He had no idea that Phillis was at that moment whispering little wistful prayers in the darkness that he might soon be comforted.

Who knows how many such prayers are flung out into the deep of God's mercy,—comfort for such a one whom we would fain comfort ourselves; feeble utterances and cries of pity; the stretching out of helpless hands, which nevertheless may bring down blessings? But so it shall be while men and women struggle and fall, and weep the tears common to humanity, "until all eyes are dried in the clear light of eternity, and the sorest heart shall then own the wisdom of the cross that had been laid upon them."



CHAPTER XXXIII.

"THIS IS LIFE AND DEATH TO ME."

Phillis found it difficult during the next few days to reconcile divided sympathies; a nice adjustment of conflicting feelings seemed almost impossible. Nan was so simply, so transparently happy, that no sister worthy of the name could refuse to rejoice with her: a creature so brimming over with gladness, with contented love, was certain to reflect heart-sunshine. On the other hand, there was Mr. Drummond! To be glad and sorry in a breath was as provoking to a feeling woman as the traveller's blowing hot and cold was to the satyr in the fable.

In trying to preserve an even balance Phillis became decidedly cross. She was one who liked a clear temperature,—neither torrid nor frigid. Too much susceptibility gave her an east-windy feeling; to be always at the fever-point of sympathy with one's fellow-creatures would not have suited her at all.

Nan, who possessed more sweetness of temper than keenness of psychological insight, could not understand what had come to Phillis. She was absent, a trifle sad, and yet full of retort. At times she seemed to brim over with a wordy wisdom that made no sort of impression.

One evening, as they were retiring to bed, Nan beckoned her into her little room, and shut the door. Then she placed a seat invitingly by the open window, which was pleasantly framed by jasmine; and then she took hold of Phillis's shoulders in a persuasive manner.

"Now, dear," she said, coaxingly, "you shall just tell me all about it."

Phillis looked up, a little startled. Then, as she met Nan's gentle, penetrative glance, she presented a sudden blank of non-comprehension, most telling on such occasions, and yawned slightly.

"What do you mean, Nannie?" in a somewhat bored tone.

"Come, dear, tell me," continued Nan, with cheerful pertinacity. "You are never dull or touchy without some good reason. What has been the matter the last few days? Are you vexed or disappointed about anything? Are you sure—quite sure you are pleased about Dick?"—the idea occurring to her suddenly that Phillis might not approve of their imprudent engagement.

"Oh, Nannie, how absurd you are!" returned Phillis, pettishly. "Have I not told you a dozen times since Wednesday how delighted I am that you have come to an understanding? Have I not sounded his praises until I was hoarse? Why, if I had been in love with Dick myself I could not have talked about him more."

"Yes, I know you have been very good, dear; but still I felt there was something."

"Oh, dear, no!" returned Phillis decidedly, and her voice was a little hard. "The fact is, you are in the seventh heaven yourself, and you expect us to be there too. Not that I wonder at you, Nannie, because Dick—dear old fellow—is ever so nice."

She threw in this last clause not without intention, and of course the tempting bait took at once.

"I never knew any one half so good," replied Nan, in a calmly satisfied tone. "You have hinted once or twice, Phil, that you thought him rather too young,—that our being the same age was a pity; but—do you know?—in Dick's case it does not matter in the least. No man double his age could have made his meaning more plain, or have spoken better to the purpose. He is so strong and self-reliant and manly: and with all his fun, he is so unselfish."

"He will make you a very good husband, Nan; I am sure of that."

"I think he will," returned Nan, with a far-away look in her eyes. She was recalling Dick's speech about the nest that he wanted to make cosey for some one. "Phil, dear," she went on, after this blissful pause, "I wish you had a Dick too."

"Good Gracious, Nannie!"

"I mean—you know what I mean,—some one to whom you are first, and who has a right to care for you; it gives such a meaning to one's life. Of course it will come in time; no one can look at you and not prophesy a happy future: it is only I who am impatient and want it to come soon."

Phillis wrinkled her brows thoughtfully over this speech: she seemed inclined to digest and assimilate it.

"I dare say you are right," she replied, after a pause. "Yes it would be nice, no doubt."

"When the real he comes, you will find how nice it is," rejoined Nan, with sympathetic readiness. "Do you know, Phil, the idea has once or twice occurred to me that Mr. Drummond comes rather often!" But here Phillis shook off her hand and started from her chair.

"There is a moth singing its wings. Poor wee beastie! let me save it, if it be not too late." And she chased the insect most patiently until the blue-gray wings fluttered into her hand.

"There, I have saved him from utter destruction!" she cried triumphantly, leaning out into the darkness. "He has scorched himself, that is all;" then as she walked back to her sister, her head was erect, and there was a beautiful earnest look upon her face.

"Nannie, I don't want to find fault with you, but don't you remember how we used to pride ourselves, in the dear old days, in not being like other girls,—the Paines, for example, or even Adelaide Sartoris, who used to gossip so much about young men."

Nan opened her eyes widely at this, but made no answer.

"We must not be different now, because our life is narrower and more monotonous. I know, talking so much over our work, we have terrible temptations to gossip; but I can't bear to think that we should ever lower our standard, ever degenerate into the feeble girlishness we abhor. We never used to talk about young men, Nan, except Dick; and that did not matter. Of course we liked them in their places, and had plenty of fun, and tormented them a little; but you never made such a speech as that at Glen Cottage."

"Oh, dear! oh, dear! What have I done?" exclaimed Nan, much distressed at this rebuke. "I do think you are right, Phil; and it was naughty of me to put such a thing into your head."

"You have put no idea into my head," replied Phillis, with crisp obstinacy. "There! I am only moralizing for my own good, as well as yours. Small beginnings make great endings. If we once began to gossip, we might end by flirting; and, Nan, if you knew how I hate that sort of thing!" And Phillis looked grand and scornful.

"Yes, dear; and I know you are right," returned Nan, humbly. She was not quite sure what she had done to provoke this outburst of high moral feeling: but she felt that Phillis was dreadfully in earnest. They kissed each other rather solemnly after that, and Phillis was suffered to depart in silence.

That night there was no wistful little prayer that Mr. Drummond might be comforted: Phillis had too many petitions to offer up on her own account. She was accusing herself of pride, and Pharisaism, and hypocrisy, in no measured terms. "Not like other girls! I am worse,—worse," she said to herself. And then, among other things, she asked for the gift of content,—for a quiet, satisfied spirit, not craving or embittered,—strength to bear her own and her friends' troubles, and far-looking faith to discern "God's perfectness round our uncompleteness,—round our restlessness His rest."

The following evening, as Phillis was sorting out patterns in the work-room, a note was brought to her from the White House. It was in Mrs. Cheyne's handwriting, and, like herself, strangely abrupt.

"Your visits are like angels' visits,—extremely rare," it began. "I am afraid I have frightened you away, as I have frightened the parson. I thought you had more wit than he to discern between mannerism and downright ill-humor. This evening the temperature is equable,—not the sign of a brooding cloud: so put on your hat, like a good girl, and come over. Miss Mewlstone and I will be prepared to welcome you."

"You had better go," observed Nan, who had read the note over her sister's shoulder: "you have worked so dreadfully hard all day, and it will be a little change."

"No one cares for east winds as a change," replied Phillis, dryly; nevertheless, she made up her mind that she would go. She was beginning to dread being summoned to the White House: she felt that Mrs. Cheyne alternately fascinated and repelled her. She was growing fond of Miss Mewlstone; but then, on these occasions, she had so little intercourse with her. The charitable instinct that was always ready to be kindled in Phillis's nature prompted her to pay these visits; and yet she always went reluctantly.

She had two encounters on the road, both of which she had foreseen with nice presentiment.

The first was with Mr. Drummond.

He was walking along slowly, with his eyes on the ground. A sort of flush came to his face when he saw Phillis; and then he stopped, and shook hands, and asked after them all comprehensively, yet with constraint in his voice. Phillis told him rather hurriedly that she was going to the White House: Mrs. Cheyne had sent for her.

Archie smiled:

"I am glad she does not send for me. I have not been there for a long time. Sarcasm is not an attractive form of welcome. It slams the door in a man's face. I hope you will not get some hard hits, Miss Challoner." And then he went on his way.

As she approached Mrs. Williams's cottage, Mr. Dancy was, as usual, leaning against the little gate. He stepped out in the road, and accosted her.

"I have not called on your mother," he began, rather abruptly. "After all, I thought it best not to trouble her just now. Can you spare me a few minutes? or are you going in there?" looking towards the White House.

"I am rather in a hurry," returned Phillis, surprised at his manner, it seemed so agitated. "I am already late, and Mrs. Cheyne will be expecting me."

"Very well: another time," he replied, stepping back without further ceremony; but until Phillis's figure disappeared in the trees he watched her, leaning still upon the little gate.

Mrs. Cheyne received her with a frosty smile; but, on the whole, her manner was more gracious than usual, and by and by it thawed completely.

She was a little captious at first, it was true, and she snubbed poor Miss Mewlstone decidedly once or twice,—but then Miss Mewlstone was used to being snubbed,—but with Phillis she was sparing of sarcasms. After a time she began to look kindly at the girl; then she bade her talk, rather peremptorily, because she liked her voice and found it pleasant to listen to her; and by and by Phillis grew more at her ease, and her girlish talk rippled on as smoothly as possible.

Mrs. Cheyne's face softened and grew strangely handsome as she listened: she was drawing Phillis out,—leading her to speak of the old life, and of all their youthful sources of happiness. Then she fell into a retrospect of her own young days, when she was a spoiled madcap girl and had all sorts of daring adventures.

