"Oh, I am so sorry!" exclaimed Dora in great distress; and would have followed her, had not Karl held her back.

"Don't go, dear; it will be of no use: she will not let you into her room. Poor Kitty! she loved her mother so passionately, and her nature is so intense! We must make great excuses, Dora, for our sister's little inequalities of temper: I think her great loss is at the bottom of all."

Dora looked thoughtful, and presently said slowly, "I know it, Karl; but it does seem to me rather unjust that she should hate poor Pic's memory so bitterly even now. He did not know any more than I that he had small-pox when he came back that time from New York; and when Kitty told him that Aunt Lucy had taken it from him, and was very sick, he felt so badly, that I think it prevented his getting well."

"O Dora, don't say that! Kitty could not have blamed him openly."

"I don't know what she said; but, from that day, he grew worse, and died without being able to bid me good-by,—Pic, who brought me away from those cruel people, and cared for me as if I had been his child. O dear, dear old Pic!"

She did not cry; she very seldom did: but she clasped her hands tightly together, and looked so white and wild, that Karl came to her, and, taking her in his arms, would have soothed and caressed her like a little child, had not she repulsed him.

"Please not, dear Karl! I must bear my griefs alone for I am alone in all the world."

It was the bitterest sentence Dora had ever spoken, and her cousin looked at her in dismay.

"If Picter could have given the disease to me instead of to aunt, and he and I could have journeyed on together into another world as we had through this, and left your mother to Kitty and you!" continued Dora; while in her eyes, and about her white lips, quivered a passion of grief far beyond any tears,—far beyond, thank God! any grief that eyes and lips so young are often called to express. And as it rose and swelled in her girl heart, and shook her strong young soul, Dora uttered in one word all the bitterness of her orphaned life.

"Mother!" cried she, and clinched her hands above the sharp pain that seemed to suffocate her, the pain we call heart-ache, and might sometimes more justly call heart-break.

Karl looked at her, and his gay young face grew strong, and full of meaning. He folded her again in his arms, and said,—

"Dora, I had not meant to speak yet; but I cannot see you so, or hear you say such words. Do not you know, cousin, that there is nothing in all the world I love like you; and that, while I live, you can never be alone; and, while I have a home, you can never want one, or be other than its head and centre? Dora, marry me, and I will make you forget all other loves in the excess of mine." Dora allowed her head to droop upon his shoulder, and a sudden sense of peace and rest fell temptingly upon her spirit.

"Dora, Dora Darling always, even when you are all my Dora!" whispered Karl; but Dora released herself from his arms, and stood upright. Her face was strong again now, although very white; and she said,—

"Thank you, cousin. You are good and kind, as you always have been, and I am glad you love me as I love you; but what else you have said we will forget. I am too young to think of such things, and you will not feel so to-morrow or next day. Be my brother, as you have been, and let me be sister to you and Kitty, as aunt told us. I wish I could make Kitty love me."

The young man would have persisted; but Dora, gravely shaking her head, said,—

"Karl dear, you only distress me, and I want to be quiet. Do not speak of this again for at least another year, and then, perhaps, you will not want to."

"But in a year I may, if I do want to?" asked Karl eagerly.

"I don't want to say that; for I don't know that I should want you to then," said Dora, with such exquisite simplicity, that the young man laughed outright, and said,—

"But you don't know that you sha'n't, do you, darling Dorelle?"

"I didn't say so."

"No; but—Well, I won't insist; only I shall put down the date. Let me see: Aug. 24, isn't it?"

He took out his note-book, wrote a few words, and, glancing at Dora with a suppressed smile, put it away again. Then, more seriously, he took her hand, saying,—

"Only remember one thing, Dora; and that is, whatever may come in the future, this house is your home as long as it is ours; and, while I live, there is always some one who loves you best of all God's creatures."



CHAPTER XXI.

GIOVANNI'S ROOM.



"OCHONE! an' it's weary work climbin' thim stairs," groaned Mrs. Ginniss, pausing upon the landing outside the organ-grinder's door.

"An' mabbe she's wid him still. Anyway, I'll see, and save the coomin' down agin."

With these words, Mrs. Ginniss gave a modest rap upon the door, and, as it remained unanswered, a somewhat louder one, calling at the same time,—

"Misther Jovarny! Misther Jovarny, I say! Is it out yees still are?"

The question remaining unanswered, the good woman waited no longer, but, climbing the remaining flight of stairs took the key of her room from the shelf in Teddy's closet where it had been left, and unlocked the door.

"Cherry, darlint, be ye widin?" asked she, throwing it open; and then, recollecting herself, added,—

"An' sure how could she, be, widout she kim in trew the kayhole? But, blissid Vargin! where would they be all the day long?"

So saying, Mrs. Ginniss threw up the window, and looked anxiously down the street in the direction where Giovanni and Cherry had that morning disappeared.

Nothing was to be seen of them; but, just turning the corner, came Teddy, his straw-hat pushed back upon his forehead, and his steps slow and undecided. He was thinking wearily, as he often thought of late, that the time had come when he could no longer withhold his little sister from the friends to whom she really belonged; and it was not alone the heat of the August night that brought the great drops of perspiration to the boy's forehead, or drew the white line around his mouth.

"It's quicker nor that you'll stip, my b'y, whin you hear the little sisther's not in yit, an' it's wid Jovarny she is," muttered Mrs. Ginniss; and, half dreading the entrance of her son, she applied herself so diligently to making a fire in preparation for supper, that she did not appear to notice him.

"Good-evening, mother. Where's Cherry?" asked Teddy, throwing himself wearily into a chair just inside the door.

"An' is it yersilf, gossoon? An' it's the big hate is in it intirely."

"Yes: it's hot enough. Where's Cherry?"

"Takin' a little walk, honey. You wouldn't be shuttin' the poor child into the house this wedder, sure?"

"Taking a walk!-what, alone!" exclaimed Teddy, sitting upright very suddenly.

"Of coorse not. Misther Jovarny was perlite enough to ax her; an' she wor that wild to go, I couldn't say her no."

"I wish you had said no, mother. I hate to let her be with that fellow, anyway. I'd have taken her to walk myself, if I was twice as tired. How long have they been gone?"

And Teddy, in his turn, looked anxiously out at the window, but saw nothing more than the squalid street weltering in the last rays of the August sun; a knot of children fighting in the gutter over the body of a dead cat; an old-clothes man sauntering wearily along the pavement, and a dog, with lolling tongue and blood-shot eyes, following close at his heels.

"How long have they been out? asked Teddy again, as he drew in his head, and looked full at his mother, whose confusion struck him with a sudden dismay.

"O mother!" cried he, "what is it? There's more than you're telling me amiss. How long is she gone?"

"Sure an' I didn't mind the clock whin they wint," said Mrs. Ginniss, still struggling to avoid the shock she felt approaching.

"No, no; but you can tell! O mother! do speak out, for the love of God! I can see how scared you are, though you won't say it. Tell me right out all there is to tell."

"An' it's no great there is to till, Teddy darlint; on'y this mornin', whin I was sint for to Ann Dolan (an' she that bad it's dead we thought she wor one spell, but for Docther Wintworth), Jovarny kim up, an' axed might the child go for a walk to the Gardens wid him; an' I jist puttin' on me shawl to go out, an' not wantin' to take the little crather in wid a sick woman, nor yet to lock the door on her, an' lave her to fret. So I says she might go wid him; and, whin she coom home, I tould Jovarny to open the door wid the kay an' let her in, an' showed her the dinner on the shelf by: an' if it's harm that's coom to her, it's harder on me than on yersilf it'll fall; an' my heart is bruck, is bruck intirely."

Throwing her apron over her head, Mrs. Ginniss fell into at chair, and gave way to the agitation and alarm she had so long suppressed; but Teddy, ordinarily so kind, and tender of his mother, stared at her blankly, and repeated,—

"This morning! How early this morning?"

"I wor jist afther washin' the bit breakfast-dishes," sobbed Mrs. Ginniss.

"Twelve hours or near!" exclaimed Teddy in dismay. "And is it to the Gardens he said he'd take her?"

"Shure an' did he!"

"To the Public Gardens, the City Gardens, just by the Commons?" persisted Teddy.

"Jist the Gardens wor all he said; an' towld me the shwans that wor in it, an' the bit posies."

"Yes: there's swans there, and posies enough," muttered Teddy, and, snatching the hat he had thrown upon a chair as he entered, rushed out of the room and down the stairs at headlong speed.

But, before he could possibly have reached the Garden, the sun had set, all visitors were excluded, and the gate-keeper had gone home. Nothing daunted, Teddy scaled the high iron fence; ran rapidly through all the paths, arbors, nooks, and corners of the place; and finally returned over the fence, just in time, to be collared by a policeman, who had been watching him: but so sincere was the boy's tone and manner, as he assured the official that he was after no harm but was looking for his little sister, who had been taken away from home, and, as he feared, lost, that the guardian of the public peace not only released him, but inquired with some interest into the particulars of the case; saying that he had been likely to notice any one remaining in the Garden longer than usual.

