!" said he. "There's nae kennin' hoo mony miles I've travelled since I left ma hame on the north side o' the Islan'! Let's see; it's thirty miles frae there to the toon, an' it tak's a hale day to cover the distance wi' a loaded kairt o' tawties, let me tell ye! Then, whan we were snug aboard the vessel, guidness only kens hoo mony miles we went afore we cam' fornenst the city o' Halifax, for we were three days on the michty ocean, at the mercy o' ony storm that micht come alang unawares. Yes, indeed, an' we travelled alang through the dark nicht as weel, they tell me, though that I'm no prepared to say, seem' that I was fast asleep in the hold," and he looked around to see if any of his hearers doubted his word. "Then, whan we got to the wharf in Halifax, an' I selt ma tawties an' oats, I cam' ashore an' tramped the streets o' Halifax, up hill an' doon dale, till ma new buits are a' worn oot behin', as ye can see for yersel's," and he lifted up his feet, one after the other, that the truth of his words might be verified; then continuing: "It was whan the thiefin' scoon'rels met me an' made ma acquaintance that I gaed wrang; but I never suspected they'd start me on ma travels again, an' withoot ma kennin', tae—ay, an' sen' me aff withoot as muckle as a copper in ma pocket, at a', at a'! no even as muckle as wad buy me a bit o' breakfast, which the guid folk at Truro gied me for naethin', an', if it hadna been for them, I don't think I wad ever hae been able to fin' ma way back to ma hame on the farm. But here I am, richt amang the gentlemen an' ladies, travellin' alang like the Queen hersel' micht be prood to dae. Ay, but it's a long story I'll hae to tell them at hame whan ainst I get back to ma ain kintry again, an' it's themsel's that'll be dum'foon'ert to hear me tell aboot the mony kinds o' folk ain meets whan they gang abroad!"

"Have you met any naked savages since you left your distant country?" asked one of the sports, with a wink at his comrade.

"Naked savages, is't, you mean? Ay, that I hae, or nearly naked anes," was the quick reply. "On the streets o' Halifax, sir, near the wharves, sir, that's whaur ye'll come across them, but, dae ye ken noo, I aye thocht that savages were black, made sae I mean whan they were born into this worl'. But, dae ye min', it's masel' thinks that some o' them could be made white, if only ane had soap an' water enough to dae't. No that I didna see ony black savages roamin' roon' as weel; but maist o' them had some claithes on, like decent Christian folk. Some hadna come to that knowledge yet; but the nakedness o' black skinned savages isna sae noticin' as that o' white savages, I tak' it."

A hearty laugh followed this last remark, and the conversation became general, until the train arrived in Halifax.

Mr. Sherwood took the countryman to the police headquarters at once, where the story of the theft was told at length, and as he could give a good description of the men who had robbed him it was thought that they might be captured.

As Mr. Sherwood had received such kind treatment from the man's relations in Prince Edward Island, he thought it but fair to repay it by looking after the farmer during the rest of his stay in the city.

To satisfy the man that the vessel had not sailed during his absence he took him down to the wharf, and, after explaining to the captain the cause of his detention, Mr. Sherwood insisted on taking him up to visit his own family.

The farmer demurred at this, saying that his clothes were not in a fit state to visit anywhere.

This fact was evident, but Mr. Sherwood intended to visit a ready-made clothing store on his way up town, and make his friend presentable.

This was rather a delicate matter to accomplish without wounding the man's feelings; but the native tact of the Yankee served him well here, and when the farmer stepped before the large mirror in the back shop of Silver's clothing store and saw his own reflection, he hardly knew himself.

"But hoo am I ever gaun to repay ye?" he asked. "If I shouldna get ma money back I'll be in a bad fix."

"Not at all, Mr. McDonald. I'll buy the best horse you have got, if you will sell him to me, and we can settle this little matter then; but I made enough on the big black horse I bought from your brother to give you this suit and still have a good profit besides."

"Weel, ye're an honest man, for ye paid a guid price for the beast, an' paid it in cash tae."

"Thank you for your good opinion; but in case the police should not find those rascals before the vessel sails, it will be rather hard on you to return home with empty pockets, so let me pay you in advance for that horse."