Phillis was quite fascinated; she was even disappointed when Miss Mewlstone pointed out the lateness of the hour.

"I have enjoyed myself so much," she said, as she put on her hat.

"I meant you to enjoy yourself," returned Mrs. Cheyne, quietly, as she drew the girl's face down to hers. "I have given you such a bad impression that you look on me as a sort of moral bugbear. I can be very different, when I like, and I have liked to be agreeable to-night." And then this strange woman took up a rich cashmere shawl from the couch where she was lying, and folded it around Phillis's shoulders. "The evenings are chilly. Jeffreys can bring this back with her;" for Mrs. Cheyne had already decided that this time her maid should accompany Phillis to the cottage.

Phillis laughed in an amused fashion as she saw the reflection of herself in one of the mirrors: her figure looked quite queenly enveloped in the regal drapery. "She has forgotten all about the dressmaking," she thought to herself, as she tripped downstairs.

It was a lovely moonlight evening; the avenue was white and glistening in the soft light; the trees cast weird shadows on the grass. Phillis was somewhat surprised to see in the distance Mr. Dancy's tall figure pacing to and fro before the lodge-gate. He was evidently waiting for her; for as she approached he threw away his cigar and joined her at once. Jeffreys, who thought he was some old acquaintance, dropped behind very discreetly, after the manner of waiting-women.

"How long you have stayed this evening! I have been walking up and down for more than an hour, watching for you," he began, with curious abruptness.

This and no more did Jeffreys hear before she lingered out of earshot. The lady's maid thought she perceived an interesting situation, and being of a susceptible and sympathetic temperament, with a blighted attachment of her own, there was no fear of her intruding. Phillis looked around once, but Jeffreys was absorbed in her contemplations of the clouds.

"I thought you were never coming," he continued; and then he stopped all at once, and caught hold of the fringe of the shawl. "This is not yours: I am sure I have seen Magdalene in it. Pshaw! what am I saying? the force of old habit. I knew her once as Magdalene."

"It is dreadfully heavy, and, after all, the evening is so warm," returned Phillis, taking no notice of this incoherent speech.

"Let me carry it," he rejoined, with singular eagerness; "it is absurd, a wrap like that on such a night." And, while Phillis hesitated, he drew the shawl from her shoulders and hung it over his arm, and all the way his disengaged right hand rested on the folds, touching it softly from time to time, as though the mere feeling of the texture pleased him.

"How was she to-night?" he asked, coming a little closer to Phillis, and dropping his voice as he spoke.

"Who?—Mrs. Cheyne? Oh, she was charming! just a little cold and captious at first, but that is her way. But this evening she was bent on fascinating me, and she quite succeeded; she looked ill, though, but very, very beautiful."

"She never goes out. I cannot catch a glimpse of her," he returned, hurriedly. "Miss Challoner, I am going to startle—shock you, perhaps; but I have thought about it all until my head is dizzy, and there is no other way. Please give me your attention a moment," for Phillis, with a vague sense of uneasiness, had looked around for Jeffreys. "I must see you alone: I must speak to you where we shall not be interrupted. To call on your mother will be no good; you and only you can help me. And you are so strong and merciful—I can read that in your eyes—that I am sure of your sympathy, if you will only give me a hearing."

"Mr. Dancy! oh, what can you mean?" exclaimed Phillis. She was dreadfully frightened at his earnestness, but her voice was dignified, and she drew herself away with a movement full of pride and hauteur. "You are a stranger to me; you have no right——"

"The good Samaritan was a stranger too. Have you forgotten that?" he returned, in a voice of grave rebuke. "Oh, you are a girl; you are thinking of your mother! I have shocked your sense of propriety, my child; for you seem a child to me, who have lived and suffered so much. Would you hesitate an instant if some poor famishing wretch were to ask you for food or water? Well, I am that poor wretch. What I have to tell you is a matter of life and death to me. Only a woman—only you—can help me; and you shrink because we have not had a proper introduction. My dear young lady, you have nothing to fear from me. I am unfortunate, but a gentleman,—a married man, if that will satisfy your scruples——"

"But my mother," faltered Phillis, not knowing what to say to this unfortunate stranger, who terrified and yet attracted her by turns.

Never had she heard a human voice so persuasive, and yet so agonized in its intensity. A conviction of the truth of his words seized upon her as she listened,—that he was unhappy, that he needed her sympathy for some purpose of his own, and yet that she herself had nothing to do with his purpose. But what would Nan say if she consented—if she acceded to such an extraordinary proposition—to appoint a meeting with a stranger?

"It is life and death to me; remember that!" continued Mr. Dancy, in that low, suppressed voice of agitation. "If you refuse on the score of mere girlish propriety, you will regret it. I am sure of that. Trust to your own brave heart, and let it answer for you. Will you refuse this trifling act of mercy,—just to let me speak to you alone, and tell you my story? When you have heard that, you will take things into your own hands."

Phillis hesitated, and grew pale with anxiety; but the instincts of her nature were stronger than her prudence. From the first she had believed in this man, and felt interested in him and his mysterious surroundings. "One may be deceived in a face, but never in a voice," she had said, in her pretty dictatorial way; and now this voice was winning her over to his side.

"It is not right; but what can I do? You say I can help you."—And then she paused. "To-morrow morning I have to take some work to Rock Building. I shall not be long. But I could go on the beach for half an hour. Nan would spare me. I might hear your story then."

She spoke rapidly, and rather ungraciously, as though she were dispensing largess to a troublesome mendicant; but Mr. Dancy's answer was humble in its intense gratitude.

"God bless you! I knew your kind heart was to be trusted There! I will not come any farther. Good-night; good-night, a thousand thanks!" And, before Phillis could reply, this strange being had left her side, and was laying the cashmere shawl in Jeffreys's arms slowly and tenderly, as though it were a child.

Phillis was glad that Dulce opened the door to her that night, for she was afraid of Nan's questioning glance. Nan was tired, and had retired early; and, as Dulce was sleepy too, Phillis was now left in peace. She passed the night restlessly, walking up at all sorts of untimely hours, her conscience pricking her into wakefulness. To her well-ordered nature there was something terrifying in the thought that she should be forced to take such a step.

"Oh, what would mother and Nan say?" was her one cry.

"I know I am dreadfully impulsive and imprudent, but Nan would think I am not to be trusted;" but she had passed her word, and nothing now would have induced her to swerve from it.

She ate her breakfast silently, and with a sense of oppression and guilt quite new to her. She grew inwardly hot whenever Nan looked at her, which she did continually and with the utmost affection. Before the meal was over, however, Miss Middleton and Mattie made their appearance, and in the slight bustle of entrance Phillis managed to effect her escape.

The hour that followed bore the unreality of a nightmare. Outwardly, Phillis was the grave, business-like dressmaker. The lady who had sent for her, and who was a stranger to Hadleigh, was much struck with her quiet self-possessed manners and lady-like demeanor.

"Her voice was quite refined," she said afterwards to her daughter. "And she had such a nice face and beautiful figure. I am sure she is a reduced gentlewoman, for her accent was perfect. I am quite obliged to Miss Milner for recommending us such a person, for she evidently understands her business. One thing I noticed, Ada,—the way in which she quietly laid down the parcel, and said it should be fetched presently. Any ordinary dressmaker in a small town like this would have carried it home herself."

Poor Phillis! she had laid down the parcel and drawn on her well-fitting gloves with a curious sinking at her heart: from the window of the house in Rock Building she could distinctly see Mr. Dancy walking up and down the narrow plat of grass before the houses, behind the tamarisk hedge, his foreign-looking cloak and slouch hat making him conspicuous.

"There is that queer-looking man again, mamma," exclaimed one of the young ladies, who was seated in the window. "I am sure he is some distinguished foreigner, he has such an air with him."

Phillis listened to no more, but hurried down the stairs and then prepared to cross the green with some degree of trepidation. She was half afraid that Mr. Dancy would join her at once, in the full view of curious eyes; but he knew better. He sauntered on slowly until she had reached the Parade and was going towards a part of the beach where there was only a knot of children wading knee-deep in the water, sailing a toy-boat. She stood and watched them dreamily, until the voice she expected sounded in her ear:

"True as steel! Ah, I was never deceived in a face yet. Where shall we sit, Miss Challoner? Yes, this is a quiet corner, and the children will not disturb us. Look at that urchin, with his bare brown legs and curly head: is he not a study? Ah, if he had lived—my——" And then he sighed, and threw himself on the beach.

"Well," observed Phillis, interrogatively. She was inclined to be short with him this morning. She had kept her word, and put herself into this annoying position; but there must be no hesitation, no beating about the bush, no loss of precious time. The story she had now to hear must be told, and with out delay.

Mr. Dancy raised his eyes as he heard the tone, and then he took off his spectacles as though he felt them an incumbrance. Phillis had a very good view of a pair of handsome eyes, with a lurking gleam of humor in them, which speedily died away into sadness.

"You are in a hurry; but I was thinking how I could best begin without startling you. But I may as well get it out without any prelude. Miss Challoner, to Mrs. Williams I am only Mr. Dancy; but my real name is Herbert Dancy Cheyne."



CHAPTER XXXIV.

MISS MEWLSTONE HAS AN INTERRUPTION.

"HERBERT DANCY CHEYNE!"

As he pronounced the name slowly and with marked emphasis, a low cry of uncontrollable astonishment broke from Phillis: it was so unexpected. She began to shiver a little from the sudden shock.

"There! I have startled you,—and no wonder; and yet how could I help it? Yes," he repeated, calmly, "I am that unfortunate Herbert Cheyne whom his own wife believes to be dead."

"Whom every one believes to be dead," corrected Phillis, in a panting breath.