Teddy, with anxious minuteness, described the appearance both of the lost child and the "organ-fellow," as he called Giovanni; and gave the particulars of their leaving home as his mother had given them to him. The policeman listened attentively, but shook his head at the end.

"Haven't seen any sich," said he. "Them I-talian fellers is a bad lot; and I shouldn't wonder if he'd took off the child to learn her to play a tambourine, and go round picking up croppers for him. You'd better wait till morning; and, if they don't turn up, her mother can go and tell the chief about it."

"Chief of police?" asked Teddy.

"Yes; but it ain't always he can do any thing. There was that little gal, a year ago pretty nigh, belonged to a man by the name of Legrange. She was lost, and they offered a reward of ten thousand dollars finally; but she warn't never heard from. You see, there's sich a many children all about: and come to change their clothes, and crop their hair, it's hard to tell t'other from which," said the policeman meditatively; and then, suddenly resuming his official dignity, added, "You mustn't never get over that fence again, though: mind that, young man."

"Thank you, sir," said Teddy, turning away to hide the guilty confusion of his face; and, as he hurried home, he anxiously revolved the idea of applying to the police for aid, should Cherry remain absent after the next morning. But Teddy knew something of the law, and had too often seen better hidden secrets than his own ferreted out and brought to the light by its searching finger, to wish to trust himself within its grasp; at any rate, just yet.

"If I find her, I'll give her up, and tell all, and never touch the reward; but how can I go and say she's lost again?" thought Teddy, with a sick heart. And when, running up the stairs, his quick eyes caught sight of his mother's face, his own turned so ghastly white, that she ran toward him, crying,—

"An' is it dead you've found her, Teddy?"

"Worse; for she's lost; and all that comes to her is on my shoulders," said Teddy hoarsely, as he stood just within the door, looking hungrily about the room, as if he hoped, in some forgotten corner, to light upon his lost treasure.

"Did Jovarny take his organ and the monkey?" asked he suddenly.

"Sure, and he didn't; for I mind luckin' afther him going down the street."

"Then he'll be back!" exclaimed the boy eagerly; but the next moment the new hope died out of his face, and he muttered,—

"He might have taken them before. Anyway, I'll soon see;" and, running down the stairs, Teddy applied his sturdy shoulder and knee to the rickety door of the Italian's room. Neither door nor lock was fitted to withstand much force, and, with a sharp sound of rending wood and breaking iron, they flew apart; and Teddy, stepping over the threshold, glanced eagerly around. The room was stripped of everything except the poor furniture, which Teddy knew the Italian had hired with it, and the wooden box where he had kept his clothes. Of this the key remained in the lock; and, the boy, lifting the lid, soon discovered that a few worthless rags were all that remained.

"He's gone, and she with him!" groaned Teddy, dropping the box-cover, and standing upright to look again through the deserted room. His mother stood in the doorway.

"Och, Teddy! an' it's desaved us intirely he has,—the black-hearted crather; an' may the cuss O' Crom'ell stick to him day an' night, an' turn his sleep to wakin', an' his mate to pizen, till all I wish him is wished out!"

"It's no good cursing or wishing, mother," said Teddy bitterly. "If there was, I'd curse myself the first; for it's on me it had ought to fall."

"Sorra a bit of that, thin, Teddy mavourneen; for iver an' always it was yersilf that wor tinder an' careful uv her that's gone; an' yersilf it wor that saved the life of her, the night she first come home to us; an' it's none but good that iver yees did her in all the days of yer life; an', if there's any blame to be had betwixt us, it's on yer poor owld mother it should be laid,—her that loved the purty darlint as if she'd been her own, an', if she's lost, will carry a brucken heart to her grave wid mournin' afther her. O wurra, wurra, acushla machree! Och the heavy day an' the black night that's in it! Holy Jasus, have mercy on us! Spake the good word for us, blissid Vargin! Saint Bridget (that's me own namesake), stip up an' intersade for us now, if iver; for black is the nade we have uv help."

Falling upon her knees, and pulling a rosary of wooden beads from her bosom, the Irish woman pursued her petitions, mingling them with tears and exclamations more or less pathetic and grotesque; while Teddy, seated upon the Italian's empty box, his head between his hands, his elbows upon his knees, his eyes fixed steadily upon the floor, gave up his young heart a prey to such remorse as might fitly punish even a heavier crime than that of which his conscience accused him.



CHAPTER XXII.

THE CONFESSION.



THE morning came, but brought no comfort. Mrs. Ginniss had crept up stairs, and, throwing herself upon the bed, had fallen asleep with the tears still trickling down her honest face; but to Teddy's haggard eyes no sleep had come, and he had only changed his position by stretching himself upon the floor beside the box, his head upon his arm, his aching eyeballs still shaping in the darkness the form and features of the little sister whom he had sullenly resolved was lost to him forever as punishment for his fault in concealing her.

"If I'd brought her back," thought he again and again, "they'd have let me get seeing her once in a while; they couldn't have refused me so much; and maybe some day I'd have been a gentleman, and could have talked with her free and equal. But now she's lost to them and to me; and, when I tell the master, he'll call me a mean thief and a liar, and a rascal every way, and he'll never look at me again; and mother"—

Then he would wander away into dreary speculation upon what his another would say when the truth was made known to her, and she found the boy on whom she had lavished her love and pride dishonored and discarded by the master to whom he owed so much, and whose patronage she had taken such pains to secure for him; and then, like the weary burden of a never-ending song, would come again the thought,—

"But if I'd brought her back at the first!"

The bitter growth of the night, however, had borne fruit in a resolution firm as it was painful; and, when Teddy came up stairs to make himself fit to go to the office, he was able to say some words of comfort to his mother, assuring her that no blame to her could come of what had happened, and that it was possible the child might yet be found, as he should warn those of her loss who could use surer means to search for her than any at their command.

"An' is it the perlice ye're manin'?" asked Mrs. Ginniss. "Sure it's little they'd heed the loss o' poor folks like us, or look for one little child that's missin', whin there's more nor enough uv 'em to the fore in ivery poor man's house. But niver a one like ours, Teddy b'y,—niver another purty darlint like her that's gone."

Teddy made no reply to this, but, hastily swallowing some food, took his hat, and left the room.

Upon the stairs he met the landlord, who, followed by a furniture-broker, entered the room of the organ-grinder. Going in after them, Teddy learned, in answer to his eager questions, that the broker had, early in the morning of the previous day, received a visit from the Italian, who, announcing that he had no further use for the furniture, paid what was owing for the rent of it, and made a bargain for a box he was about to leave behind him; but, as to his subsequent movements, the man had no information to give, nor could even judge whether he intended leaving the city, or only the house.

Thanking him or the information, Teddy went drearily on his way, more hopelessly convinced than ever that Giovanni had deliberately stolen the child, and absconded with her.

"Well," muttered he, "all I've got to do now is to tell the master, and take what I'll get. If he finds the little-no: she's none of that, nor ever was-if he finds her, and takes her home to them that lost her, I'll be content, if it's to prison, or to sweeping the streets, or to be a slave in the South, he sends me."

Arrived at the office, Teddy faithfully performed his morning duties, and then seated himself to wait for Mr. Barlow, who was again occupying Mr. Burroughs's office during that gentleman's absence in the West. While arranging upon his table some papers he was to copy, Teddy suddenly remembered that other morning, now nearly a year ago, when Mr. Burroughs had laid upon his very table the picture and advertisement of the lost child; and all the months of guilty hesitation and concealment that since had passed seemed to roll back upon the boy's heart, crushing it into the very dust. He threw down the pen he had just taken up, and laid his head upon his folded arms, groaning aloud,—

"Oh! if I had told him then! if I had just told him that morning!"

The door of the office opened quickly; and Mr. Barlow, a grave and reserved young man, who had never taken much notice of Teddy, entered, and, as he passed to the inner room, glanced with some curiosity at the boy, whose emotion was not to be quite concealed.

"If you please, sir"—

"Well, Teddy?"

"I should like to send a letter to Mr. Burroughs."

"Do you mean a letter from yourself?"

"Yes, sir."

A slight smile crossed Mr. Barlow's face, as he replied a little sneeringly,—

"I am afraid your business will have to wait till Mr. Burroughs's return, my boy."

"Don't you be sending him letters, sir?"

"I have; but, when I heard from him yesterday, he was about leaving Cincinnati, and gave me no further address. He will be at home in a day or two."

Mr. Barlow passed on, and Teddy stooped over his work, but to so little purpose, that, on submitting it for inspection, he received a sharp reproof for his negligence, and an order to do the whole afresh.

"What a Quixotism of Burroughs's to try to educate this stupid fellow!" muttered Mr. Barlow to a friend who lounged beside his table; and Teddy, hearing the criticism upon his patron, felt an added weight fall upon his own conscience.

"They laugh at him because I'm stupid, and I'm stupid because I'm thinking of what I've done. It's good that they'll soon be shut of me altogether. Maybe I can sweep the crossings, or clean the gutters," thought poor miserable Teddy, bending afresh to his task.