It was quite a different-looking man that came out of the store a few minutes later, for he had been refitted from hat to boots, and he looked the well-to-do farmer to the life, even the well-filled purse was not lacking, for Mr. Sherwood had given him the horse's value instead of the modest sum the farmer stated as the selling price of his animal.

The polite store-keeper promised to send the farmer's cast-off garments to the vessel, and Mr. Sherwood was soon introducing his friend to the members of his household.

Mr. Sherwood's unexpected arrival made a joyful excitement, and the farmer mentally resolved that an account of the happy meeting between the Yankee horse-buyer and his family should be added to the rest of the story he had to tell when once he arrived home.

When Mr. Sherwood had privately explained to the family the present position of his new friend, together with the respectability of the family and the kind treatment he had received from their hands, he was treated as an honored guest, and Dexie had never been so gracious to the fastidious Plaisted or treated him with half the courtesy as she now bestowed on the honest, kind-hearted, though ignorant countryman.

That this kindness was appreciated was quite evident from the satisfaction that beamed from every wrinkle on his honest face; and when he found himself seated in the most comfortable chair in the parlor, listening to the music that Dexie was bringing forth from the piano for his pleasure, he doubted in his mind if even the Governor himself was as happy and fortunate as he.

As the vessel was to sail the next day for Charlottetown, he had to leave the pleasant rooms for closer quarters on board the vessel; but before he said farewell he exacted a promise that, should any of them ever go to the Island, they would visit his home on the north shore.

As the vessel was about to leave the wharf Mr. Sherwood appeared, accompanied by a member of the police force, who gave over to the hand of the farmer about half the sum which had been stolen from him, and the man actually felt richer than when the whole amount had lain in his pocket. He pressed Mr. Sherwood to accept payment for the drive on the train and for his new suit, but Mr. Sherwood reminded him of the horse he had purchased, saying:

"Look well after my horse, McDonald, and if you will find out where I can get some more good animals I will be glad to pay you for the time and trouble expended in doing so," and with a hearty hand-clasp Mr. Sherwood stepped ashore.

In a few minutes the vessel's cable was shipped and she slowly passed down the harbor, bearing on her deck one who had a heart full of gratitude for kindness shown a stranger in a strange land.



CHAPTER XIII.

Mr. Sherwood's presence at home seemed to infuse new life into the household, and the following weeks passed very pleasantly to Dexie, for her father needed her services again, and for that reason she was excused from much of the endless sewing that seemed necessary in making up Louie's outfit.

Sewing machines were not so common at that time as to be considered a necessary household article, and Mrs. Sherwood was slow to take advantage of the new invention, preferring the use of fingers instead of feet for articles that required a needle and thread to fashion them; consequently Louie's wardrobe took some time to set in order.

Dexie was willing enough to change the needle for the more congenial pen and ink, and Mr. Sherwood insisted that Gussie should put her needle to more practical use. Now, while Gussie liked well enough to handle a needle and thread when something showy and fanciful was to be evolved thereby, she almost rebelled against the plain sewing, it was such dull, uninteresting work; it made so much difference if the sharp little instrument held Berlin wool, floss, etc., or the common cotton thread, which, though so useful, was too prosaic to suit Gussie.

Do not let this convey the idea that the time was all spent indoors, at some employment or other, for never were outings so frequently enjoyed. There were excursions down the coast to Cow Bay, and picnics to various points of interest, which, in the vicinity of Halifax, are innumerable and within easy-reaching distance to dwellers in the city.

Mr. Gurney owned a small boat which carried a sail, but there were plenty of willing hands to row it when the wind failed, and before the summer was over, Dexie could handle an oar with the dexterity that only practice can give.

It was very pleasant of a warm summer evening to glide along the waters of Bedford Basin, through which the boat cut her way as if through molten silver, and there was many a time when the little craft held but two persons, one being Lancy Gurney, and the curly head of his companion was very like to that of Dexie Sherwood's!

The early days of October were marked by the departure of Louie and the kind old nurse Dinah.