"Is it any wonder?" he returned, vehemently; and his eyes darkened, and his whole features worked, as though with the recollection of some unbearable pain. "Have I not been snatched from the very jaws of death? Has not mine been a living death, a hideous grave, for these four years?" And then, hurriedly and almost disconnectedly, as though the mere recalling the past was torture to him, he poured into the girl's shrinking ears fragments of a story so stern in its reality, so terrible in its details, that, regardless of the children that played on the margin of the water, Phillis hid her face in her hands and wept for sheer pity.

Wounded, bereft of all his friends, and left apparently dying in the hands of a hostile tribe, Herbert Cheyne had owed his life to the mercy of a woman, a poor, degraded ill-used creature, half-witted and ugly, but who had not lost all the instincts of her womanhood, and who fed and nursed the white stranger as tenderly as though he were her own son.

While the old negress lived, Herbert Cheyne had been left in peace to languish back to life, through days and nights of intolerable suffering, until he had regained a portion of his old strength; then a fever carried off his protectress, and he became virtually a slave.

Out of pity for the tender-hearted girl who listened to him, Mr. Cheyne hurried over this part of his sorrowful past. He spoke briefly of indignities, abuse, and at last of positive ill treatment. Again and again his life had been in danger from brute violence; again and again he had striven to escape, and had been recaptured with blows.

Phillis pointed mutely to his scarred wrists, and the tears flowed down her cheeks.

"Yes, yes; these are the marks of my slavery," he replied, bitterly. "They were a set of hideous brutes; and the fetish they worshipped was cruelty. I carry about me other marks that must go with me to my grave; but there is no need to dwell on these horrors. He sent His angel to deliver me," he continued, reverently; "and again my benefactor was a woman."

And then he went on to tell Phillis that one of the wives of the chief in whose service he was took pity on him, and aided him to escape on the very night before some great festival, when it had been determined to kill him. This time he had succeeded; and, after a series of hair-breadth adventures, he had fallen in with some Dutch traders who had come far into the interior in search of ivory tusks. He was so burnt by the sun and disfigured by paint that he had great difficulty in proving his identity as an Englishman. But at last they had suffered him to join them, and after some more months of wandering he had worked his way to the coast.

There misfortune bad again overtaken him, in the form of a long and tedious illness. Fatigue, disaster, anguish of mind, and a slight sunstroke had taken dire effect upon him; but this time he had fallen into the hands of good Samaritans. The widowed sister of the consul, a very Dorcas of good works, had received the miserable stranger into her house; and she and her son, like Elijah's widow of Zarephath, had shared with him their scanty all.

"They were very poor, but they pinched themselves for the sake of the stricken wretch that was thrown on their mercy. It was a woman again who succored me the third time," continued Mr. Cheyne: "you may judge how sacred women are in my eyes now! Dear motherly Mrs. Van Hollick! when she at last suffered me to depart, she kissed and blessed me as though I were her own son. Never to my dying day shall I forget her goodness. My one thought, after seeing Magdalene, will be how I am to repay her goodness,—how I can make prosperity flow in on the little household, that the cruse and cake may never fail!"

"But," interrupted Phillis at this point, "did you not write, or your friends write for you, to England?"

Mr. Cheyne smiled bitterly:

"It seems as though some strange fatality were over me. Yes, I wrote. I wrote to Magdalene, to my lawyer, and to another friend who had known me all my life, but the ship that carried these letters was burnt at sea. I only heard that when I at last worked my way to Portsmouth as a common sailor and in that guise presented myself at my lawyer's chambers. Poor man! I thought he would have fainted when he saw me. He owned afterwards he was a believer in ghosts at that moment."

"How long ago was that?" asked Phillis, gently.

"Two months; not longer. It was then I heard of my children's death, of my wife's long illness and her strange state. I was ill myself, and not fit to battle through any more scenes. Mr. Standish took me home until I had rested and recovered myself a little; and then I put on this disguise—not that much of that is necessary, for few people would recognize me, I believe—and came down here and took possession of Mrs. Williams's lodgings."

Phillis looked at him with mute questioning in her eyes. She did not venture to put it into words, but he understood her:

"Why have I waited so long, do you ask? and why am I living here within sight of my own house, a spy on my own threshold and wife? My dear Miss Challoner, there is a bitter reason for that!

"Four years ago I parted from my wife in anger. There were words said that day that few women could forgive. Has she forgiven them? That is what I am trying to find out. Will the husband who has been dead to her all these years be welcome to her living?" His voice dropped into low vehemence, and a pallor came over his face as he spoke.

Phillis laid her hand on his own. She looked strangely eager:

"This is why you want my help. Ah! I see now! Oh, it is all right—all that you can wish! It is she who is tormenting herself, who has no rest day or night! When the thunder came that evening—you remember—we sat beside the children's empty beds, and she told me some of her thoughts. When the lighting flashed, her nerves gave way, and she cried out, in her pain, 'Did he forgive?' That was her one thought. Her husband,—who was up in heaven with the children,—did he think mercifully of her, and know how she loved him? It was your name that was on her lips when that good woman, Miss Mewlstone, hushed her in her arms like a child. Oh, be comforted!" faltered Phillis, "for she loves you, and mourns for you as though she were the most desolate creature living!" But here she paused, for something that sounded like a sob came to her ear, and looking round, she saw the bowed figure of her companion shaking with uncontrollable emotion,—those hard tearless sobs that are only wrung from a man's strong agony.

"Oh, hush!" cried the girl, tenderly. "Be comforted: there is no room for doubt. There! I will leave you; you will be better by and by." And then instinctively she turned away her face from a grief too sacred for a stranger to touch, and walked down to the water, where the children had ceased playing, and listened to the baby waves that lapped about her feet.

And by and by he joined her; and on his pale face there was a rapt, serious look, as of one who has despaired and has just listened to an angel's tidings.

"Did I not say that you, and only you, could help me? This is what I have wanted to know: had Magdalene forgiven me? Now I need wait no longer. My wife and home are mine, and I must take possession of my treasures."

He stopped, as though overcome by the prospect of such happiness; but Phillis timidly interposed:

"But, Mr. Cheyne, think a moment. How is it to be managed? If you are in too great a hurry, will not the shock be too much for her? She is nervous,—excitable. It would hardly be safe."

"That is what troubles me," he returned, anxiously. "It is too much for any woman to bear; and Magdalene—she was always excitable. Tell me, you have such good sense; and, though you are so young, one can always rely on a woman; you understand her so well—I see you do—and she is fond of you,—how shall we act that my poor darling, who has undergone so much, may not be harmed by me any more?"

"Wait one moment," returned Phillis, earnestly. "I must consider." And she set herself to revolve all manner of possibilities, and then rejected them one by one. "There seems no other way," she observed, at last, fixing her serious glance on Mr. Cheyne. "I must seek for an opportunity to speak to Miss Mewlstone. It must be broken carefully to your poor wife; I am sure of that. Miss Mewlstone will help us. She will tell us what to do, and how to do it. Oh, she is so kind, so thoughtful and tender, just as though Mrs. Cheyne were a poor wayward child, who must be guided and helped and shielded. I like her so much: we must go to her for counsel."

"You must indeed, and at once!" he returned, rather peremptorily; and Phillis had a notion now what manner of man he had been before misfortunes had tamed and subdued him. His eyes flashed with eagerness; he grew young, alert, full of life in a moment. "Forgive me if I am too impetuous; but I have waited so long, and now my patience seems exhausted all at once during the last hour. I have been at fever-point ever since you have proved to me that my wife—my Magdalene—has been true to me. Fool that I was! why have I doubted so long? Miss Challoner, you will not desert me?—you will be my good angel a little longer? You will go to Miss Mewlstone now,—this very moment,—and ask her to prepare my wife?"

"It is time for me to be going home: mother and Nan will think I am lost," returned Phillis, in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone. "Come Mr. Cheyne, we can talk as we go along." For he was so wan and agitated that she felt uneasy for his sake. She took his arm gently, and guided him as though he were a child; and he obeyed her like one.

"Promise me that you will speak to her at once," he said, as he walked beside her rather feebly; and his gait became all at once like that of an old man. But Phillis fenced this remark very discreetly.

"This afternoon or this evening, when I get the chance," she said, very decidedly: "if I am to help you, it must be as I think best, and at my own time. Do not think me unkind, for I am doing this for your own good: it would not help you if your wife were to be brought to the brink of a nervous illness. Leave it to me. Miss Mewlstone will serve us best, and she will know." And then she took her hand from his arm, and bade him drop behind a little, that she might not be seen in the town walking with him. "Good-bye! keep up your courage. I will help you all I can," she said, with a kindly smile, as he reluctantly obeyed her behest. She was his good angel, but he must not walk any longer in her shadow: angels do their good deeds invisibly, as Phillis hoped to do hers. He thought of this as he watched her disappearing in the distance.

Phillis walked rapidly towards the cottage. Archie, who was letting himself in at his own door, saw the girl pass, carrying her head high, and stepping lightly as though she were treading on air. "Here comes Atalanta," he said to himself; but, though a smile came over his tired face, he made no effort to arrest her. The less he saw of any of them the better, he thought, just now.

Nan looked up reproachfully as the truant entered the work-room, and Mrs. Challoner wore her gravest expression; evidently she had prepared a lecture for the occasion. Phillis looked at them both with sparkling eyes.

"Listen to me, Nan and mother. Oh, I am glad Dulce is not here, she is so young and giddy; and she might talk—No, not a word from either of you, until I have had my turn." And then she began her story.

Nan listened with rapt speechless attention, but Mrs. Challoner gave vent to little pitying moans and exclamations of dismay.

