"Oho! here's the general come to meet us! Whoa, Pope! don't you see your mistress? Now, then!" shouted Karl; while Kitty cried,—

"O Dora! I'm so glad to see you alive!" And little Sunshine, jumping up and down in the front of the wagon, exclaimed,—

"Dora's come! Dora's come! Karlo said we'd come to Dora by and by!"

"O you little darling! if Dora isn't glad to see you again! Kitty, how do you do? I'm so glad to see you!"

She had jumped into the wagon as she spoke; and, after giving Kitty a hearty kiss and hug, she took Sunshine in her arms, and buried her face in the child's sunny curls.

"Am I your own little girl, Dora? and do you love me same as you always did?" asked Sunshine anxiously. "Kitty said you'd so much to think about now, that maybe you wouldn't care for us."

"Oh! Kitty never meant that, dear," said Dora quickly; and Kitty, with rather a forced laugh, added,—

"Of course I didn't. It was only a joke, Molly. You talked so much about Dora, I wanted to plague you a little."

The child looked earnestly at her for a moment; and then, putting her arms about Dora's neck, hid her face upon her bosom, murmuring,—

"I'm glad I've got Dora again!"

"Well, now everybody else is attended to, hasn't the general a word for his humble orderly?" asked Karl, turning to smile over his shoulder at the group behind.

"Why, you jealous old Karl! you know you've only been away two weeks, and the girls I have not seen for almost as many months: besides, I told you not to call me general, and yourself orderly."

"Oh! that reminds me of a new name for pet. You know she persists in calling me Karlo; so I have given her the title of Dolce: and the two of us together are going some day to paint pictures far fairer than those of our great original."

"Carlo Dolce? Yes: Mr. Brown told me about him once, and said his name only meant sweet Charley," said Dora simply.

"I wonder, then, that you should have left it for Sunshine to discover how appropriate the name is to me," said Karl with mock gravity.

"I'll call you sweet Charley if you like; only it must be at all times, and before all persons," said Dora roguishly.

"No, I thank you," replied her cousin, laughing. "Fancy Parson Brown's face if he should hear such a title, or Seth's astonishment if you told him to call sweet Charley to dinner! But isn't Dolce a pretty name? Let us really adopt it for her."

"Well, if she likes; but I shall call her Sunshine still sometimes."

"What say, pet? will you have Dolce for a name?" asked Karl, turning to pinch the little ear peeping from Sunshine's curls.

"I don't know; would you, Dora?" asked the child, gravely deliberating.

"Yes: I think it is pretty."

"And Kitty sha'n't call me Molly any more; shall she?"

"Don't you like Molly?"

"No: because that man in Cincinnati asked me if my last name was Coddle; and it ain't."

"Oh, dear! what an odd little thing she is!" exclaimed Kitty. "It was Mr. Thomson, Dora; and he is so witty, you know! And one day he asked the child if her name wasn't Miss Molly Coddle, just for a joke, you see; and we all laughed: but she ran away; and, when I went to my room, there she was crying, and wouldn't come down again for ever so long. She's a regular little fuss-bunch about such things."

"Very strange, when you and I are so fond of being ridiculed and laughed at!" remarked Karl gravely; and Sunshine whispered,—

"Am I a fuss-bunch, Dora?"

Dora did not answer, except by a little pat upon the child's rosy cheek, as she exclaimed,—

"Here we are! Look, Kitty! that is home; and we must bid each other welcome, since there is no one to do it for us both except Mehitable, and I don't believe she will think of it."

"Well, I must say, Dora, you've got things to going a great deal better than I should expect," said Kitty graciously, as she looked about her. "Why, that sweetbrier beside the door, and the white rose the other side, are just like ours at home; and the woodbine growing up the corner too!"

"They came from the old home, every one of them," said Dora, smiling happily. "I wrote in the spring, and asked Mr. Burroughs to be so kind as to ask whoever lives in the house to take up a little root of each of the roses, and send them to me by express. You know he said, when we left, that we should have any thing we liked from the place, then or afterwards. So he wrote such a pleasant note, and said he had sold the house to a cousin of his, a Mr. Legrange, who had made a present of it to his wife; but I could have the slips all the same: and next day, to be sure, they came, all nicely packed in matting, and some other plants with them. Karl brought them out and set them in April; and they are growing beautifully, you see. Wasn't Mr. Burroughs good?"