Mr. Burroughs did not come so soon as expected; and Mr. Barlow became quite impatient of the constant inquiry addressed to him by Teddy as to the probable movements of his master. At last, about noon of Friday, he walked into the office, looking more cheerful and like his old self than he had been since the heavy sorrow had fallen upon the household so near to his heart.

Mr. Barlow greeted him heartily, and, calling him into the inner office, closed the door; while Teddy remained without, his heart beating with a sick hard throb, a tingling pain creeping from his brain to the ends of his icy fingers, and his whole frame trembling with agitation.

It was no light task that he had set himself; and so he well knew. To stand before the man he loved and reverenced before all men and say to him that he had been for months deliberately deceiving and injuring him and his; to confess that he had not once, but persistently, refused the only chance ever offered him of repaying, in some measure, the kindness and generosity of his patron; to acknowledge grateful,—oh! it was no light task that the boy had set himself; and yet his resolution never faltered.

Great acts are only great in the light of the actor's previous history and training; and perhaps the atonement Teddy now contemplated was for him as heroic as that of the martyred bishop who held the hand that had signed the recantation steadily in the flame until it was consumed.

The door of the office opened, and the two gentlemen were passing out together, when Teddy started up,—

"If you please, sir, might I speak with you by yourself?"

"Oh, yes! Teddy has been very anxious for an interview with you all the week. I will go on, and expect you down there presently," said Mr. Barlow.

"Yes, in two minutes. Come in here, Teddy, and let us hear what you have to say."

Mr. Burroughs threw himself into the chair he had just quitted, and stirred the fire, saying good-humoredly,—

"Out with it, my boy! What's amiss?"

Teddy, standing beside the table, one clammy hand grasping the edge of it, seemed to feel the floor heave beneath his feet, and the whole room to reel and swim before his eyes. His tongue seemed paralyzed, his lips quivered, his voice came to his own ears strange and hollow; but still he struggled on, resolute to reach the worst.

"It's about the little girl that was lost, sir, your little cousin Antoinette."

"'Toinette Legrange, cried Mr. Burroughs, his face suddenly growing earnest as he turned it upon the boy, and asked,—

"What is it? Have you heard of her?"

"Yes, sir. I found her in the street the night she was lost. She was dressed in poor clothes, and her hair was cut off. I didn't know who she was; and I took her home to my mother, and asked her to keep her for my little sister, because I never got one, and always wanted her. Then she was sick; and one day you told me she was lost, and showed me the picture and the piece in the paper; and I knew it was her. Then I thought she was going to die, and I waited to know; and, when she got better, I waited a while longer; and at last she was well, and I couldn't bear to part with her"—

"But she is safe now?" interrupted Mr. Burroughs, his look of stern reproach mingling with a sudden hope.

"No, sir: she's lost!"

"What!"

Teddy's white lips tried again and again before they could form the words,—

"She's lost again, sir! She went out walking with Jovarny, that's an organ-grinder, last Monday morning; and he has taken her off."

"You miserable fellow! You had better have killed as well as stolen her!" exclaimed Mr. Burroughs.

Teddy clung to the table, and reeled as if a physical blow had fallen upon him. It was the first time in the four years they had spent together that his master had spoken to him in anger, and now,—

"Five days ago! And what have you done in that time towards looking for her?" asked Mr. Burroughs sternly.

"Nothing, sir. I wanted to write to you, but couldn't get any direction."

"And why didn't you tell Mr. Barlow, and let him set the police at work? If you had warned him as soon as you discovered the loss, this organ-grinder might have been caught. Now he is perhaps in New Orleans, perhaps halfway to Europe. Why didn't you tell Barlow, I say?"

"Please, sir, I couldn't bear telling any one but you that I done it," said Teddy in a low voice.

"Well, sir, and, now you have told me, you will please walk out of this office, and never enter it again. I did not imagine, that, in all these months, you were preparing such a pleasant surprise for me. One question, however: did your mother know who the child was?"

"No, sir: never."

"Then you may thank her that I let you off so easily; but I never desire to see either of you again after to-day. Wait here for one hour, while I go with a detective to hear your mother's story and to get a description of this organ-grinder. At two o'clock, leave the office; and take with you whatever belongs to yourself, and nothing more."

Mechanically obeying his master's gesture, Teddy staggered out of the room. Mr. Burroughs followed him, and, locking the door of the inner office, put the key in his pocket, and went out.

"He thinks I'm a thief!" was the bitter thought that darted through Teddy's mind; and then, "And how could I steal more than when I stole her? He's right to lock up from me."



CHAPTER XXIII.

TEDDY LOSES AND FINDS HIS HOME.



AN hour later, Teddy, leaving behind him the books, papers, pictures, every thing that Mr. Burroughs had given him, and taking only the few articles of his clothing which happened to be at the office, crept out of the door and down the stairs with the look of a veritable thief.

Choosing the least-frequented streets, and avoiding the recognition of such of his acquaintance as chanced to meet him, he slunk homeward, feeling a little less wretched, but infinitely more degraded, than he had done before his confession.

Burroughs knew, his mother knew, the police-officials knew,—how could he tell who did not know?-of his shame and guilt. Every pair of eyes seemed to accuse him; every step seemed to pursue him; every distant voice seemed to summon him to receive the punishment of his misdoing; and it was as to a refuge that he at last hurried in at the door and up the stairs of the tenement-house.

At the upper landing, however, he paused. His mother!-oh the sorrow and the shame that he had brought upon her in payment for all her love and effort, and the constant sacrifices she had made, ever since he could remember, to enable him to rise above his natural station, and to appear as well as his future associates! It came back to him now,—not a new thought, but one intensified by the more immediate suffering of the last two hours. He leaned for a moment against the wall, and wiped his clammy brow, feeling that any sudden death, any strange chance that could befall him, would be welcome, so that it swallowed up the coming moment, and spared him the sight of the misery he had wrought.

Only a moment. Then the desperate courage that had carried him through his confession to his master gave him strength to open the door and enter.

The ironing-table was spread, and upon a half-finished shirt lay a little pile of money. Teddy knew that it was the wages owing him since the last payment, and turned away his eyes with loathing.

Mrs. Ginniss was lying upon the bed, her face buried in the pillow, sobbing heavily and wearily, as if exhausted by excessive emotion.

Teddy closed the door softly, and stood looking at her, uncertain whether she had heard him enter. In the room below, the little child of the new tenants sung, at her play, an air that Cherry had often sung.

Teddy listened, and, when the little song was done, cried out,—

"O mother! haven't you a word for me? I believe I'll go mad next."

"Don't be spakin' to me, you bowld, bad b'y! It's niver a word I have for yees, or wants from yees!" sobbed Mrs. Ginniss.

Teddy looked at her drearily for a moment; then softly seated himself, his hands folded listlessly in his lap, his eyes wandering idly about the familiar room, and his mind journeying on and on in the weary, mechanical manner of a mind over-wrought and stunned by long-continued or excessive suffering.

From the street below rose the hum and bustle of city life; from the room that had been Giovanni's, the voice of the child, still singing at her play. In at the open window streamed the thick yellow sunshine of the August afternoon, and a great droning blue fly buzzed upon the pane.

Teddy noted every sound; watched the motes dancing in the sunshine, the fly bouncing up and down the little window, the movements of the cat, who, rising from her nap, stretched every limb separately, yawned, lazily lapped at her saucer of milk, and then, seating herself in the patch of lurid sunshine, with her tail curled round her fore-paws, blinked drowsily for a few minutes, and then dozed off again.

But, whether he listened or whether he looked, it was but ear and eye that noted these familiar and homely sounds or sights. The mind still journeyed on and on in that weary journey without beginning or end; that dull, heavy tramp through black night, with no hope of ever reaching morning; that vain flight from a pain not for one moment to be forgotten or left behind; that numb consciousness of an evil, that, wait as we will, must sooner or later be met and recognized.

A long hour passed, and Mrs. Ginniss suddenly arose and confronted her son.

"If iver I larnt ye any thin', ye black-hearted b'y, what wor it?"

Teddy raised his heavy eyes to his mother's face, but made no answer.

"Worn't it to search iver an' always for the chance to do a good turn to him as has done all for 'yees that yer own father could, an' more? Worn't that the lesson I've struv to larn ye this four year back, Teddy Ginniss?"

"Yes, mother," said the boy in a low voice.

"An' haven't I towld ye, that, so as ye did it, my blessin' was wid yees, an' so as ye turned yer back on it my cuss 'ud folly yees, an' the cuss uv God an' all his saints and angels?"

"Yes, mother."

"An it's yersilf that's tuck heed uv me words, an' done yer best to kape 'em; isn't it, me fine lad?" pursued the mother with bitter irony.

"I did always, mother, till"-began Teddy humbly; but his mother angrily interrupted him.

"Alluz till ye got the chance to do contrairy, an' plaze yersilf at his expense. Sure, an' it wor mighty perlite uv yees to wait that long, an' it's greatly obleeged to yees he shud be."