Poor Louie! her heart was rent with conflicting feelings. She had been wild with delight to think that she had been the one chosen to spend the winter with her grandma, and, though the journey thither was a pleasure she had long looked forward to, the final leave-takings were so much harder than she had anticipated that she felt almost tempted, at the last moment, to give it up, and stay with those she had never loved so much as she did now, when prepared to leave them.

We must not stop to tell of all the changes which took place in the old homestead when it was decided that Louie was to spend the winter there. The eyesight of the grandparents became so much better as they thought of her coming, that they noticed with startling clearness how dingy the old farmhouse had grown. Their brightened vision regarded the faded carpets with aversion, and when they had given place to new ones the curtains looked positively shabby, and they were astonished to find how much difference a little paint on the house and out-buildings made in the look of the place.

Without chasing away the homey took of the low, comfortable rooms, they were made brighter and more cheerful, as if rejoicing with the grandparents in their joy, and joining in the attempt to make the little grand-daughter feel at home.

Unconsciously, the old folks grew brighter themselves, and Grandma Sherwood even went so far as to lay aside the cap she had worn so long that it seemed to belong to her head quite as much as the beautiful grey hair beneath it; and after putting it away reverently in the bottom drawer of the bureau, she took out instead her "best cap," and wore it daily, in anticipation of her grand-daughter's arrival.

The pretty room that had been fitted up for Louie's use lacked nothing to make it perfect except its occupant, and if Louie needed anything to reconcile her to a winter's stay in the quiet farmhouse, this pretty room contained it.

Neither were its treasures revealed in a day, for, weeks after she arrived, grandma would bid her search for some secret drawer which contained something that she would like; and Louie's curiosity would be stimulated by this admission, so that many a stormy day flew rapidly away while she searched with the ardor of an Arctic explorer for the secret spring or knob which, pressed at last, revealed delights that only a young girl's heart can fully enjoy.

Occasionally mysterious packages from the city arrived at the farmhouse bearing Louie's name in full, and the delightful excitement of untying the string and removing the wrappings, was entered into by the grandparents with as much ardor as by Louie herself.

But grandma's heart seemed to grow young again. She knew what would please her little favorite, and she spared no expense if pleasure and happiness were procured with the purchases, and thus passed away the pleasant winter, bringing only that which seemed good into the storehouse of Louie's life and heart.

Louie was destined to see but little of her own family hereafter, for during the following summer the grandmother's health became feeble, and she would not listen to the suggestions that Louie should return home. A few months later Dinah had the melancholy satisfaction of hearing the last words of her dying mistress, who passed away in her arms.

Louie was willing to listen to the entreaties of her grief-stricken grandfather, to remain his little companion a while longer.

The charge of the farmhouse now fell into the hands of Mr. Sherwood's widowed daughter. She had possessed a fine estate in Georgia, and had lived a life of ease until Sherman's march to the sea, when her plantation was devastated, and her well-kept slaves had joined in the destruction of her property. When her husband's body was brought home for burial, the result of a distressing accident, there seemed nothing else left to do but to return to the home of her childhood, reaching it in time to hear her mother's last request with respect to Louie's future.

Aunt Annie promised to consider the child as her own if she could get the parents' sanction as well as Louie's free consent. The latter was freely gained, as Louie was far happier in her present home.

Mrs. Sherwood saw no obstacle in the way when the matter was laid before her, and she gave up her rights with so little manifestation of regret that even those who knew her best were astonished, and from that time Louie ceased to be a member of her father's family.

The second winter in Halifax was even more pleasant than the first had been, for the Sherwoods had extended their acquaintances, and there seemed always some new pleasure to look forward to.

The Song and Glee Club started up afresh as the winter evenings set in, and with a concert in the perspective the rehearsals were frequent and well attended.

Dexie's fine voice caused her to be given a more prominent part than she thought was her just due. She had no wish to be thrust forward into notice when there were older members of the club who were better entitled to her place, but she had no objection to being accompanist, for in that position she felt at home. But she was destined to come before the public in a more conspicuous manner.