Kitty did not answer. She was bending low over the sweetbrier, and inhaling the fragrance of its leaves. Karl and Sunshine had driven to the barn, and the girls remained alone. Dora glanced sharply at her cousin once, and then was turning away, when Kitty detained her, and said in a low voice,—

"My mother planted that sweetbrier, and used to call it her Marnie-bush, after me."

"I know it," said Dora softly.

"And that was the reason you brought it here. And I have been cross to you so much! But I did love her so, Dora! oh, you don't know how much I loved my mother! That is the reason I never will let any one call me Marnie now. It was the name she always called me, though Kitty belongs to me too; but she said it so softly! And to think you should bring the Marnie-bush all the way from Massachusetts!"

"I thought you would like it, dear," said Dora absently; while her eyes grew dim and vague, and around her mouth settled the white, hard line, that, in her reticent nature, showed an emotion no less intense because it was suppressed.

Then her arm stole round Kitty's waist, and she whispered in her ear,—

"We two motherless girls ought to feel for each other, and love each other better than those who never knew what it is; shouldn't we, Kitty?"

"We should that, Dora," returned her cousin with emphasis; "and I don't believe I shall forget again right away. Let us begin from now, and see how good we can be to each other."

Dora's kisses, except for Sunshine, were almost as rare as her tears; but she gave one now to Kitty, who accepted it as sufficient answer to her proposition.

At this moment, Mehitable, who had, at the appearance of the wagon, rushed home to give a finishing touch to her toilet, was seen crossing the little interval between the two houses with an elaborate air of unconsciousness of observation, and carrying a large white handkerchief by its exact centre.

"My!-how fine we look!" whispered Kitty.

"This is my cousin, Miss Windsor, Mehitable," said Dora simply. "I believe you didn't see her in Cincinnati?"

"No: she was away when we was there.-Happy to make your acquaintance, Miss Windsor. How do you like out here?"

"Well, I don't know yet. I never tried keeping house in a log-cabin. You'll have to show me how, I expect," said Kitty rather loftily.

"Lor! I guess you know as much as I do about it. I never see a log-cabin in my life till we come out here. My father had a fust-rate house, cla'borded and shingled, and all, down in Maine; and we alluz had a plenty to do with of every sort: so I hain't no experience at all in this sort of way."

"But you have a way of getting on without it that is almost as good. I don't know what I should have done without Mehitable, Kitty; and I dare say she will help you very much by telling all the ingenious ways she has contrived to make our rude accommodations answer. You know, as we are all beginning together, each must help on the other; and we must all keep up our courage, and try to be contented."

"Well, I must say I never see one that kep' up her own courage, and everybody else's, like her, since I was born into the world," said Mehitable, turning confidentially to Kitty. "Talk of my helping her! Lor! if it hadn't been for her, I never would have stopped here over night, in the world. Why, the first night, I didn't do nothing but roar the whole night long. Mr. Ross he said I'd raise the river if I didn't stop: but in the morning down come Miss Dora, looking so bright and sunshiny, that I couldn't somehow open my head to say I wouldn't stop; and then she begun to talk"—

"Mehitable, the short-cake is done. Will you speak to Mr. Windsor?" called Dora from within; and Kitty entered, saying,—

"How nice the tea-table looks!-just like home, Dora; the old India china and all."

"It is home, Kit-cat. Here is Karl, and here is little Sunshine. Come, friends, and let us sit down to our first meal in the new house," said Dora: and Kitty, subduing a little feeling of fallen dignity, seated herself at the side of the table; leaving the head for Dora, who colored a little, but took it quietly.



CHAPTER XXIX.

LIFE AT OUTPOST.



AND now began for each member of the family at Outpost a new and active life.

Kitty, who, young as she was, had already achieved reputation as a notable housekeeper, found quite enough to attend to in domestic matters, and, with Mehitable's help and counsel, soon had all the interests and nearly all the comforts of New-England farm-life established in her Western home. Even the marigolds her mother had always raised as a flavoring to broths; and the catnip, motherwort, peppermint, and tansy, grown and dried as sovereign remedies in case of illness; and the parsley, sage, and marjoram, to be used in various branches of cookery,—flourished in their garden-bed under Kitty's fostering care; while poor Silas Ross was fairly worried, in spite of himself, into digging and roofing an ice-cellar in the intervals of his more important duties.

"Now we'll see, another summer, if we can't have some butter that's like butter, and not like soft-soap," remarked Kitty complacently, when the unhappy Silas announced his task complete.

"And now I hope I can sleep in my bed o' nights without hearing 'Ice-house, ice-house!' till I'm sick o' the sound of ice," muttered Silas, walking away.