She waited a moment, standing before the boy, who, still seated droopingly in the chair where he had first fallen, his heavy eyes looking straight before him, offered neither reply nor remonstrance; while his mother, setting her hands upon her hips, looked scornfully at him a moment longer, and then exclaimed,—

"An' have ye niver a word to say for yersilf, ye white-livered coward? Is there niver anudder lie on yer tongue like thim ye found so handy this twelvemonth back? Git out uv me sight, ye spalpeen, and out uv me doors! Go find them as'll kape yees to stale rich folks' children, an' thin lie to the mother as bore yees, and the kind masther as tried to make a gintleman out uv a thafe. Begone, I say, Teddy Ginniss, and quit pizenin' the air of an honest woman's room wid yer prisince!"

Teddy rose, and was leaving the room without a word, but at the door turned back; looked long and wistfully at his mother, who had turned away, and affected not to see him; then slowly said,—

"Good-by, mother! It's worse nor you can I'm feeling. Good-by! If ever I come to any good, I'll let you know; and, if I don't, you're shut of me for always."

The mother made no answer; and Teddy, lingering one moment on the threshold to turn his sad eyes for the last time upon the familiar objects that had surrounded him since childhood, went out, and down the stairs.

In the street he paused a moment, looking up and down, wondering where he should first go, and how food and shelter for the coming night were to be obtained. The question yet unsolved, he was walking slowly on; when a voice far overhead called,—

"Teddy!-Teddy Ginniss! Come here, I say!"

It was his mother's voice; and, as he looked up, it was his mother's face and hand summoning him.

In the same forlorn, stunned way that he had come down, Teddy climbed the stairs again, feeling as if his feet were shod with lead, or the terrible weight at his heart was too heavy to be carried a step farther.

He pushed open the door of his mother's room, but never looked up or spoke, although he knew she stood close behind it. But, indeed, there could have been no time, had the boy wished to speak; for already his mother's arms were around his neck, and her head upon his stout shoulder, while the passionate tears fell like rain upon his hands.

"Ochone, ochone! An' it's me own an' only b'y yees are, an' must be, Teddy darlint; an' it's mesilf that 'ud be worse nor a haythin to turn yees inter the strate, so long as it's a roof an' a bit I have left for yees. An' sure, if ye've gone astray, it's the heart uv yees that's bruck wid frettin' afther it; an' there's a many as has done wuss, and niver a hape it harmed 'em here nor hereafter. An', if Michael wor here the day, it's himself 'ud say to pass it by; an' it wor little I should be plazin' his blissid sowl to turn yees off for one fault. Kiss yer owld mother, honey, an' be her own b'y again!"

"Thank you, mother," said Teddy, still in the strange, low voice he had used before; and, putting his arms round her neck, he met and returned her hearty kiss, and then, without another word, went and shut himself into the little loft he called his own, and was seen no more that night.



CHAPTER XXIV.

MR. BURROUGHS'S BUSINESS.



It was the afternoon of Thursday, Aug. 25: and Dora, sitting beside the bed where her little charge lay sleeping heavily, heard the rattle of wheels, and, peeping from the window, saw Karl jumping from the wagon, followed more slowly by a tall, handsome young gentleman, whom she concluded to be Mr. Burroughs; her cousin having gone to meet him at the railway-station, seven miles away.

"He's good-looking enough for a colonel," thought Dora, and then started back, coloring a little; for Mr. Burroughs, in entering the house, had glanced up, and caught her eye. The next minute, Kitty darted into the room from her own chamber.

"They've come! Did you see him? Isn't he a real beauty? I do love a tall man!-He's as tall as Mr. Brown, and his whiskers are ever so much prettier; but, then, Mr. Brown's a minister. My! How nice you look, Dora! Go right down, and I'll stay with little Molly."

Dora glanced involuntarily at the mirror, and caught the reflection of a bright face, surrounded by heavy chestnut curls, and lighted with clear hazel eyes, and flashing teeth, a head of queenly shape and poise, and a firm, graceful figure, well set off by its white dress, black bodice, and scarlet ribbons,—a charming picture, with the quaintly decorated chamber for background, and the heavy black frame of the old mirror for setting: and a brighter color washed into the young girl's cheek as she recognized the fact; but she only said,—

"Why do you call her Molly, Kitty?"

"Oh! just a fancy name. We must call her something, and can't find out her right name."

"She called it Sunshine," said Dora, bending to kiss the pale little face upon the pillow as she passed.

"Moonshine, more like," replied Kitty. "She didn't mean it for a name, of course. You didn't understand. But come: your beau is waiting."

"Don't, Kitty, please!"

"I might as well begin. Every man is a beau that comes near you. I never saw such luck!"

Dora opened her lips, closed them tightly, and left the room. The next moment she stood in the low doorway of the parlor, bowing gravely, but not shyly, to the stately gentleman, whose head grazed the great white beam in the ceiling as he came forward to meet her.

"Miss Darling, I presume," said he.

"Yes, sir; I am Dora Darling: and you are Mr. Burroughs; are you not?"

"At your service," said the gentleman, bowing again; and, handing Dora a chair, he took another for himself.

"Won't you have some water, or a glass of milk, after your drive, Mr. Burroughs?" asked Dora with anxious hospitality; and, as the gentleman confessed to an inclination for some water, she tripped away, and presently returned with a tumbler, which Mr. Burroughs very willingly took from her slender fingers instead of a salver.

"You know I was a vivandire, sir," said Dora, smiling frankly; "and I always think of people being thirsty and tired when they come in so."

Mr. Burroughs smiled, too, as he handed back the empty glass.

"I wish we had all turned our army experiences to as good account," said he.

"Were you in the army?" asked Dora with sudden animation.

"Yes: I was lieutenant in the Massachusetts Sixth, and went through Baltimore with them," said Burroughs, tightening himself a little as the associations of military drill came back upon him.

"Oh! were you there? Wasn't it glorious to be the very first?" exclaimed Dora; and, with no further preamble, the two plunged into a series of army reminiscences and gossip, that kept them busy until Karl entered the room, saying,—

"Well, Dora, what do you think of Mr. Burroughs's news?"

"She has not heard it yet," said Mr. Burroughs, laughing a little. "We have been so busy talking over our army experiences, that we have not come to business."

"I am glad you have not; for I want to see how Dora will take it: but you will be grieved, as well as pleased, little girl."

"Yes," pursued Mr. Burroughs. "I am sorry to inform Miss Dora, that your friend Col. Blank is dead."

"Oh, Col. Blank dead!" exclaimed Dora, while a sudden shadow fell upon her bright face.

"I am very, very sorry," continued she. "Mr. Brown went to see him two months ago, and he was quite well then."

"Yes: this was rather a sudden illness; a fever, I believe. They tell me, that, since his wife died, he has never been very well, and at last was only ill three weeks."

"I am so sorry!" said Dora again. "He was very kind to me always."

"And no doubt died with feelings of affection and confidence for you, Miss, Dora; since he has made you his heir."

"Me!" exclaimed the young girl in a tone more of fright than of pleasure.

"Yes; and, although the property is not of any great available value at present, I think, if properly managed, it may, in the future, become something very handsome," said the lawyer.

"But I am so sorry Col. Blank is dead! Why, on Cheat Mountain, he seemed so strong and well! He was never tired on the marches, and hardly ever rode, but walked at the head of the column so straight and soldierly!"

The two men glanced at each other, then at her, and gravely smiled. The regret was so unaffected, so unselfish, and so unworldly, that each, after his own fashion, admired and marvelled at it. Mr. Burroughs was the first to speak; and, drawing a packet of papers from his pocket, he spread before Dora's sorrowful eyes a copy of Col. Blank's will, a plan of the estate bequeathed by it to her, and an official letter from Mr. Ferrars, the principal executor. This Mr. Ferrars, the lawyer informed his young client, was a personal friend of his own, and had placed the matter in his hands, thinking that the news might be more satisfactorily arranged by an interview than by correspondence.

"And, as I was coming East at the time, I could very conveniently call to see you on my way home," concluded Mr. Burroughs.

"Thank you, sir," said Dora meekly; and then, rather sadly, but very patiently, listened while the lawyer described the property she had inherited, and indicated the best course to pursue with regard to it.

"You will perceive, Miss Dora, that the bulk of the estate consists of this large tract of territory in Iowa, containing a great deal of valuable timber, a hundred or so common-sized farms of superb soil, and prairie-land enough to graze all the herds of the West.

"Col. Blank had just invested all his property, except the estate in Cincinnati, in the purchase of this tract, and was about to remove thither, when Mrs. Blank died; and, as I said, he never seemed quite himself after that event, and took no further steps toward emigration. The house in Cincinnati might sell, Mr. Ferrars thought, for three or four thousand dollars; enough, you see, to make a beginning at 'Outpost,' as the colonel called it."

"Did he name the Iowa farm Outpost?" asked Dora rather eagerly.

"Yes: you see the name is written on this map of the estate."

"Then we will call it so; won't we, Karl?"

"But you don't advise my cousin to emigrate to the backwoods, do you, Mr. Burroughs?" asked Karl disapprovingly.