"Oh, my child!" she kept saying, "to think of your being mixed up in such an adventure! How could you be so imprudent and daring? Mrs. Williams's lodger—a strange man! in that outlandish cloak, too! and you walked home with him that dark night! Oh, Phillis, I shall never be at peace about you again!" and so on.

Phillis bore all this patiently, for she knew she had been incautious: and when her mother's excitement had calmed down a little, she unfolded to them her plan.

"I must see Miss Mewlstone quite alone; and that unfinished French merino will be such a good excuse, Nan. I will take the body with me this afternoon, and beg her to let me try it on; the rest must come afterwards, but this will be the best way of getting her to myself." And, as Nan approved of this scheme, and Mrs. Challoner did not dissent, Phillis had very soon made up her parcel, and was walking rapidly towards the White House.

As she turned in at the gates she could see a shadow on the blind in Mrs. Williams's little parlor, and waved her hand towards it. He was watching her, she knew: she longed to go back and give him a word of encouragement and exhortation to patience; but some one, Mr. Drummond perhaps, might see her, and she dare not venture.

She sent her message by Jeffreys, and Miss Mewlstone soon came trotting into the room; but she wore a slightly-disturbed expression on her good-natured face.

She had been reading the third volume of a very interesting novel, and had most unwillingly laid down her book at the young dressmaker's unseasonable request. Like many other stout people, Miss Mewlstone was more addicted to passivity than activity after her luncheon; and, being a creature of habit, this departure from her usual rules flurried her.

"Dear, dear! to think of your wanting to try on that French merino again!" she observed; "and the other dress fitted so beautifully, and no trouble at all. And there has Miss Middleton being calling just now, and saying they are expecting her brother Hammond home from India in November; and it is getting towards the end of September now. I was finishing my book, but I could not help listening to her,—she has such a sweet voice. Ah, just so—just so. But aren't you going to open your parcel, my dear?"

"Never mind the dress," returned Phillis, quickly. "Dear Miss Mewlstone, I was sorry to disturb you; but it could not be helped. Don't look at the parcel: that is only an excuse. My business is far more important. I want you to put on your bonnet, and come with me just a little way across the road. There is some one's identity that you must prove."

Phillis was commencing her task in a somewhat lame fashion; but Miss Mewlstone was still too much engrossed with her novel to notice her visitor's singular agitation.

"Ah, just so—just so," she responded; "that is exactly what the last few chapters have been about. The real heir has turned up, and is trying to prove his own identity; only he is so changed that no one believes him. It is capitally worked out. A very clever author, my dear——"

But Phillis interrupted her a little eagerly:

"Is that your tale, dear Miss Mewlstone? How often people say truth is stranger than fiction! Do you know, I have heard a story in real life far more wonderful than that? Some one was telling me about it just now. There was a man whom every one, even his own wife, believed to be dead; but after four years of incredible dangers and hardships—oh, such hardships!—he arrived safely in England, and took up his abode just within sight of his old house, where he could see his wife and find out all about her without being seen himself. He put on some sort of disguise, I think, so that people could not find him out."

"That must be a make-up story, I think," returned Miss Mewlstone, a little provokingly; but her head was still full of her book. Poor woman! she wanted to get back to it. She looked at Phillis and the parcel a little plaintively. "Ah, just so,—a very pretty story, but improbable,—very improbable, my dear."

"Nevertheless, it is true!" returned Phillis, so vehemently that Miss Mewlstone's little blue eyes opened more widely. "Never mind your book. I tell you I have business so important that nothing is of consequence beside it. Where is Mrs. Cheyne? She must not know we are going out."

"Going out!" repeated Miss Mewlstone, helplessly. "My dear, I never go out after luncheon, as Magdalene knows."

"But you are going out with me," replied Phillis, promptly. "Dear Miss Mewlstone, I know I am perplexing and worrying you; but what can I do? Think over what I have just said,—about—about that improbable story, as you called it; and then, you will not be so dreadfully startled. You must come with me now to Mrs. Williams's cottage: I want you to see her lodger."

"Her lodger!" Miss Mewlstone was fully roused now; and, indeed, Phillis's pale face and suppressed eager tones were not without their due effect. Had the girl taken leave of her senses? Why, the ladies at the White House led the lives of recluses. Why should she be asked to call upon any stranger, but especially a gentleman,—Mrs. Williams's lodger? "My dear," she faltered, "you are very strange this afternoon.—Magdalene and I seldom call on any one, and certainly not on gentlemen."

"You must come with me," replied Phillis, half crying with excitement. She found her task so difficult. Miss Mewlstone was as yielding as a feather bed in appearance, and yet it was impossible to move her. "He calls himself Mr. Dancy; but now he says that is not all his name: let me whisper it in your ear, if it will not startle you too much. Think of Mrs. Cheyne, and try and command yourself. Mrs. Williams's lodger says that he is Herbert Cheyne,—poor Mrs. Cheyne's husband!"



XXXV.

"BARBY, DON'T YOU RECOLLECT ME?"

"I do not believe it!—stuff and nonsense! You are crazy, child, to come to me with this trumped-up story! The man is an impostor. I will have the police to him. For heaven's sake don't let Magdalene hear this nonsense!"

Phillis recoiled a few steps, speechless with amazement. Miss Mewlstone's face was crimson; her small eyes were sparkling with angry excitement: all her softness and gentle inanity had vanished.

"Give me a bonnet,—shawl,—anything, and I will put this matter straight in a moment. Where is Jeffreys? Ring the bell, please, Miss Challoner! I must speak to her."

Phillis obeyed without a word.

"Ah, just so. Jeffreys," resuming her old purring manner as the maid appeared, "this young lady has a friend in trouble, and wants me to go down to the cottage with her. Keep it from your mistress if you can, for she hates hearing of anything sad; say we are busy,—I shall be in to tea,—anything. I know you will be discreet, Jeffreys."

"Yes, ma'am," returned Jeffreys, adjusting the shawl over Miss Mewlstone's shoulders; "but this is your garden-shawl, surely?"

"Oh, it does not matter; it will do very well. Now Miss Challoner, I am ready." And so noiseless and rapid were her movements that Phillis had much to do to keep up with her.

"Won't you listen to me?" she pleaded. "Dear Miss Mewlstone, it is no made-up story; it is all true;" but to her astonishment, Miss Mewlstone faced round upon her in a most indignant manner:

"Be silent, child! I cannot, and will not, hear any more. How should you know anything about it? Have you ever seen Herbert Cheyne? You are the tool of some impostor. But I will guard Magdalene; she shall not be driven mad. No, no, poor dear! she shall not, as long as she has old Bathsheba to watch over her." And Phillis, in despair, very wisely held her peace. After all she was a stranger: had she any proof but Mr. Dancy's word?

Just towards the last, Miss Mewlstone's pace slackened; and her hand shook so, as she tried to unlatch the little gate, that Phillis was obliged to come to her assistance. The cottage door stood open as usual, but there was no tall figure lurking in the background,—no shadow on the blind.

"We had better go in there," whispered Phillis, pointing to the closed door of the parlor; and Miss Mewlstone, without knocking, at once turned the handle and went in, while Phillis followed trembling.

"Well, sir," said Miss Mewlstone, sternly, "I have come to know what you mean by imposing your story on this child."

Mr. Dancy, who was standing with his back to them, leaning for support against the little mantle-shelf, did not answer for a moment; and then he turned slowly round, and looked at her.

"Oh, Barby!" he said; "don't you recollect me?" And then he held out his thin hands to her imploringly, and added "Dear old Barby! but you are not a bit changed."

"Herbert—why, good heavens! Ah, just so—just so," gasped the poor lady, rather feebly, as she sat down, feeling her limbs were deserting her, and every scrap of color left her face. Indeed, she looked so flabby and lifeless that Phillis was alarmed and flew to her assistance; only Mr. Cheyne waved her aside rather impatiently.

"Let her be; she is all right. She knows me, you see: so I cannot be so much altered. Barby," he went on, in a coaxing voice, as he knelt beside her and chafed her hands, "you thought I was an impostor, and were coming to threaten me: were you not? But now you see Miss Challoner was in the right. Have you not got a word for me? Won't you talk to me about Magdalene? We have got to prepare her, you know."

Then, as he spoke his wife's name, and she remembered her sacred charge, the faithful creature suddenly fell on his neck in piteous weeping.

"Oh, the bonnie face," she wept, "that has grown so old, with the sorrow and the gray hair! My dear, this will just kill her with joy, after all her years of bitter widowhood." And then she cried again, and stroked his face as though he were a child, and then wrung her hands for pity at the changes she saw. "It is the same face, and yet not the same," she said, by and by. "I knew the look of your eyes, my bonnie man, for all they were so piercing with sadness. But what have they done to you, Herbert?—for it might be your own ghost,—so thin; and yet you are brown, too; and your hair!" And she touched the gray locks over the temples with tender fluttering fingers.

"Magdalene never liked gray hairs," he responded, with a sigh. "She is as beautiful as ever, I hear; but I have not caught a glimpse of her. Tell me, Barby,—for I have grown timorous with sorrow,—will she hate the sight of such a miserable scarecrow?"

"My dear! hate the sight of her own husband, who is given back to her from the dead? Ay, I have much to hear. Why did you never write to us, Herbert? But there! you have all that to explain to her by and by."

"Yes; and you must tell me about the children,—my little Janie," he returned, in a choked voice.

"Ah, the dear angels! But, Herbert, you must be careful. Nobody speaks of them to Magdalene, unless she does herself. You are impetuous, my dear; and Magdalene—well, she has not been herself since you left her. It is pining, grief, and the dead weight of loss that has ailed her being childless and widowed at once. There, there! just so. We must be tender of her, poor dear! and things will soon come right."