It is not to be averred, however, that all this thrift was established without much commotion or many stormy scenes; and, not unfrequently, Mehitable Ross announced to her husband that "she wouldn't stan' it nohow, to be nosed round this way by a gal not so old as herself!" And Kitty "declared to gracious" that she "never saw such a topping piece as that Hitty Ross since she was born;" and, if "folks undertook to work for other folks, they ought to be willing to do the way they were told;" and she'd "rather do the whole alone than keep round after that contrary creature, seeing that she didn't get the upper-hands as soon as her back was turned!"

But Dora, without appearing to listen or to look, heard all and saw all. Dora, cheerful, energetic, and calm, knew how to heal, without appearing to notice the wound; had a faculty, all her own, of leading the mind, vexed with a thousand trifles, to the contemplation of some aim so grand, some thought so high, some love or beauty so serene, that it turned back to daily life calm and refreshed, and strengthened to do or to endure, with new courage.

"Somehow I felt ashamed of jawing so about that wash, when Dora came in, and put her hands into the tub, and, while she was rubbing away, began to tell what a crop of corn we're going to have; and how the folks down South, the freedmen and all, might have plenty to eat, if every one did as well as we're doing," said Mehitable to her husband.

"Yes," replied Seth: "she stood by me there in the sun as much as an hour, and told the cutest story you ever heard about the Injins believing that corn is a live creter, and appeared once, in the shape of a young man named Odahmin, to one of the Injin chiefs called Hiawatha; and they had a wrastle. Hiawatha beat, and killed the other feller, and buried him up in the ground; but he hadn't more 'n got him under 'fore up he come agin, or ruther some Injin-corn come up: but they called the green leaves his clothes; and the tossel atop, his plume; and the sprouts was his hands, each holding an ear of corn, that he give to Hiawatha, just as a feller that's whipped gives another his hat, you know."

"Do the Injins believe all that now?" asked Mehitable contemptuously.

"They do so. But, I tell you, I never knew how those two rows got hoed while she was talking: they seemed to slip right along somehow; and, after she was gone, the time seemed dreadful short till sundown, I was thinking so busy of what she said."

"Guess you'd been cross 'cause that cultivator didn't come; hadn't you?" asked Mehitable slyly.

"Yes: I felt real mad all the morning about it, and was pretty grumpy to Windsor; for I thought he might as well have sent a week ago. But, by George! I'd like to see the feller that 'ud be grumpy to her."

"Well, Dora," Kitty was saying at the same moment, "I'm glad you've got home; for the first thing isn't ready for supper, and I've just done ironing. That Hit went off home an hour ago; said her head ached, and she'd got to get the men's supper. I do declare, I'd like to shake that woman till her teeth rattled; and I believe I'll do it some day!"

"How beautifully the clothes look, Kitty! I think they bleach even whiter here than they used to in the old drying yard. But I am sorry you ironed that white waist of mine: I was going to do it myself. Now, Sunshine, come and tell Aunt Kitty about the woodchuck and her baby that we saw; and how we caught little chucky, as you called him; and all the rest."

"Dear me! I can't stop. Well, come and sit in my lap, Dolly, and tell if you want to. Dora, do sit and rest a minute: you look all tired out."

"Oh, no! but Karl is, I am afraid. He walked away out behind the wheat-lot this afternoon to see to setting some traps for the poor little things that come to eat it. I never saw such a boy when there is any thing to be done. He goes right at it, no matter what lies between."

"You're right there, Dora; and he always was so from a child. Well, Dolly, what's the story?"

"Don't call me Dolly, please," said the little girl coaxingly.

"Well, Dolce, then," said Kitty, smiling with renewed good-nature. And while Sunshine, all unconsciously, completed by her prattle the cure that Dora had begun, the latter quietly and rapidly finished the preparations for tea.