"It is the only method of reaping any immediate benefit from her inheritance," said the lawyer. "The territory is valuable, very; but would not sell to-day for anything like the price paid by Col. Blank, who fancied its situation, and intended to live there. The only way to get back the money is to hold the land until better times, or until emigration reaches the Des Moines more freely than it has yet done."

"I shall certainly go there and live," said Dora with quiet positiveness.

"You have decided?" asked Mr. Burroughs, looking into her face, and smiling.

"Quite," said Dora.

Karl looked too, saw the firm line of the young girl's rosy lips, and slightly raised his eyebrows.

"It is settled," said he with comic resignation.

Dora returned his gaze wistfully. She could not, in presence of a stranger, say what was in her heart: but she longed to let him know that this prospect of independence, of making a home of her own, of assuming duties and pursuits of her own, was such a prospect as no friend could wish her to forego; was the full and only cure for the bitterness of heart she had been unable to conceal from him upon the previous evening,—a bitterness so foreign to the sweet and noble nature of the young girl, that it had affected her cousin's mind with a sort of terror.

Something of all she meant must have stood visibly in the clear eyes Dora now fixed upon Karl; for, in meeting that gaze, the young man changed color, and said hastily,—

"But if you will be happier, Dora; if you are not contented here-It is a humdrum sort of life, I know."

"Oh, no! not that; but I want to be doing something. I mean something almost more than I can do, not ever so much less. I like to feel as if I must use every bit of strength and courage I have, and then I always find more than I thought I had."

Mr. Burroughs looked sharply at the young girl who made this ungirlish avowal. Was this utter simplicity? or was it an ingenious affectation? Was Dora Darling one of the noblest, or one of the most crafty, of womankind?

Tom Burroughs was a man of the world and of society, and flattered himself that neither man nor woman had art deeper than his penetration; but as he rapidly scanned the broad brow, clear, level-glancing eyes, firm, sweet mouth, queenly head, and mien of innocent self-confidence, he asked himself again,—

"Is it the perfection of art, or can it be the perfection of nature?"

But Karl was saying rather gloomily,—

"And what is to become of us, Dora?"

"Kitty and you?" asked Dora, open-eyed. "Why, of course, you are to come too! Did you suppose I wanted to leave you? Of course, it is your home and mine, just as this house has been: we are all one family, you know."

"To be sure. Well, I fancy there will be something for me to do on your Outpost farm. You must make me overseer."

"No: you shall be confidential adviser; but I am going to oversee every thing myself, and you must go on with your medical studies."

"You are going to become practical farmer, then?" asked Mr. Burroughs, raising his eyebrows never so slightly.

"Yes, sir; not to really work with my own hands out of doors, you know, but to see to every thing. At first, I shan't understand much about it, I suppose; but I shall learn, and I shall be so happy!"

"And how soon will you be ready to go?" asked Mr. Burroughs.

Dora considered for a moment, "To-day is Thursday. I think we might start Monday morning; couldn't we, Karl?"

"And meantime sell this place and furniture?" asked Mr. Windsor, smiling.

"Not sell, but let the place. There is Jacob Minot would be glad to hire it, and a good tenant too. As for the furniture, we had better carry it with us. Shall we have to build a house when we get there, Mr. Burroughs?"

"Yes. Col. Blank had selected a site, and made some little beginning: I believe nothing more than having the land cleared and a cellar dug, however. You will begin with a log-cabin; shall you not?"

"Yes: I suppose so. Well, Karl, mightn't we start on Monday?"

"Not in heavy marching order, I am afraid; but very soon, if you are quite determined."

"Yes, quite; but what will Kitty think?" asked Dora suddenly.

"Oh! I think she will like it. Here she comes, and we can ask her."

The crisp rustle of muslin skirts swept down the stairs; and Mr. Burroughs, turning his head, saw standing in the doorway a tall, handsome brunette, with masses of black hair rolled away from a low forehead, glancing black eyes, and ripe lips, showing just now the sparkle of white teeth between, as the young lady half waited for an introduction before entering.

"Mr. Burroughs, Kitty; my sister, sir," said Karl, rising, and handing a chair to Kitty, who, with rather too wide a sweep of her bright muslin skirts, seated herself, and said, half laughing,—

"I suppose you are through with your secrets by this time?"

"We were just wanting to tell you the new plan, and see how you will like it," said Dora quickly; for she felt an involuntary dread lest Kitty should, in presence of this courteous stranger, say something to do herself discredit.



CHAPTER XXV.

MAN VERSUS DOG.



Mr. Burroughs staid to tea, and, while it was being prepared, strolled with Karl about the little farm; looked at the Alderney cow, the Suffolk pigs, the span of Morgan horses named Pope and Pagan; quietly sounded the depths of Capt. Karl's open and joyous nature, and made him talk of his cousin Dora, and reveal his love and his hopes regarding her.

"They will marry out there, and she will manage him, and make him very happy," thought Mr. Burroughs, returning toward the farmhouse, and admiring the long slope of the mossy roof, and the clinging masses of woodbine creeping to the ridge-pole.

"You won't make so picturesque a thing of your new home for several years to come, if ever, Mr. Windsor," added he aloud.

"No, I suppose not; but the genius of our people is more for beginning than ending, and this old place was built by my grandfather," said the young man.

"An excellent and most American reason for deserting it," said Mr. Burroughs gravely; "and, if you are thinking of selling, I should like the opportunity of becoming purchaser. This sort of thing is going out of the market, and I should like to secure a specimen before it is too late. It is same as a picture, except that it is stationary, and one must come to it instead of carrying it away in triumph."

"I think we may like to sell; but I must consult my sister and cousin first," said Karl rather gravely: for, after all, he did not just like the tone assumed by this fine city gentleman in speaking of the place that had been a home to Karl and his ancestors for more than a century. The quick tact of the lawyer perceived the slight wound he had given, and repaired it by carelessly saying,—

"And, besides the beauty of the place, I should be proud possessing any thing that had belonged to a grandfather. My family has been so migratory, that I can hardly say I had a grandfather or not: certainly I have not the remotest idea where he lived."

Capt. Karl laughed.

"Our family has been settled here since the days of the Pilgrims" said he; "and Kitty could show you a family chart, as large as a table-cloth, of which she is mightily proud, although I never could see any particular benefit it has been to us."

"And Miss Dora-is she fond of recalling her ancestors and their fame? or is she satisfied with her own?" asked Mr. Burroughs.

"I don't believe it ever occurred to her that either she or they deserved any," said Karl, laughing. "You never knew a creature so entirely simple and self-forgetful in your life, and yet of so wide and noble a nature. She is never so happy as in doing good to other people."

"But likes to do it in her own way?" suggested the lawyer pleasantly.

"Likes to do it in the best way, and her own way is sure to be that," replied Karl somewhat decidedly; and Mr. Burroughs smiled and bowed.

In the, doorway, under the swinging branch of the tall sweetbrier, suddenly appeared Kitty, her brown face becoming flushed, and the buttons of her under-sleeves not yet adjusted.

"Tea is ready; will you please to walk in, Mr. Burroughs?" said she: and the guest followed, well pleased, to the wide, cool kitchen, with its white, scoured floor, its vine-shaded windows and open door giving a view of broad meadow-lands, with a brook curling crisply through them, and a dark pine-wood beyond. In the centre stood the neat tea-table, with its country dainties of rich cream, yellow butter, custards, ripe peaches sliced and served with sugar, buttermilk-biscuit, and the fresh sponge-cake, on which Kitty justly prided herself.

"You see we are plain country-folks, and eat in the kitchen, Mr. Burroughs," said she, with a little laugh, as they seated themselves.

"Is this room called a kitchen? You amuse yourself by jesting with my ignorance," said Mr. Burroughs, looking about him with affected simplicity. "If ever I should live here, I would call this the refreshing-room; for I can imagine nothing more soothing to eyes weary of a summer sun than these vine-covered windows, and the cool greens of that meadow and the pine-forest beyond."

Kitty smiled a little vaguely, half inclined to insist upon the kitchen-side of the question; when Karl asked, in a disappointed tone,—

"Where is Dora? Isn't she coming?"

"Not yet. Molly waked up, and Dora is giving her some supper. She said she would come as soon as she had done. You didn't know, Mr. Burroughs, that Dora has an adopted child, did you?"

"No, indeed. She is young to undertake such responsibility," said Mr. Burroughs a little curiously.

"This is a little foreigner too, that Dora picked up in the road. No one knows who she may be, or what dreadful people may come after her any day. Dora is so queer!"

"Will you have a biscuit, Kitty? Mr. Burroughs, let me give you some of this peach? We shall be sorry to leave our peach-orchard behind in going to the West. I suppose, however, one can soon be started there."

And Karl, determined not to allow Kitty the chance of making any of her spiteful little speeches about Dora in presence of the visitor, kept the conversation upon purely impersonal topics, until they rose from table, and the two gentlemen strolled out upon the porch at the western door; while Kitty ran up to call Dora, whom she found sitting beside the bed, with Sunshine's head lying upon her arm.

"Isn't she asleep?" whispered Kitty.