One evening a member of the club brought in some new music, and the few who had heard it were so delighted with its melody, that they eagerly urged its performance at the approaching concert. A copy of the music being handed to Dexie by Lancy, she began to hum it softly to herself, but becoming enraptured with the bewitching strains of the composition, she unconsciously changed the low hum to a soft whistle, which grew louder as she proceeded. Sense of time and place disappeared, and she was unaware of the delight of the little group around her, until the unusual silence caused her to lift her eyes and understand the meaning of the sudden hush that had fallen on those present. A burning blush covered her face as she stammered out:

"I beg your pardon, ladies and gentlemen; I forgot where I was," and then sank on a seat near and hid her burning cheeks behind her book.

Lancy was at her side in a moment.

"Never mind, Dexie. You can't think how well it sounded. They were delighted."

"Oh, how could you let me go on, Lancy? You might have stopped me, I'm sure," she said, indignantly.

But she was immediately surrounded, and praises and interrogations poured forth from every side, making Gussie, who stood apart, turn pale with jealousy.

"Why did you not tell us that you could imitate the birds?"

"I never heard anything so perfectly sweet," said a lady member, pressing forward to speak to the blushing girl.

Dexie wished the floor would open and let her drop out of sight, but she gradually regained her composure and listened with displeasure to the general conversation, during which this new element of music was discussed at length.

"Miss Sherwood, do come to the piano and try that again with the accompaniment," said the leader, Mr. Ross. "You really must give us the benefit of that flute-like whistle; it is perfectly irresistible."

"Please excuse me, Mr. Ross; I really cannot," replied Dexie.

"But we can take no excuse. After hearing you once, nothing but a repetition will satisfy us. Mr. Gurney will play for you," was the eager reply.

But Lancy kindly came to her aid, and by a few whispered words succeeded in drawing off the attention from Dexie, by suggesting that if they would try the opening piece first and give Miss Sherwood time to reconsider her refusal, she might whistle later on; and Lancy was rewarded for this short respite by a grateful look as he passed her the open book.

Dexie felt angry for bringing this embarrassing position upon herself, and she was wondering if it would be possible for her to slip away unperceived, when Gussie leaned over her shoulder.

"Well, you did make a show of yourself, you great tomboy! It is a pity that you can't keep your bad manners out of sight, before strangers, anyway!"

This taunt acted like the prick of a goad, and made Dexie determine to stay and show Miss Gussie whether her "bad manners" had placed her lower or higher in the estimation of her friends. When the piece was rehearsed in which she sang the solo, she put forth her best efforts, and rendered it with such pathos and feeling that when it was ended, one and all, with the exception of Gussie, were loud in its praise.

As she lingered a moment beside the piano talking with a member, Mr. Ross stepped over to her side and begged her to try the new piece, and she silently bowed in answer; but the hunted look in the dark eyes might have told how hard it was to nerve herself for this ordeal.

The memory of Gussie's sneering remarks filled her with the needed courage, and when Lancy sat down and passed his fingers over the keys her heart ceased to throb; the very chords had a soothing power, and when Lancy lifted his eyes to her face she replied with a look that she was ready.

The first notes of the piece sounded from the piano, but brought no response from Dexie's lips. Lancy looked up quickly.

"Oh, Dexie, don't disappoint me!" he whispered.

Softly the bird-like notes ascended, fluttered and quivered, then slowly gained strength, then the clear, full notes rang through the room, charming every ear.

Those present listened in breathless silence. It was so faultlessly rendered that it was hard to believe that weeks of practice had not been given to bring such perfection of tone; but Dexie whistled for an object, and that was respect and honor from those present in the face of her "tomboy accomplishment."

It is not everyone who can whistle for a thing and get their wishes gratified; but, to the honor and respect which Dexie desired, was added the praise and approval of the delighted listeners. She felt proud to receive it, for it would forever silence Gussie as to how her "bad manners" were regarded.

Dexie was satisfied with her victory, and would not be persuaded into repeating the piece, though, at the close of the rehearsal, she consented to accompany Lancy in giving an exhibition of a bird-song.

It was the same chorus that had delighted the listeners the morning after the adventure in the snow-drifts, and the rendering of it was greatly enhanced by the better instrument before them.