"You need not fear me, Barby. I have learned my lesson at last. If I only get my wife back, you shall see—you shall see how I will make up to her for all I have ever made her suffer! My poor girl! my poor girl!" And then he shaded his face, and was silent.

Phillis had stolen out in the garden, and sat down on a little bench outside, where passers-by could not discern her from the road, and where only the sound of their voices reached her faintly. Now and then, chance words fell on her ear,—"Magdalene" over and over again; and "Janie" and "Bertie,"—always in the voice she had so admired. By and by she heard her own name, and rose at once, and found them looking for her.

"Here is my good angel, Barby," observed Mr. Cheyne, as she came up smiling. "Not one girl in a thousand would have acted as bravely and simply as she has done. We are friends for life, Miss Challoner, are we not?" And he stretched out his hand to her, and Phillis laid her own in it.

"I was a bit harsh with you, dearie, was I not?" returned Miss Mewlstone, apologetically: "but there! you were such a child that I thought you had been deceived. But I ought to have known better, craving your pardon, my dear. Now we will just go back to Magdalene; and you must help my stupid old head, for I am fairly crazy at the thought of telling her. Go back into the parlor and lie down, Herbert, for you are terribly exhausted. You must have patience, my man, a wee bit longer, for we must be cautious,—cautious, you see."

"Yes, I must have patience," he responded, rather bitterly. But he went back into the room and watched them until they disappeared into the gates of his own rightful paradise.

Miss Mewlstone was leaning on Phillis's arm. Her gait was still rather feeble, but the girl was talking energetically to her.

"What a spirit she has! just like Magdalene at her age," he thought, "only Magdalene never possessed her even temper. My poor girl! From what Barby says, she has grown hard and bitter with trouble. But it shall be my aim in life to comfort her for all she has been through!" And then, as he thought of his dead children, and of the empty nursery, he groaned, and threw himself face downward upon the couch. But a few minutes afterwards he had started up again, unable to rest, and began to pace the room; and then, as though the narrow space confined him, he continued his restless walk into the garden, and then into the shrubberies of the White House.

"My dear, I am not as young as I was. I feel as if all this were too much for me," sighed Miss Mewlstone, as she pressed her companion's arm. "One needs so much vitality to bear such scenes. I am terrified for Magdalene, she has so little self-control! and to have him given back to her from the dead! I thank God! but I am afraid, for all that." And a few more quiet tears stole over her cheeks.

"Thinking of it only makes it worse," returned Phillis, feverishly. She, too, dreaded the ordeal before them; but she was young, and not easily daunted. All the way through the shrubbery she talked on breathlessly, trying to rally her own courage. It was she who entered the drawing-room first, for poor Miss Mewlstone had to efface the signs of her agitation.

Mrs. Cheyne looked up, surprised to see her alone.

"Jeffreys told me you and Miss Mewlstone had gone out together on a little business. What have you done with poor old Barby?" And, as Phillis answered as composedly and demurely as she could, Mrs. Cheyne arched her eyebrows in her old satirical way:

"She is in her room, is she? Never mind answering, if you prefer your own counsel. Your little mysteries are no business of mine. I should have thought the world would have come to an end, though, before Barby had thrown down the third volume of a novel for anything short of a fire. But you and she know best." And, as Phillis flushed and looked confused under her scrutiny, she gave a short laugh and turned away.

It was a relief when Miss Mewlstone came trotting into the room with her cap-strings awry.

"Dear, dear! have we kept you waiting for your tea, Magdalene?" she exclaimed, in a flurried tone, as she bustled up to the table. "Miss Challoner had a little business, and she thought I might help her. Yes; just so! I have brought her in, for she is tired, poor thing! and I knew she would be welcome."

"It seems to me that you are both tired. You are as hot as though you had walked for miles, Barby. Oh, you have your secrets too. But it is not for me to meddle with mysteries." And then she laughed again, and threw herself back on her couch, with a full understanding of the discomfort of the two people before her.

Phillis saw directly she was in a hard, cynical mood.

"You shall know our business by and by," she said, very quietly. "Dear Miss Mewlstone, I am so thirsty, I must ask you for another cup of tea." But, as Miss Mewlstone took the cup from her, the poor lady's hand shook so with suppressed agitation that the saucer slipped from her grasp, and the next moment the costly china lay in fragments at her feet.

"Dear! dear!—how dreadfully careless of me!" fumed Miss Mewlstone.

But Mrs. Cheyne made no observation. She only rang the bell, and ordered another cup. But, when the servant had withdrawn, she said, coldly,—

"Your hand is not as steady as usual this evening, Barby;" and somehow the sharp incisive tone cut so keenly that, to Phillis's alarm, Miss Mewlstone became very pale, and then suddenly burst into tears.

"This is too much!" observed Mrs. Cheyne, rising in serious displeasure. She had almost a masculine abhorrence to tears of late years; the very sight of them excited her strangely.

"Miss Challoner may keep her mysteries to herself if she likes, but I insist on knowing what has upset you like this."

"Oh dear! oh, dear!" sobbed the simple woman, wringing her hands helplessly. "This is just too much for me! Poor soul, how am I to tell her?" And then she looked at Phillis in affright at her own words, which revealed so much and so little.

Mrs. Cheyne turned exceedingly pale, and a shadow passed over her face.

"'Poor soul!' does she mean me? Is it of me you are speaking, Barby? Is there something for me to know, that you dread to tell me? Poor soul, indeed!" And then her features contracted and grew pinched. "But you need not be afraid. Is it not the Psalmist who says, 'All thy waves and thy billows have gone over me'? Drowned people have nothing to fear: there is no fresh trouble for them." And her eyes took an awful stony look that terrified Phillis.

"Oh, it is no fresh trouble!" stammered the girl. "People are not tormented like that: they have not to suffer more than they can bear."

But Mrs. Cheyne turned upon her fiercely:

"You are wrong, altogether wrong. I could not bear it, and it drove me mad,—at least as nearly mad as a sane woman could be. I felt my reason shaken; my brain was all aflame, and I cried out to heaven for mercy; and a blank answered me. Barby, if there be fresh trouble, tell me instantly, and at once. What do I care? What is left to me, but a body that will not die, and a brain that will not cease to think? If I could only stop the thoughts! if I could only go down into silence and nothingness! but then I should not find Herbert and the children. Where are they? I forget!" She stopped, pressed her hands to her brow with a strange bewildered expression; but Miss Mewlstone crept up to her, and touched her timidly.

"My bonnie Magdalene!" she exclaimed; "don't let the ill thoughts come; drive them away, my poor dear. Look at me. Did old Barby ever deceive you? There is no fresh trouble, my pretty. In his own good time the All-Merciful has had mercy!"

Mrs. Cheyne's hand dropped down to her sides, but her brilliant eyes showed no comprehension of her words.

"Why did you frighten me like that?" she repeated, rocking herself to and fro; and her voice had a high, strained tone in it. "There is no trouble, but your face is pale, and there are tears in your eyes; and look how your hand shakes! Miss Challoner—Phillis, what does she mean? Barby, you are a foolish old woman; your wits are gone."

"If they are gone, it is with joy!" she sobbed. "Yes, my precious one! for sheer joy!" but then she broke down utterly. It was Phillis who came to the rescue.

"Dear Mrs. Cheyne, I think I could tell you best," she began, in her sweet sensible voice, which somehow stilled Mrs. Cheyne's frightful agitation. "There has been some news,—a letter that has been lost, which ought to have arrived months ago. We have heard about it this afternoon." She stopped, for there seemed to be a faint sound of footsteps in the hall below. Could he have followed them? What would be the result of such imprudence? But, as she faltered and hesitated, Mrs. Cheyne gripped her arm with an iron force:

"A letter from Herbert! Did he write to me? oh, my darling! did he write to me before he died? Only one word—one word of forgiveness, and I will say heaven indeed is merciful! Give it to me, Barby! Why do you keep me waiting? Oh, this is blessed, blessed news!" But Miss Mewlstone only clasped her gently in her arms.

"One moment, my dearie! There is more than that. It is not a message from heaven. There is still one living on earth that loves you! Try and follow my meaning," for the perplexed stare had returned again. "Say to yourself, 'Perhaps, after all, Herbert is not dead. Nobody saw him die. He may be alive; he may have written to me——" She stopped, for Mrs. Cheyne had suddenly flung up her arms over her head with a hoarse cry, that rang through the house:

"Herbert! Herbert! Herbert!"

"I am here,—Magdalene! Magdalene!" A tall figure that had crept unperceived through the open hall door, and had lurked unseen in the shadow of the portiere, suddenly dashed into the room, and took his wife's rigid form into his arms. "Magdalene!—love—wife! It is Herbert! Look up, my darling!—I am here! I am holding you!" But there was no response. Magdalene's face was like the face of the dead.

They took her from him almost by force, for he refused to give her up. Over and over again they prayed him to leave her to their care, but he seemed like a deaf man that did not hear.

"She is dead! I have killed her; but there is no reason why I should give her up," he had said, with terrible calm in his voice.

"She is not dead!" returned Miss Mewlstone, almost angrily. "She has been like this before; but Jeffreys and I know what to do. Ay, you were always wilful, Herbert; but when it comes to killing your own wife——" And after this he consented to lay her down on her couch.

He watched them with wistful eyes as they tried the usual remedies; but it was long before even the flicker of an eyelid spoke to them of life. At the first sign of returning animation Herbert crept just behind his wife's pillow, where he could see the first unclosing of the drooping lids. When Magdalene opened her eyes at last, they fell full on her husband's face.

Phillis, who was beside her, marvelled at the strange beauty of that rapt look, as she lay and gazed at him.