The child half opened her eyes, and murmured drowsily,—

"I want to ride on the elephant. It's my little wife."

"What did she say, Dora?"

"Hush! She is out of her head, I think. She has been saying I was her little wife," whispered Dora.

"Well, that's English, anyway," replied Kitty, staring at the child. "What do you suppose she is?"

"I don't know. There, pet, there! Hus-h!" As she spoke, Dora carefully withdrew her arm from under the little head, where, in the August night, the hair clung in moist golden spirals, and a soft dew stood upon the white forehead.

"I'll stay and fan her for a while longer, she looks so warm," whispered Dora.

"No, no! come down and eat your supper, and help clear away. Charley asked Mr. Burroughs to stay all night, and I guess he will. Isn't he real splendid? Come down, and talk about him."

Sunshine slept soundly; and Dora, half reluctantly, suffered herself to be led away by her cousin, closing the door softly behind her, and leaving the little child to dreams of a home so far away, and yet so near; of a vanished past, that, even in this moment, stretched a detaining hand from out the darkness, groping for her own; of human love immortal as heaven, and yet, for the moment, less trustworthy than the instinct of the brutes: for if Mr. Thomas Burroughs, instead of being a highly cultivated and intellectual man, had been a dog of only average intelligence, 'Toinette Legrange would already have been discovered and, before another sunset, the slow agony devouring her mother's heart would have been relieved.

But to each of us our gifts; and Mr. Burroughs, never suspecting how deficient were his own, strolled with his host beneath the trees, until the appearance of the young ladies upon the porch; when he joined them, and resumed his conversation with Dora. From army matters, the talk soon wandered to the new prospects of Col. Blank's heiress; and Mr. Burroughs found himself first amused, then animated and interested, quite beyond his wont, in the young girl's plans and expectations.

It was late when the party separated; and as the guest closed the door of the rosy-room, and cast an admiring glance over its neat appointments, he muttered to himself,—

"What a bright, fresh little room! and what a brighter, fresher little girl!-as different from thy city friends, Tom Burroughs, as the cream she pours is from the chalky composition of the hotels. Thou dost half persuade me to turn Hoosier, and help thee convert the wilderness to a blooming garden, O darlingest of Darlings!"

And as the young man, with a half-smile upon his lips, set sail for the vague and beautiful shores of Dreamland, a bright, sweet face lighted by two earnest eyes, seemed to herald him the way, and join itself to all his fairest fancies.



CHAPTER XXVI.

MRS. GINNISS HAS A VISITOR.



HEAVILY went the days in the lowly home of Mrs. Ginniss and her son. Teddy sought early and late for employment, disdaining nothing, however humble, whereby he might earn a few cents, and working as diligently at street-sweeping, dust-gathering, errand-running, or horse-holding, as he had ever done in the way of gaining an education under the kind tuition of his late master.

Every night he brought home some small sum, and silently placed it in his mother's hand; nor, though she urged it, would he retain a penny for himself, or indulge in any of the small luxuries he had in former days enjoyed so much.

"Go buy a wather-million, honey, or get an ice-crame; sure it's nothin' at all ye're atin'," the fond mother would say: but Teddy always shook his head, or, if the matter were urged, took his cap and went out, always with the weary step that had become habitual to him, and returned no more until bedtime.

"It's frettin' himsilf to his grave the crather is," said poor Mrs. Ginniss, and tried in many a motherly way to make home pleasant to her boy, and to re-awaken the ambition that seemed quite dead in his heart. No more reading aloud now, of which he had been so fond; no more recitals of interesting or humorous scenes in office or street; no more wise opinions upon public events: all the boy's boyish conceit and self-esteem, germs in a strong character of worthy self— respect, seemed crushed out of him. Patient, humble, silent, one could hardly recognize in this Teddy Ginniss that other Teddy, whose cheery voice, frequent laugh, positive opinions and wishes, and good-humored self-satisfaction, had been the leading features of his modest home.

Poor Mrs. Ginniss longed to be contradicted or instructed or laughed at once more, and fought against her son's submissive respect as another mother might have done against disobedience or insolence.

"Can't ye be mad nor yet be merry at nothin', Teddy?" asked she impatiently one day.

"I'm thinking I'll never be merry again, mother," said Teddy sadly, as he left the room.

It was in the afternoon of the same day, that Mrs. Ginniss, sitting at her sewing in melancholy mood enough, heard a little tap at her door, and, opening it, found upon the threshold a lady, elegant in her simple dress of gray, who asked,—

"Are you Mrs. Ginniss?"

"Yes, ma'am; I'm that same," said the laundress, staring strangely at the lovely face framed in a shower of feathery golden ringlets, and lighted by large violet eyes as sad as they were sweet.

"Will ye be plazed to walk in, ma'am?" continued she. "It's but a poor place for the likes uv yees."

The lady made no reply, but, gliding into the room, stood for a moment looking about it, and then turning to the Irish woman, who still regarded her in the same awestruck manner, said piteously,—

"I am her mother!"

"Sure an' I knowed it the minute I sot eyes on ye; for it's the same swate face, an' eyes that's worse nor cryin, ye've got; an' the same way of a born lady, so quite an' so grand. Och! it wor a purty darlint, it wor; an' it's me own heart that's sore for her the day, forbye your'n that's her borned mother; and, if it wor my own life that 'ud fetch her back to yees"—

But here the long breath on which Mrs. Ginniss had started came to an end, and with it the impulse of consolation and self-defence that had so far sustained her; and with a wild cry of "Wurra, wurra! och the black day that's in it!" she sank upon a chair, and buried her head in her apron, sobbing loudly.

The visitor, hardly regarding her, still stood in the centre of the little room, her sad eyes wandering over its humble furniture and adornments as if each one were a relic.

"Are there some little things of hers, clothes or playthings or books,—any thing she touched or loved?" asked she presently in a hushed voice.

Mrs. Ginniss, still crying, rose, and opened a drawer in the pine bureau, which, with a looking-glass and some vases of blue china upon it, stood as the ornamental piece of furniture of the place.

"Here they bees, ivery one uv 'em, and poor enough for her, an' yit the bist we could git," said she.

More as a bird, long restrained and suddenly set free, would dart toward the tree where nest and young awaited it, than in the ordinary mode of human movement, the mother, so long hungering for smallest tidings of her child, darted upon this sudden mine of wealth, and, bending low, seemed to caress each object with her eyes before touching it. Then tearing off her gloves, she laid her white fingers softly upon the coarse garments, the broken toys, the few worn books, and bits of paper covered with pencil-marks, the strip of gay patchwork with the needle still sticking in it, and the little brass thimble upon it.

At one end of the drawer stood a little pair of slippers, with some slightly soiled white stockings rolled up and laid within them. At sight of these, a low cry-it might have been of pain, it might have been of joy-crept from between the pale lips of the mother; and, reverently lifting the little shoes, she kissed them again and again, in an eager, longing fashion, as one might kiss the lips of a dying child whom human love may yet recall to human life.

"Thim's the little shlippers that Teddy saved his bit uv spinding-money till he could buy for her, bekase he said the fut uv her wor too purty to put in sich sthrong shoe's as I'd got; and thin it was mesilf that saved the white little shtockings out uv me tay an' sugar; an' it's like a little fairy (save me for spakin' the word) that she lucked in 'em."

Pressing the little shoes close to her bosom with both hands, the mother turned those mournful eyes upon the speaker, listening to every word, and, at the end, said eagerly,—

"Tell me some more! Tell me every thing she said and did! Oh! was she happy?"

The word had grown so strange upon her lips and in her heart, that, as she said it, all the tense chords, so long attuned to grief, thrilled with a sharp discord; and, turning yet paler than before, she sank upon a chair, and, leaning her forehead on the edge of the open drawer, wept such tears as, pray God, happy mothers, you and I may never weep.

"O my baby, my baby! O my little child!" moaned she again and again, until the tender heart of the Irish woman could endure no longer; and, coming to the side of her guest, she knelt beside her, and put her arms about the slender figure that shook with every sob, and drew the bright head to rest upon her own shoulder.

"O ye poor darlint! ye poor, young crather, that's got the black sorrer atin' inter yer heart, all the same as if ye wor owld an' mane an' oogly, like mesilf!-it's none but Him aboov as kin comfort yees. Blissid Vargin, as was a moother yersilf, an' knowed a moother's pains an' a moother's love, an' all the ins an' outs uv a moother's heart, luck down on this young moother an' help her, an' spake to thim as can help her betther nor yees, an' give back her child; bekase ye mind the time yer own Howly Child wor lost, an' ye sought him sorrerin'; an' ye mind the joy an' the comfort that wor in it whin he was foun'. Och Mother of Jasus! hear us this day, if niver again."

As the passionate prayer ended, the lady raised her head, and kissed the tear-stained cheek of the petitioner.

"Thank you," said she. "I know that you were good to her, and that she loved you; but, oh! did she forget me so soon?"