Lancy played the accompaniment and whistled with her, and their voices seemed transformed into veritable song-birds, as they joined or answered each other's call.

"We must have that at our concert, Miss Sherwood," said Mr. Ross. "We cannot afford to miss it. How is it that I never had the pleasure of listening to this sort of music before, Mr. Gurney? You should have told us of this new accomplishment, Miss Sherwood."

"Indeed! you never would have heard it at all, if I had not forgotten myself so completely," said Dexie, smiling; "but as to whistling at the concert, that is out of the question. It is distressing enough to show my tomboyism before the members here."

"Nonsense! there is nothing of the 'tomboy' about that kind of whistling," said one of the members. "It is an accomplishment few possess."

"Well, it is fortunate for us that you made us aware of this talent of yours, even though it was unintentional on your part, Miss Sherwood," said Mr. Ross. "We must persuade you to give others the pleasure of hearing you. It would add much to the attraction of our concert."

"You are most kind, and your remarks most flattering, but I must be excused," said Dexie, turning with a smile to those who had addressed her. "I do not forget that 'whistling girls' are generally frowned down."

"But there is no comparison between the usual tomboy whistle of girls, and those bobolink, canary-bird notes that come from your lips," said an enthusiastic member.

"Miss Sherwood, I am going to place that piece third on the programme, and will call around to-morrow and see you and arrange for these extra pieces. We can leave out some of the songs rather than miss the treat you can give to those who will be eager to hear you," said the leader, persuasively.

"Indeed, Mr. Ross, I could not think of whistling before the audience we hope to have, so I will excuse you from calling upon me, if that is to be your errand," said Dexie, hurriedly. "I am doing my share as it is."

"Well, if you think it will be too much for you, someone else might take your solo; but that seems a pity, when you are so well prepared. Do you find it tiresome to whistle?"

"Oh, it is not that; it would not tire me if I whistled all day. But I cannot face a hall full of people and whistle to them. It would be dreadful!"

"I would not urge the matter if I did not feel positive of your success. I am sure the members of the club have the average intelligence, and, seeing that you have charmed us all by your unique performance, you need have no hesitancy in trying your powers before a Halifax audience," was the reply.

"Don't think of it. Oh, I never could do it, Mr. Ross. I should be hissed off the stage."

"No danger of that, Miss Sherwood," said Mr. Markman, the best tenor of the club. "I'll answer for it that you will so electrify the audience that they will demand an encore. Don't hide your talent from those who would be so sure to appreciate it."

"Give the matter serious consideration," said Mr. Ross. "I will run in to-morrow and see you, even though I may run the risk of a cool reception. What time shall I call?" he added, with a smile.

"Well, if you must call and see me, I hope it will be on some other errand; I will be at leisure any time in the afternoon, say three o'clock." Then, looking up with a smile, added: "Don't imagine I shall reconsider the matter; I simply could not do it."

"I'll hope to find you in a better frame of mind to-morrow, Miss Sherwood," he replied, giving her hand a cordial grasp. "May I ask permission for Mr. Gurney to be present at the interview?"

"Oh, certainly. I think you can safely venture to do so, seeing that he will probably come in of his own accord, if you don't ask him," and Lancy joined in the laugh raised at his expense.

"Well, that settles it, Mr. Gurney, I shall depend on your support in this difficult matter. Now, before we separate, I think I am voicing the sentiments of the members here when I ask for one more song. Now, Miss Sherwood, you have acknowledged that it does not tire you to whistle, so you will send us home in the best of spirits if you will favor us once more."

Dexie placed her hands over her ears at the applause that greeted these words, and amidst the general laughter Lancy drew her to the piano.

"I am going to sing 'The Mocking-Bird,' so you must whistle," he said. "Come, Dexie, there is no backing out," as she tried to escape him.

"Well, get Gussie to sing with you, and I will; perhaps it will help her good-nature a little—it needs help," she whispered, laughing.

On being sufficiently urged, Gussie stepped over to the piano beside them, and joined her alto to the chorus.

Dexie played and whistled, and, as the members listened, all joined Mr. Ross in thinking that their programme should hold this song also.