"Herbert's face!" they heard her whisper, in an awe-struck voice. "Then I have died at last, and am in heaven. Oh, how merciful! but I have not deserved it,—a sinner such as I."

"Magdalene, my darling, you are in our own home! It is I who was lost, and have come back to you. Look at me. It is only the children that are in heaven. You and I are spared to each other on earth." But for a long time her scattered faculties failed to grasp the truth.

Phillis went home at last, and left them. There was nothing she could do, and she was utterly spent; but Miss Mewlstone kept watch beside her charge until late into the night.

Little by little the truth dawned slowly on the numbed brain; slowly and by degrees the meaning of her husband's tears and kisses sank into the clouded mind. Now and again she wandered, but Herbert's voice always recalled her.

"Then I am not dead?" she asked him, again and again. "They do not cry in heaven, and Barby was crying just now. Barby, am I dreaming! Who is this beside me? is it Herbert's ghost? only his hands are warm, and mine are so terribly cold. Why you are crying too, love; but I am to tired to understand." And then she crept wearily closer and closer into his arms, like a tired-out child who has reached home.

And when Herbert stooped over her gently, he saw that the long lashes lay on her cheek. Magdalene had fallen asleep.



CHAPTER XXXVI.

MOTES IN THE SUNSHINE.

That sleep was, humanly speaking, Magdalene's salvation.

At the greatest crisis of her life, when reason hung in the balance,—when the sudden influx of joy might have paralyzed the overwrought heart and brain,—at that moment physical exhaustion saved her by that merciful, overpowering sleep.

When she woke, it was to the resurrection of her life and love. Months afterwards she spoke of that waking to Phillis, when she lay in her bed weak as a new born babe, and the early morning light streamed full on the face of her slumbering husband.

They were alone; for Miss Mewlstone had just crept softly from the room. Her movement had roused Magdalene. Herbert, who was utterly worn out by his long watching, had just dropped asleep, with his head resting against the wood-work. He was still sitting in the arm-chair beside her, and only the thin profile was visible.

The previous night had been passed by Magdalene in a semi-conscious state: delirious imaginations had blended with realities. There were flashes and intervals of comparative consciousness, when the truth rushed into her mind; but she had been too weak to retain it long. That she was dreaming or dead was her fixed idea: that this was her husband's greeting to her in paradise seemed to be her one thought. "Strange that the children do not kiss me too," they heard her say once.

But now, as she opened her eyes, there was no blue misty haze through which she ever feebly sought to pierce. She was lying in her own room, where she had passed so many despairing days and nights. The window was open; the sweet crisp morning air fanned her temples; the birds were singing in the garden below; and there beside her was the face so like, yet so unlike, the face from which she had parted four years ago.

For a little while she lay and watched it in a sort of trance; and then in the stillness full realization came to her, and she knew that she was not mad or dreaming. This was no imagination: it was reality.

With incredible effort, for she felt strangely weak, she raised herself on her elbow to study that dear face more closely, for the change in it baffled her. Could this be her Herbert? How bronzed and thin he had grown! Those lines that furrowed his forehead, those hollows in the temples and under the eyes, were new to her. And, oh, the pity of those gray hairs in the place of the brown wavy locks she remembered! But it was when she laid her lips against the scarred wrist that Herbert woke, and met the full look of recognition in his wife's eyes, for which he had waited so long.

Now he could fall upon his knees beside her, and crave that forgiveness for words and acts that had seared his conscience all these years like red-hot iron. But at the first word she stopped him, and drew his head to her breast:

"Oh, Herbert, hush! What! ask forgiveness of me, when I have sinned against you doubly,—trebly,—when I was no true wife, as you know? Oh, do not let us ask it of each other, but of God, whom we have so deeply offended! He has punished us; but He has been merciful too. He has taken our children because we did not deserve them. Oh, Herbert! what will you do without them?—for you loved Janie so!" And then for a little while the childless parents could only hold each other's hands and weep, for to Herbert Cheyne the grief was new, and at the sight of her husband's sorrow Magdalene's old wounds seemed to open and bleed afresh; only now—now she did not weep alone.

When Miss Mewlstone entered the room, shortly afterwards, she found Magdalene lying spent and weary, holding her husband's hand.

Joy had indeed returned to the White House, but for a long time it was joy that was strangely tempered with sorrow. Upstairs no sound greeted Herbert from the empty nurseries; there were no little feet pattering to meet the returned wanderer, no little voices to cry a joyous "Father!" And for years the desolate mother had borne this sorrow alone.

As the days passed on, Magdalene regained her strength slowly, but neither wife nor husband could hide from each other the fact that their health was broken by all they had gone through. Herbert's constitution was sadly impaired for the remainder of his life: he knew well that he must carry with him the consequences of those years of suffering. Often he had to endure intense neuralgic agony in his limbs and head; an unhealed wound for a long time troubled him sorely. Magdalene strove hard to regain strength, that she might devote herself to nurse him, but, though her constitution was superb, she had much to bear from her disordered nerves. At times the old irritability was hard to vanquish; there were still dark moods of restlessness when her companionship was trying; but it was now that Herbert proved the nobleness and reality of his repentance.

For he was ever gentle with her, however much she might try him. Some talk he had had with her doctor had convinced him that she was not to blame for these morbid moods; that the nerves had become disorganized by those years of solitary misery. "We must bear all our troubles together," as he often told her; and so he bore this, as he did the trial of his children's loss, with grave fortitude, and a patience that surprised all who knew him.

And he was not without his reward, for, the dark fit over, Magdalene's smile would greet him like sunshine after a storm, and she would thank him with tears and caresses for his forbearance.

"I can't think what makes me still so horrid, when I am so happy," she said once to him, when the first year of their reunion had passed. "I do my best to fight against these moods, but they seem stronger than myself and overcome me. Do not be so good to me next time, Herbert; scold me and be angry with me, as you used in the old days."

"I cannot," he answered, smiling. "I never loved you in the old days as I do now. I would not change my wife, in spite of all the trouble she gives me, for any other woman upon earth. You believe this, love, do you not?" looking at her beautiful face anxiously, for it had clouded a little at his last words.

"Yes, but I do not like to trouble you: it is that that frets me. I wanted to be a comfort to you, and never to give you a moment's uneasiness; but I cannot help myself, somehow. I love you, I don't believe you know yet how I love you, Herbert; but it seems as if I must grieve you sometimes."

"Never mind; I will hear your trouble and my own too," he answered, cheerily; and in this way he always comforted her. But to Magdalene her own self ever remained a mystery; the forces of her own nature were too strong for her, and yet she was not a weak woman. She had expected that in her case love and happiness would have worked a miracle, as though miracles were ever effected by mere human agencies,—that she would rise like a Phoenix from the ashes of her past, reborn, rejuvenated, with an inexhaustible fund of moral strength.

Now she had Herbert, all would go smoothly; she would no longer mourn for her little ones. Since her husband was there to comfort her, with his constant presence to sustain her, all must be well; never again would she be nervous, irritable, or sarcastic. Poor Magdalene! she was creating heaven for herself upon earth; she was borrowing angels' plumes before the time; she had forgotten the conditions of humanity, "the body of the flesh," which weighed down greater souls than hers.

There are Gethsemanes of the spirit to the weary ones of earth, hours of conflict that must be lived through and endured. Nature that groaneth and travaileth cannot find its abiding place of rest here. To the end of time it seems to be written in enduring characters that no human lot shall be free from suffering: sooner or later, more or less,—that is all! Magdalene had still to learn this lesson painfully: that she was slow in learning it, proved the strength and obduracy of her will. True, she was rarely sarcastic,—never in her husband's presence, for a word or a look from him checked her, and she grew humble and meek at once. It was her unruly nerves that baffled her; she was shocked to find that irritable words still rose to her lips; that the spirit of restlessness was not quelled forever; that thunder still affrighted her; and that now and then her mind seemed clouded with fancied gloom.

She once spoke of this to Miss Middleton, with tears in her eyes.

"It is so strange," she said. "Herbert is different, but I am still so unchanged."

"The conditions of your health are unchanged, you mean," answered Elizabeth, with that quiet sympathy that always rested people. "This is the mistake that folk make: they do not distinguish between an unhealthy mind and a diseased soul: the one is due to physical disorganization, the other to moral causes. In your case, dear Mrs. Cheyne, one may safely lay the blame on the first cause."

"Oh, do you think so?" she asked, earnestly. "I dare not cheat my conscience in that way: it is my bad temper, my undisciplined nature, that ought to bear the blame."

"No; believe me," answered Elizabeth, for they had grown great friends of late, "I have watched you narrowly, and I know how you try to conquer this irritability; there is no black spot of anger in your heart, whatever words come to your lips. You are like a fretful child sometimes, I grant you that, who is ailing and unconscious of its ailment. When you would be calm, you are strangely disturbed; you speak sharply, hoping to relieve something that oppresses you."

"Oh, yes!" sighed Magdalene; "and yet Herbert never speaks crossly to me."

"He never will, for he knows what you suffer. Well, dear friend, what of this? This is a cross that you must carry perhaps all your life. You are not the only one who has to bear the torment of disordered nerves: it must be borne with resignation, as we bear other troubles. Once you felt you could not love God; you ceased to pray to Him; now you love Him a little. Go on loving; thank him for your husband's patience, and pray that you may have patience with yourself. One is weary of always living with one's self, I know that well," finished Elizabeth, with a charming smile.

Mr. Drummond would have verified Miss Middleton's opinion that Magdalene was not so unchanged as she believed herself to be.

At his first interview with her after Herbert Cheyne's return, he could almost have sworn that she was a different woman.