Alas poor human heart whose purest impulses are tinged with selfishness! You who have lost your nearest and dearest, can you say from your inmost soul that you would be content to know yourself and all of earth forgotten, or that it is sorrow to you to fancy that a lingering memory, a faint regret for the love you so lavished, stains the perfection of heavenly bliss?

Tact is not a matter of breeding; and Chesterfield or Machiavelli could have found no better answer than that of Mrs. Ginniss:—

"Sure, honey, it wor alluz she remembered yees, an' longed for yees; though the little crather wor that yoong, an' the faver had so poot her about, that she didn' know what it wor she wanted nor missed; but it wor 'mother' as wor writ in the blue eyes uv her as plain as prentin'."

"And was she very, very sick?" asked the sad voice again.

"The sickest crather that iver coom back from hivin's gate," replied the other; and then, seating herself beside her visitor, she began at the beginning, and gave a long detail of the circumstances attending Cherry's first appearance in the garret, and her subsequent illness and convalescence. Then came the story of her acquaintance with Giovanni; her passion for dancing and singing with him; and finally their flight, and the consternation and sorrow of her adopted mother.

Mrs. Legrange listened to every thing with the most profound attention, asking now and then a question, or uttering an exclamation; even smiling faintly at mention of the child's graceful dancing and sweet voice in singing.

"Yes, she had an extraordinary ear for music," murmured she; "and to think of her remembering being called Cerito!"

Nor did the mother fail to notice how the whole coarse fabric of the Irish woman's story was embroidered with a golden thread of love and admiration, and even reverence, for the exquisite little creature she had cherished and cared for so tenderly.

"Yes, you loved her; and I love you for it, and will always be your friend. But Teddy?" asked she at last; for Mrs. Ginniss, through the whole story, had carefully avoided all mention of her son, except in the most casual and general fashion. Now, however, she boldly answered,—

"An' its mesilf loved the purty crather well; but my love kim no nearer the love the b'y had for her than the light of a taller candle does to the sun in hiven. He loved her that sthrong, that it med him do a mane thing in kapin' her whin he knowed who she wor; but sure it's betther ter sin fer love than ter sin fer sin's sake."

Mrs. Legrange smiled sadly. To her it had seemed, from the first, small matter of surprise, however great of regret, that Teddy should have found 'Toinette's attractions irresistible; or that, having once appropriated her as his little sister, he should have found it almost impossible to relinquish her.

She had not, therefore, shared at all in the indignation of her cousin and husband toward the boy, and had even solicited the former to retain him in his employ. But Mr. Burroughs, kind, generous, and forbearing as he was, cherished implacable ideas of integrity and honor, and never forgave an offence against either, whether in friend or servant; so that his cousin had finally withdrawn her request, asking, instead, that he should conduct her to Mrs. Ginniss's dwelling, and leave the rest to her. This the young man had consented to do; and, as Mrs. Legrange would not allow him to wait for her, he had privately instructed James to do so, and had not left the outer door until he saw that faithful servitor upon guard.

Just what were her own intentions with regard to Teddy, or his mother, Mrs. Legrange did not herself know; and, once arrived in the room where 'Toinette had lived out the weary months since her loss, all other ideas had faded and disappeared before the memories there confronting her. Now, however, the sweet and generous nature of the woman re-asserted itself, and she kindly said,—

"Yes: I see how great Teddy's temptation was, and I cannot wonder that he yielded to it. Any one would have found it hard to part with 'Toinette; and he, poor boy! could not know how I was suffering. It would have been different if you had known who she was."

"Indade an' it would. One moother can fale fer another; but these childhren hasn't the sinse till they gits the sorrer. Small fear that Teddy'll iver go asthray agin from light-heartedness."

"Does he feel very sorry, then?" asked Mrs. Legrange timidly.

"Sorry isn't the word, ma'am. It's his own heart as he consumes day an' night," said Mrs. Ginniss gloomily.

"Because she is lost, or because he kept her in the first place?" asked the lady.

"It's hard tellin', an' he niver spakin' whin he can help it; but I belave it's all together. He wor sich a bowld b'y, an' so sthrong for risin' in the world; an' wor alluz sayin' as he'd be a gintleman afore he died, an' readin' his bit books and writins, an' tillin' me about the way the counthry wor goin'; an', right or wrong, it's he wor ready to guide the whole of 'em. An', sure, it wor wondherful to see the sinse that wor in him when he get spakin' of thim things; an' one day, whin I said to him,—

"'Sure, Teddy, an', if it's one or tither of 'em is Prisident, what differ'll it make to us?' An' he says, says he, 'Whist, moother! fer one day, mabbe, it's I'll be the Prisident mesilf; an' what way 'ud that be fer me moother to be talkin'?'

"But now it's no sich talk ye'll git out uv him, an' niver a laugh nor a joke, nor the bit bowld ways he used to have wid him. An' och, honey! if ye've lost yer purty darlint, it's I've lost me b'y that wor as mooch to me; an' it's I'm the heavy-hearted woman, this' day an' alluz."



CHAPTER XXVII.

TEDDY FINDS A NEW PATRON.



TEDDY, dragging his heavy feet up the stairs in the stifling September twilight, paused suddenly to listen to a murmur of voices in his mother's room.

Some one was speaking; and the pure, clear tone sent a thrill through his veins like the shock of an electric battery. No voice but one had ever sounded like that to him; and, springing up the remaining stairs, Teddy threw open the door of the chamber, and looked eagerly about it.

The one for whom he looked was not there; but, instead, a lady, whose fragile loveliness reminded him so strangely of the little sister as she had looked in her long days of convalescence, that he stood still, staring dumbly.

"An' where's yer manners, Teddy Ginniss? Couldn' ye see the lady forenenst ye, widout starin' like a stuck pig?-It's dazed he is, ma'am, wid seein' the likes uv yees in this poor place."

"Come here, Teddy; I am waiting to see you," said the lady. And again the pure, silvery tones tingled along Teddy's nerves with a sharp, sweet thrill.

"O ma'am! are you her mother?" cried he breathlessly.

"Yes, I am her mother, and have come to see you, who loved her so well, and your good mother, who cared for her when she was motherless"—

The sweet voice faltered, and Teddy broke in,—

"And you needn't be afraid to say the worst that can be said, ma'am. I've said it all before; and you can't hate me worse than I hate myself."

"Hate you, my poor boy? I only pity you; for I have heard, and can see, how much you suffer. I cannot wonder that you should love her so well; and, when you knew who she was, I dare say you were meaning to restore her, so soon as you could bring yourself to it."

"Indeed I was, ma'am. I can take God to witness that I was," said Teddy solemnly, his eyes brimming, and his face working with the strong emotion he tried so hard to subdue.

"I am sure of it; and I love you more for the love you bore her than I blame you for the fault that love led you into." She paused a moment; and then the insatiate mother pride and love burst out, demanding sympathy.

"She was a lovely child, wasn't she, Teddy?" asked she with a tremulous smile.

The boy's rough face lighted, as if by reflection from her own, as he replied,—

"O ma'am! it's so good of you to let me talk about her! There was never another like her in all the world, I believe. I used to take her walking Sundays, and look at all the children we met (some of them rich folks' children, and dressed all out in their best); but there was never one could hold a candle to my little sister. Oh! and I hope you'll forgive me that word, ma'am; for I know it's no business I had ever to call her so, or think of her so; but I was so proud of her!"

"I don't need to forgive you, Teddy. It shows how much you loved her; and that is what I like to think best."

"But if you please, ma'am, will you tell me what is doing about looking for her?" asked Teddy eagerly.

"Very little now," answered the lady sadly. "The police traced Giovanni, the Italian organ-grinder, to the station, where he took the cars for the West. At Springfield, a man answering to his description, with a little girl, staid all night; and next day the child danced-in the streets."

The mother's face grew deadly pale as she said the last words, and she paused a moment. Teddy turned away his head, and Mrs. Ginniss groaned aloud. Mrs. Legrange went on hurriedly:—

"Where they went afterwards is not yet discovered; but they are looking everywhere. It seems so strange"—

She fell into a momentary revery, thinking, as she thought so many, many times in every day, how hard and strange it seemed that no clew could be found to her lost darling beyond the terrible day that saw her dancing in the public streets,—an ignominy, that, to the lady's sensitive mind, seemed almost equivalent to death.

Perhaps it would have been kinder had her husband and cousin told her the worst they knew or suspected, and allowed her to mourn her child as dead. The acute detective in whose hands the new clew had been placed had not only traced the fugitives to Springfield, as Mrs. Legrange had said, but had ascertained at what hour they left the hotel for the railway-station. It was impossible, however, to discover for what point the Italian had purchased tickets, as the station-master had no recollection of him, and the baggage-master was sure he had seen "no sich lot" as was described to him.

And, from Springfield, a man may take passage to almost any point in the Union. One startling fact remained, and upon this fact the whole report of the detective turned.

The train leaving Springfield for Albany upon the night when Giovanni left that town, encountered, at a certain point, another train, which, by some incomprehensible stupidity, was supposed to have passed that point half an hour before.