"Well, Miss Sherwood, I think you have kept the best to the last. I have heard that song several times, but never 'listened to the mocking-bird' after all. The song in itself is beautiful, but, after hearing you whistle, I see that it is imperfect with the mocking-bird left out. This is rather a cold climate for that species of bird, Miss Sherwood, but I shall give a Halifax audience the pleasure of hearing one, if I have to import one from the South on purpose for the occasion. To-morrow at three o'clock, remember, Mr. Gurney, and may the fates be propitious!"

When Mr. Sherwood learned of Dexie's refusal to whistle, he was as eager to change her decision as any member of the club.

For once Gussie sided with Dexie, and said all she could to influence her against it, but her motive was so apparent that her father reproved her sharply.

When Mr. Ross and Lancy made their appearance, Dexie had to listen to the expostulations of three very urgent gentlemen; and though she held to her refusal for some time, she was obliged to capitulate at last, stipulating that she should only be asked to whistle one piece. Mr. Ross was obliged to be content with this, but he found it hard to decide which of the pieces he would put upon the programme.

But a thought occurred to him, and he smiled as he considered it. Yes, he would set down the new piece; and if he knew a Halifax audience, and he thought he did, one piece would not content them. The others would do nicely for the "encore" which he knew would be demanded.

He smiled with pleasure as he rose to depart.

"I will set you down for the new piece you were running over last evening, Miss Sherwood," said he, "and Mr. Gurney will play your accompaniment. If you do as well at the concert as you did last night when you first saw the music, I shall be well satisfied."

"But what if I should fail, papa?" said Dexie, when she found herself alone with her father. "How can I stand before so many strange people and whistle? Oh! I'm sure I cannot. No young lady whistles in public, and I feel sure they will hiss me off the stage!"



CHAPTER XIV.

The time slipped by bringing the eventful evening. In many homes nimble fingers had been busy for days fashioning certain garments that were to make the wearers quite fascinating to beholders. But Dexie declared that as her best gown was very becoming, she had no intention of getting a new one on purpose for the occasion, a few extra touches would make it quite presentable. On the morning of the concert, she found there were still some minor things needed to complete her toilet, so she went down-town to do a little shopping.

As she stood in a store waiting for her parcel, her eyes rested on a handbill lying near, and as she read it her face flushed angrily, then turned pale to the lips, for those great, staring letters announced the evening's performance, and she was referred to as one of the chief attractions, but in terms that aroused her temper to its highest pitch.

Who could have worded that awful handbill? She longed to stamp her foot, or scream, or give vent to her angry feelings in some way. How dared they single her out by such a nickname? She snatched the parcel from the hands of the astonished clerk and left the store with more speed than grace.

While she is flying homeward, her angry eyes shining like stars from her pale, set face, let us read the cause of her displeasure.

"Temperance Hall. Temperance Hall.

To-night.

The Halifax Song and Glee Club will give their Annual Concert In Temperance Hall To-night.

Full Opening Chorus by the Members.

First Appearance of THE AMERICAN WARBLER, The only songster ever known to whistle popular airs to piano accompaniment.

Don't Miss It.

Programme to consist of Solos, Duets, Quartettes and Full Choruses.

God Save the Queen."

When Dexie reached home she flung open the door and rushed up the stairs to her own room in a perfect fury.

Gussie had watched her swift approach from the window, and fearing that some awful calamity must have happened, followed her sister upstairs, and found her walking the floor like a caged tiger, her eyes positively fierce as they looked straight before her, though seeing nothing.

"What is the matter, Dexie?" she asked in alarm.

Dexie turned and motioned imperiously for her to leave the room, then shut the door with a slam that shook the house. Gussie hurried to her father, saying:

"Oh, papa! do go and see Dexie. I believe she is going to have a fit, for she looks awful."

"What's that?" and Mr. Sherwood looked up from his paper. "Did you say something the matter with Dexie?"

"Yes, do go and see what it is, for she turned me out of the room."

"Have you been teasing her again about whistling?" he asked, looking at her sharply. "I told you to let your sister alone."