Phillis, who spent all her spare time at the White House,—for they both made much of Herbert's "good angel," as he still called her jestingly,—was sitting alone with Mrs. Cheyne when Archie was announced.

His old enemy greeted him with a frank smile.

"This is kind of you, Mr. Drummond," she said, quite warmly. "How I wish my husband were not out, that I could introduce him to you! I have told him how good you have tried to be to me, but that I was ungrateful and repulsed you."

Archie was shaking hands with Phillis, who seemed a little disturbed at his entrance. He turned around and regarded the beautiful woman with astonishment. Was this really Mrs. Cheyne? Where was the hard, proud droop of the lip, the glance of mingled coldness and hauteur, the polished sarcasm of voice and manner? Her face looked clear and open as a child's; her eyes were brilliant with happiness.

Magdalene was in one of her brightest moods when she was most truly herself.

"I have met him just now. He stopped and introduced himself. We had quite a long talk outside of Mrs. Williams's cottage. I called upon him there, you know, but he had good reasons for refusing my visits. Mrs. Cheyne, you must allow me to congratulate you most earnestly. You will own now that Providence has been good to you."

"I will own that and everything," returned Magdalene, joyously. "I will own, if you like, that I treated you shamefully, and took a pleasure in tormenting you; and you were so patient,—oh, so patient, Mr. Drummond! I could have called you back sometimes and apologized, but I would not. In my bitter moments I felt it was such a relief to mock at people."

"Never mind all that. Let bygones be bygones. I wish I could have served you better." And then, as he changed the subject, and spoke feelingly about the miracle of her husband's restoration, Mrs. Cheyne looked at him rather wistfully.

"Oh, how good you are!" she said, softly. "Do you know, the world seems full of good people to me now; and yet once it appeared too bad a place for any one to live in. We create our own atmosphere,—at least so Herbert tells me. But you are looking thin, Mr. Drummond,—thin and pale. You must be working too hard."

"Oh, as to that, hard work never hurts any one," he replied, carelessly; but there was something forced in his tone.

Phillis, who had been sitting apart quite silently, raised her eyes involuntarily from her work. Was it her fancy, or had some undefinable change passed over him? They had seen him so little of late. Since all this had happened at the White House he had called once or twice; and once Nan had been there, and he had spoken to her much as usual. No one would have detected any difference in his manner, except that he was a little grave and preoccupied. Nan had not noticed anything; but then she was singularly blind in such matters. Had she not vaguely hinted that his visits were on Phillis's account?—that mere hint conveying exquisite pain to Phillis.

Now, as she stole a glance at him, the conviction was strong within her that the arrow had gone deep. He certainly looked a little thin and care-worn, and something of a young man's vigor and hopefulness seemed temporarily impaired. But, as it happened, that girlish scrutiny was not unperceived by Archie. In a moment he was on the alert. His eyes challenged hers boldly, and it was Phillis who flushed and looked conscious.

It was as though he said to her, "Ah! you think you know all about it. But you need not trouble yourself to be sorry for me; you do not know what a man's strength can do. And I am determined to bear this by myself, and to myself; for in silence there is power."

It certainly seemed as though a new strength had come to Archie. He had been a man who was prone to speak much of his feelings. Irritable and sensitive, he had demanded much sympathy from his womankind. His was a nature that craved support in his work; but now, not even to Grace, could he speak of this trouble that had befallen him.

Was it a trouble, after all, this vague shadow that lay about his path? No one but he himself knew the sweetness and graciousness of the dream that had come to him. It had only been a dream, after all; and now he was awake. The vision he had conjured up to himself had faded into unreality. She was not his second self: never by look or word had he wooed her; she was only the woman he could have loved. This was how he put it; and now he would bury this faint hope that was still-born,—that had never had breathed into it the breath of life. And if for a little while his future should be cloudy and bereft of its sunshine, was he the only one to whom "some days must be dark and dreary"?

Phillis's unspoken sympathy drooped under this stern repression; and yet in her heart she reverenced him all the more for this moral strength,—for there is nothing a true woman abhors more than weakness in a man. After this silent rebuff, Archie took himself well in hand, and began to speak of other things: he told Mrs. Cheyne, being certain now of her interest, of his sister's intended marriage, and how he and Mattie were going down to the wedding.

"He is a very good fellow, this intended brother-in-law of mine,—a sort of rough diamond; but hardly good enough for Isabel," he said. "Oh, yes, he is very rich. My poor little sister will have her head turned by all her magnificence; for his parents are so generous: they quite load her with gifts." And he smiled to himself at the notion of the little sister, just fresh from her narrow school-room life, rejoicing over her trousseau and her handsome house, and driving away from the church in her own carriage. No wonder his father and mother were pleased. As for the bridegroom-elect, Archie spoke of him with half-contemptuous amusement: "Oh, he was a good fellow,—no one wished to deny that;" but there was a want of culture and polish that grated upon the susceptibilities of the Oxford fellow.

Phillis listened with undivided interest—especially when he mentioned Grace.

"Mattie and I are in hopes that we shall bring her back with us; but, at all events, my mother has promised to spare her at Christmas." This time he addressed himself to Phillis.

"Oh, that will be nice for you!" she returned a little eagerly. "You have told us so much about her that I quite long to know her."

"I should say you would suit each other perfectly," he replied, as he rose to take his leave. "Sometimes you remind me of her, Miss Challoner; and yet you are not really alike. Good-bye, if I do not see you again before we go to Leeds." And Phillis gave him her hand, and a cordial smile.

But when he had gone out of the room, his hostess accompanying him—for she had a word for his private ear,—Phillis sat down, and thought over those last words with a strange feeling of pleasure: "Sometimes you remind me of her, Miss Challoner." Was it possible that he could trace any resemblance between her and this dearly-beloved sister, this Grace, whom he seemed to regard as absolute perfection?

"Oh, I hope she will come! I am sure we shall be such friends," she said to herself: and from this time Phillis looked anxiously for Grace Drummond's arrival.



CHAPTER XXXVII.

"A MAN HAS A RIGHT TO HIS OWN THOUGHTS."

There were great rejoicings in the house in Lowder Street on the occasion of Isabel Drummond's marriage.

There is always something pathetic in the first wedding in a family,—the first severing of the family circle,—the first break, the first ingathering of new interest. But when there are small means, and seven portionless daughters, very few of whom can be said to be gifted with good looks, a wealthy son-in-law must indeed be regarded as a direct blessing from Providence.

That Mr. Drummond did so regard it, was evident from the jovial good humor that had replaced his usual moody and irritable manner; while his wife's beaming face, softened by maternal tenderness for the child who would no longer share the daily life with them, was a surprising spectacle to those acquainted with Mrs. Drummond's ordinary reserve and somewhat severe bearing. But it is not too much to say that on this occasion Mrs. Drummond was a happy woman.

The tide of fortune, long so adverse to their interests, seemed turning in their favor at last. Archie had done great things for himself, and the mother's eyes rested on him proudly as he performed the marriage ceremony for his young sister, the gravity of his priestly office setting him apart, as it were, for her reverence as well as love. That Isabel had done great things for herself also could not be denied. But there were other causes for content in the mother's heart.

Both the boys were doing well. Clyde had been articled to a lawyer, an old friend of Mr. Drummond's, and had won golden opinions from his chief, who pronounced him an intelligent, likely lad, and as sharp as a needle. Fred had lately obtained a clerkship in an old-established house in Leeds, and was also doing well, and his salary was a great boon to the straitened household. Grace, too, was doing her duty vigorously, and no longer vexed her mother's soul by her drooping looks of uncomplaining discontent,—that silent protest of many, that is so irritating to the home-rule. True, it might be only the quiescence of despair, but at least she veiled it decently under a show of Spartan cheerfulness. The fox of bitterness might gnaw, but she drew the mantle of her pride closer round her. She might suffer and pine, like a caged lark in her narrow cage, but at least no one, not even Archie, and least of all her mother, should guess the extent of her sufferings. So there was peace in Lowder Street. A truce had silently proclaimed itself between the two strong wills of the household; and, touched by a submission that somehow appealed to her generosity, Mrs. Drummond was secretly revolving schemes for her daughter's future happiness.

"Mothers are mothers," as Nan had once sweetly said, and Mrs. Drummond was no exception to the rule. She could be hard to her own flesh and blood; she could exact obedience that was difficult to yield, and sacrifices that cost tears in plenty; but she was a just woman, and, when the right time came, she knew how to reward such obedience.

But there was still another drop that filled the maternal cup of content almost to overflowing, and of this she spoke to Grace, as they were together in the mother's room, folding up the bridal finery. The little bride had just driven off, all tears and smiles. Archie and the boys had started off for a long walk. Mattie was with her sisters in the small ugly enclosure they called a garden; and Grace and her mother had gone up to shake out the satin dress and lay it between tissue-paper.

"I hope she will be happy, poor little dear!" observed Grace, touching tenderly the Brussels-lace veil; for Isabel had been her first pupil and charge. "I do think and believe Ellis is really very fond of her."

"Without doubt he is. His manners were all your father and I could wish. What a magnificent present, and how thoughtful, his bringing those diamond ear-drops just the last moment! Isabel has such pretty little ears. He is as proud of her as he can be. And really she looked quite lovely. Take care how you fold that veil, Grace. It is a perfect beauty."

"Yes, mother," returned Grace, meekly.

She was ready to drop with fatigue, for she had been up since six, and had dressed all her sisters one after another in their pretty bridesmaids' dresses, Mattie's skill as a lady's-maid being distrusted even by Dottie. But Mrs. Drummond was not satisfied, and took the lace out of her hand.