Consequences as usual,—frightful loss of life; a game of give and take in the newspapers, as to who should bear the blame, finally resulting in a service of plate to one party, and a donation in money to the other; several lawsuits brought by enterprising widowers who demand consolation for the loss of their wives; by other men, who, having skulked the draft, now found themselves minus both legs and glory; by spinsters whose bandboxes had been crushed, and by young ladies whose beauty had suffered damage from broken noses and scattered teeth.

But, among all these sufferers, not one remembered seeing an Italian organ-grinder with a little girl until, at the very last, a small boy was found, who averred, that, on the morning after the disaster, he had seen a sort of box, with a little creature chained to the top of it, floating down the river; and that the little creature had seemed very much scared, and kept laughing, and showing all his teeth; and that they had gone on and out of sight. And that was all he knew about it.

The river!-what use to question those dark and swollen waters? what use to demand of them the bright form, that, it might be, slept beneath them?-it might be, had been washed piecemeal to the ocean?

At the brink of that river, mournful and terrible as Styx, river of the dead, ended, that night, the story of many a life; and why not that of the child so strangely lost, so nearly recovered, and now, perhaps, lost again forever?

"We have found her, I am afraid, Tom," said Mr. Legrange to his cousin, as the detective closed his report, and his two hearers looked at each other. "But," added the father, "keep on; keep every engine at work; search everywhere; spend any amount of money that is needful; leave no chance untried. Remember, the reward is always ready." And, when they were alone, he added,—

"But, Tom, don't tell her. She can't bear it as we can. Poor little Sunshine!" And, to show how well he bore it, the father hid his face, and sobbed like a woman.

"No, I won't say any thing," said Tom Burroughs in a strange, choked voice. And so we come back to Mrs. Legrange wistfully saying, "It seems so strange"—

And then, with the patience of a woman, she put aside her own great grief, and added,—

"But, Teddy, I am going to do something for you; and what shall it be? You wish to be educated; do you not?"

"O ma'am! but I've give it up now."

Mrs. Legrange smiled at the sudden enthusiasm and the sudden blank upon the boy's face, and answered, almost gayly,—

"But I have not given it up for you, Teddy.-By the way, Mrs. Ginniss, is that your son's real name?-his whole name, I mean?"

"It's short for Taodoor, I'm thinkin', ma'am; but joost Teddy we alluz calls it."

"Ah, yes! Theodore. That is a very nice name, and will sound better, when he comes to be a lawyer or doctor or minister, than Teddy. Don't you think so?"

"Ye're right, ma'am: it's a dale the dacenter name uv the two; an' Taodoor I'll call him iver an' always," said Mrs. Ginniss complacently.

"I was thinking more of what other people would call him," said Mrs. Legrange, smiling a little. "Some friends of mine are interested in a school and college at the West,—somewhere in Ohio, I believe. It is a very fine school and the West is the place for a young man who means to rise. So, Theodore, if you would like to go, I shall be very happy to see to all your expenses until you graduate, and to help you about settling in a profession, or in trade, as you like."

Teddy's healthy face turned deadly white; and, although his lips trembled violently, not a word came from between them. But Mrs. Ginniss, raising hands and eyes to heaven, called down such a shower of blessings from so many and varied sources, in such an inimitable brogue, that the pen refuses to transcribe her rhapsody, as Mrs. Legrange failed to comprehend more than the half of it.

"I am glad you are pleased; and it pleases me as much as it can you," said she, half frightened at the Celtic vehemence of the other's manner and language.

"I can't say what I want to, ma'am," spoke a low voice beside her; "but if you'll believe I'm grateful, and wait till some time when I can show it better than I can now-that time will come, if we both live. And when I'm a man, if she isn't found first, I'll go the world round but I'll find her, and Jovarny too: I'll promise that."

A wan smile played over the lovely face, as Mrs. Legrange, laying her hand upon the boy's, said kindly,—

"If she is not found before then, Teddy, I shall not be here to know it."

Then going to the drawer, still standing open, she said,—

"May I have some of these little things, Mrs. Ginniss; not all,—for I know that you love them too,—but some of them?"

So Mrs. Ginniss made a package of the relics; and Teddy asked and obtained the privilege of carrying it home for his new friend, while James stalked discontentedly behind.

Upon the way, Mrs. Legrange said quietly, "I left a little money in the drawer, Theodore. It is to buy you some new clothes, and whatever else you and your mother need most. And I have just thought of something else. How would your mother like living in the country?"

"Very much, ma'am, I think. Her father had a farm in Ireland, and she is mighty fond of telling about it."

"Well, Mr. Legrange has recently made me a present of a nice old farmhouse somewhere in the western part of the State, thinking I might like to go there for a few weeks in the summer. It is a lovely place, they say; and, if your mother would like it, she might go there and keep the house for me. A man is going to take care of the farm, and he could board with her."

"That would be first-rate, ma'am," said Teddy enthusiastically. "But you're doing too much for us entirely."

"You were kind to her, Teddy; and I cannot do too much for you," said Mrs. Legrange, lowering her veil.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

WELCOME HOME.



"TIME they was here, ain't it, miss?" asked Mehitable Ross, wiping the flour from her bare arms, and coming out upon the step of the door.

"Yes," said Dora: "I expect them every moment. Is tea all ready?"

"All but the short-cakes. I hain't put them down to bake yet, because they're best when they're first done. But the cold meat is sliced, and the strawberries dished, and the johnny-cake a-baking."

"Well, keep them all as nice as you can; and I will walk out a little, and meet the wagon."

"Take Argus along, you'd better, case you should meet one of them tiger-cats Silas told on."

Dora smiled, but called, "Argus!" and at the word a great hound came leaping from one of the out-buildings, and fawned upon his young mistress; then, with stately step and uplifted head, followed her along the faint track worn by the wheels of the ox-cart in the short, sweet grass of the prairie.

The young girl walked slowly, and, at the distance of some rods from the house, stopped, and, leaning against the stem of a great chestnut-tree, stood looking earnestly down the path as it wound into the forest, and out of sight. Then her eyes turned slowly back, and lingered with a strange and solemn joy upon the scene she had just left; while from her full heart came one whispered word that told the whole story of her emotion,—

"Home!"

For this was Outpost, Dora's inheritance from her friend and father, Col. Blank; and she felt to-night, as she waited to welcome home the family whose head she had become, that her duties and responsibilities were indeed solemn and onerous. Not too much so, however, for the courage and strength the young girl felt within her soul,—the energy and will so long without an adequate field of action.

"Plenty to do, and, thank God, plenty of health and strength to do it. Experience will come of itself," thought Dora; and from her throbbing heart went up a "song without words," of joy and praise and high resolve.

It was June now; but the house at Outpost had only been ready for occupancy a week or so. The family had left Massachusetts about the first of October in the previous autumn, and had spent the winter in Cincinnati; Dora having been reluctantly convinced of the folly of proceeding to Iowa at that season. With the opening of spring, however, she had made a journey thither, escorted by Charles Windsor, and accompanied by Seth and Mehitable Ross,—a sturdy New-England couple, who were very glad, in emigrating to the West, to avail themselves of the offers made by Dora, who engaged the man as principal workman upon the new farm, and his wife as assistant in the labors of the house.

The site selected by Col. Blank proved a very satisfactory one. But Dora rejected his plans of a house, submitted to her by Mr. Ferrars, as too expensive, and too elaborate for the style of living she proposed; and chose, instead, a simple log-cabin, divided into four rooms, with another at a little distance for the accommodation of Ross and his wife, who were also to keep whatever additional workmen should be required upon the place.

These buildings, neatly and substantially formed of logs from the neighboring wood, were placed at the top of a natural lawn half enclosed by primeval forest; while at its foot nearly a quarter of a mile away, wound the blue waters of the Des Moines; and beyond it, swept to the horizon, mile after mile of prairie, limitless, apparently, as ocean, and, like ocean, solemnly beautiful in its loneliness and calm.

The house faced south; and eastward from its door, across the lawn and into the rustling wood, wound the faint wheel-track, leading back to civilization, ease, and safety: but Dora, standing beneath the chestnut-tree, fixed her dreamy eyes upon the setting sun, and, half smiling at her own fancy, thought,—

"I wonder if God doesn't make the western sky so beautiful just to draw us toward it. There is so much to do here, and so few to do it!"

A distant noise in the forest attracted her attention; and Argus, who had been dreaming at the feet of his mistress, started up with a short bark.

"Hush, Argus! It's the wagon; don't you know?" explained Dora, as she hastened down the path, and, at the distance of a few hundred rods, caught sight of the black heads of Pope and Pagan, and, the next moment, of the wagon and its occupants.

These were Karl, Kitty, and Sunshine, the two last of whom had remained all the spring in Cincinnati, while Karl and Dora had vibrated between that city and Outpost; for Dora, while choosing to superintend the building of her house and opening of the farm operations in person, had not wished to expose her cousin or the delicate child to such discomforts as she cheerfully and even gayly bore for herself.

Kitty, moreover, had found the change from her native seclusion to a gay city very pleasant; and had made so many acquaintances in Cincinnati, that she declared it was a great deal worse than leaving home to abandon them all.