"And, Grace, did you ever see any one so improved as Mattie? Her visit to Hadleigh is doing wonders for her. Last evening I could hardly help looking at her. She holds herself so much better, and her dresses are so pretty and well made. I never knew before that her figure was so nice."

"Yes, indeed; she is wonderfully improved," returned Grace.

But she said the words mechanically. Her mother's speech had touched a sore place in her memory. She knew who had transformed Mattie's dowdiness into comeliness and neatness. She might be an ordinary little woman in the world's opinion, but in the eyes of her family she was quite another Mattie. Those tasteful dresses had been made by those Challoners of whom Mattie spoke so much and Archie so little.

Mrs. Drummond, who had not noticed her daughter's sudden abstraction, went on in the same satisfied tone:

"She is not pretty, of course,—no one could ever call Mattie that at the best of times,—but now she has left off making a fright of herself, and hunching her shoulders with every word, she is quite passable-looking. I am glad you talked her out of being a bridesmaid. She would have looked absurd among the girls. But that green surah just suited her. It was good of Archie to buy her such a pretty dress; and yours that came from Hadleigh was even prettier, and wonderfully well made, considering they had only a pattern gown."

"Yes; it fitted admirably;" but Grace spoke without enthusiasm.

Archie, who knew her tastes, had chosen a soft, creamy stuff which he informed Mattie must be trimmed with no end of lace. Phillis had received and executed the order with such skill and discernment that a most ravishing costume had been produced. But Grace, who had her own ideas on the subject of those "Challoner girls," had received the gift somewhat coldly, and had even seemed displeased when her father pinched her ear and told her that Archie's gown had transformed her into a princess fit for a fairy-tale. "And there is always a prince in that, my dear,—eh, Gracie?" continued the lucky father, who could afford to laugh when one of the seven daughters had got a husband. But Grace would have nothing to do with the jest. She even got up a little frown, like her mother's on similar occasions.

"Archie is so generous, dear old fellow!" continued Mrs. Drummond, breaking out afresh after a minute's interval, as she skilfully manipulated the veil. "That is what I always say. There never was such a son or brother. Do you think he is overworking, Grace, or that Mattie really looks after him well? But he strikes me as a little thin,—and—yes—perhaps a little grave."

Grace's lips closed with an expression of pain. But her mother was looking at her and she must answer.

"Well, if you ask me, mother," she returned, a little huskily, "I do not think Archie looks very well, or in his usual spirits; but I am sure Mattie takes good care of him," she continued, with careful veracity.

"Humph! I am sorry to find you endorsing my opinion," replied Mrs. Drummond, thoughtfully. "I hoped you would say it was my fancy. He has not said anything to you that makes you uneasy?" with a touch of her old sharpness, remembering that Grace, and not she, was Archie's confidante; but Grace replied so quickly and decidedly, "Oh, no, mother; we have not exchanged a word together since he and Mattie arrived," that her maternal jealousy was allayed.

But the next night, when she was alone with him for a few minutes, she was struck afresh by the gravity of his look as he sat by the window, pretending to read, but for the last half-hour he had not turned his page.

"A penny for your thoughts, my son!" she said, so archly and abruptly that Archie started, and his brow grew crimson at finding himself watched.

"Oh, they were nothing particular," he stammered; and then he said something about the fineness of the evening, and the possibility of his father coming in in time for a long walk.

But Mrs. Drummond was not to be put off so easily. She left her seat, where she had been sewing as usual, and came and stood beside him a moment. He would have jumped up and given her his own chair, but she pressed his shoulder gently, as though to forbid the movement.

"I like to stand, Archie. Yes, it is a lovely evening; but I think you ought to ask Grace, and not your father, to accompany you. Grace was always your companion, you know, and you must not drop old habits too suddenly." Then Archie saw that his avoidance of Grace had been marked.

"Very well, I will ask her," he returned; but he showed none of his old alacrity and spirit in claiming his favorite.

Mrs. Drummond noticed this; and the shade of anxiety on her face grew deeper.

"Archie, you are not quite your old self with Grace; and I am sure she feels it. What has come between you, my dear?"

"Why, nothing, mother;" and here he attempted a laugh. "Grace and I never quarrel, as you know."

"I was not speaking of quarrelling," she returned, in a graver voice; "but you do not seek her out as you used. Before, when you arrived, you always disappointed me by shutting yourself up in the school-room, where no one could get at you; and now Grace tells me she has not had a word with you these four days."

"Has Grace complained of me, then?"

"You know Grace never complains of you. It was not said in any fault-finding way. We agreed you were not quite yourself, or in your usual spirits; and I asked her the reason. Tell me, my son, is there anything troubling you?" Archie sat silent. Mrs. Drummond was so rarely demonstrative to her children that even this well-beloved son had never heard before such chords of tenderness in his mother's voice; and, looking up, he saw that her keen gray eyes were softened and moist with tears. "You are not quite yourself, Archie,—not quite happy?" she went on.

Then he took counsel with himself; and after a moment he answered her:

"No, mother; you are right. I am not—not quite myself nor quite happy; but I mean to be both presently." And then he looked up in her face pleadingly, with an expression of entreaty that went to her heart, and continued: "But my own mother will not pain me by unnecessary questions that I could not answer." And then she knew that his will was that she should be silent.

"Very well," she returned, with a sigh. "But you will tell me one thing, will you not, my dear! Is it—is it quite hopeless?" her mother's instinct, like that of the Eastern Caliph, immediately suggesting a woman in the case.

"Quite—quite hopeless!—as dead as this!" bringing down his hand on a large defunct moth. "Talking will not bring to life, or help a man, to carry a real burden."

Then, as she kissed him, she knew that his pain had been very great, but that he meant to bear it with all the strength he could bring.

Grace went up to prepare for her walk that evening with no very pleasurable anticipations. Her mother had given her Archie's message in due form, as she sat somewhat sadly by the school-room window, mending a frock Dottie had just torn.

"Archie wants you to go out with him, Grace," Mrs. Drummond said, as she came in, in her usual active bustling way. "The grass never grew under her feet," as she was often pleased to observe. "Loitering and lagging make young bones grow prematurely old," she would say, coining a new proverb for the benefit of lazy Susie. "Never measure your footsteps when you are about other people's business," she would say to Laura, who hated to be hunted up from her employment for any errand. "He thinks of going over to Blackthorn Farm, as it is so fine; and the walk will do you good," continued Mrs. Drummond, with a keen look at her daughter's pale face. "Give me Dottie's frock: that little monkey is always getting into mischief." But Grace yielded her task reluctantly.

"Are you sure he wishes me to go, mother?"

"Quite sure," was the brief answer; but she added no more.

Silence was ever golden to this busy, hard-working mother. She was generally sparing of words. Grace, who saw that her mother was bent on her going, made no further demur; but, as she put on her walking-things, she told herself that Archie was only making a virtue of necessity. He was so little eager for her society that he had not sought her himself, but had sent her a message. Ever since his return, no light-springing footsteps had been heard on the uncarpeted stairs leading to the school-room. He had forsaken their old haunt, where they had once talked so happily, sitting hand in hand on the old window-seat.

Grace felt herself grievously wounded. For months a barrier had been between her and Archie. He had written seldom; and his letters, when they came, told her nothing. In manner he was kindness itself. That there was no change in his affection was evident; but the key to his confidence was mislaid. He had withdrawn himself into some inner citadel, where he seemed all at once inaccessible, and her sisterly soul was vexed within her.

He met her at the door with his usual smile of welcome.

"That is right, Grace; you have not kept me long waiting," he said, pleasantly, as she came towards him; and then, as they walked down Lowder Street, he commenced talking at once. He had so much to tell her, he said; and here Grace's pulses began to throb expectantly; but the eager light died out of her face when he went on to detail a long conversation he had had with his mother the previous night. Was that all? she thought. Was the longed-for confidence still to be withheld?

Archie did not seem to notice her silence: he rattled on volubly.

"I think we were hard on the mother, Gracie, you and I," he said. "After all, I believe she was right in not giving us our own way in the spring."

"I am glad you think so," replied Grace, coldly. Archie winced at her tone, but recovered himself, and went on gayly:

"It does one good sometimes to have one's wishes crossed; and, after all, it was only fair that poor Mattie, being the eldest, should have her turn. She does her best, poor little soul! and, though I find her terribly trying sometimes, I can hold out pretty patiently until Christmas; and then mother herself suggested that you should take her place at the vicarage."

"I! oh, no, Archie!" And here the color flushed over Gracie's face, and her eyes filled with tears. The news was so unexpected,—so overwhelming. Another time the sweetness of it would have filled her with rapture. But now! "Oh, no, no!" she cried, in so vehement a tone that her brother turned in surprise, and something of her meaning came home to him.

"Wait a moment," he said, deprecatingly. "I have not finished yet what I want to say. Mother said Mattie was greatly improved by her visit, and that she was infinitely obliged to me for yielding to her wish. She told me plainly that it was impossible to have spared you before,—that you were her right hand with the girls, and that even now your loss would be great."

"I do not mean to leave mother," returned Grace, in a choked voice.

"Not if I want you and ask you to come?" he replied, with reproachful tenderness, "Why, Grace, what has become of our old compact?"

"You do not need me now," she faltered, hardly able to speak without weeping.

"We will talk of that by and by," was the somewhat impatient answer. "Just at this minute I want to tell you all the mother said on the subject. Facts before feelings, please," with a touch of sarcasm; but he pointed it with a smile. "You see, Grace, Isabel's marriage makes a difference. There is one girl off my father's hands. And then the boys are doing so well. Mother thinks that in another three months Clara may leave the school-room; she will be seventeen then, and, as Ellis has promised her a course of music-lessons, to develop her one talent, you may consider her off your hands."