As for Sunshine, never did a child so well deserve her name. In the house or on the prairie, running with Argus, walking demurely beside Karl, or riding behind Dora upon the stout little pony reserved for the use of the young mistress of the place, it was always as a gleam of veritable sunshine that she came; and no heart so dark, or temper so gloomy, as to resist her sweet influence. Constant exercise and fresh air, proper food, and the rigid sanitary laws established by Dora, had brought to the child's cheek a richer bloom than it had ever known before; while her blue eyes seemed two sparkling fountains of joy, and a vivid life danced and glittered even among her sunny curls. Lithe and straight, and strong of limb too, grew our slender little Cerito; and, although every motion was still one of grace, it was now the assured grace of strength, instead of that of fragility. She danced too, but it was with the west wind, who, rough companion that he was, whirled her round and round in his strong arms, or tossed her hair in a bright cloud across her face; while he snatched her hat, and sent it spinning into the prairie; or kissed the laugh from her lips, and carried it away to the wild woods to mock at the singing-birds. Argus too-what friends he and the child, who at first had been afraid of him, became before the summer was through! What talks they held! How merrily they laughed together! and how serenely Argus listened while Sunshine told him long histories of imaginary wanderings among the clouds, in enchanted forests, or "away beyond the blue up in the sky"! Confidences these; for, as the narrator whispered,—

"Dora doesn't like dream-stories, and Kitty says, 'Oh, nonsense!' and Karlo laughs: so you mustn't tell a word, old Argus." And Argus, wagging his tail, and blinking his bright brown eyes, promised never to tell, and faithfully kept the promise.

Perhaps it was a vague sense of loneliness in these fancies; perhaps it was the lingering longing for something she had lost even from her memory, and yet not wholly from her heart, where, as we all know, linger loves for which we no longer have a name or a thought; perhaps it was only the dim reflex of that agony consuming her mother's heart, and the earnestness with which it longed for her: but something there was, that, at intervals, cast a sudden shadow over Sunshine's heart; something that made her pale and still, and deepened the dimples at the corners of her mouth, until each might have held a tear. At these times, she would always steal away by herself if possible; sometimes, and especially if the stars were out, to sit with folded hands, gazing at the sky; sometimes to lie upon her little bed, her eyes fixed on vacancy, until the bright tears gathered, and rolled slowly down her cheeks: but, oftenest of all, she would call Argus, and, with one hand upon his glossy head, wander away to the dim forest, and seated at the foot of one of those patriarchal trees, the hound lying close beside her, would talk to him as she never talked to human ears.

Once, Karl, returning from an expedition to a distant part of the farm, saw her thus, and half in fun, half in curiosity, crept up behind the great oak at whose foot she sat, and listened.

"And up there in heaven, Argus," she was saying, "it's all so beautiful! and no one ever speaks loud or cross; and every one has shining white clothes, and flowers on their heads; and some one is there-I don't know-I guess it's an angel; but she's got soft hands, and such pretty shiny hair, and eyes all full of loving me. I dream about her sometimes; but I don't know who she is: and you mustn't tell, Argus. Sometimes I want to die, so as to go to heaven and look for her. Argus, do you want to go to heaven?"

The brown eyes said that Argus wished whatever she did; and Sunshine continued:—

"Well, some day we'll go. I don't know just how; I don't believe we'd find the way if we went now: but some day I shall know, and then I'll tell you. Sometimes I feel so lonesome, Argus! oh, so dreadful homesick! but I don't now. You're a real little comforter, Argus. That's what Dora called me the other night when Kitty was cross: and Dora cried a little when she came to bed, and didn't know I was awake; and I kissed her just so, Argus, and so."

In the game of romps and kisses that ensued, Karl stole away, and, after repeating the child's prattle to Dora, said thoughtfully,—

"There's something strange about her, Dora; something different from any of us. She seems so finely and delicately made, and as if one rude jar might destroy the whole tone of her life. If ever a creature was formed of peculiar, instead of common clay, it is Sunshine."

"Yes, and she must be shielded accordingly," said Dora. But, as she walked on beside Karl, she vaguely wondered if there were not natures as finely strung and as sensitive to suffering as Sunshine's, but united with so reticent an exterior, and such outward strength, as never to gain the sympathy or appreciation so freely bestowed upon the exquisite child.

Such introspection, however, was no part of Dora's healthy temperament; and the next moment she had plunged into a talk upon farm-matters with her cousin, and displayed such shrewdness and clear-sighted wisdom upon the subject, that Capt. Karl laughingly exclaimed, as they entered the house,—

"O general! why weren't you born a man?"



CHAPTER XXX.

KITTY IN THE WOODS.



LEFT to his own guidance, Capt. Karl would have asked no better life than to follow Dora about the farm, or fulfil for her such duties as she could not conveniently perform for herself. Nor was he ever troubled, as a man of less sweet and genial temper might have been, by fears, lest, in thus attending upon his cousin's pleasure, he sacrificed somewhat of manly dignity and the awful supremacy of the sterner sex. "Dora knows" had become to Karl a sufficient explanation of every thing, either in the character or the administration of the girl-farmer, however mysterious it might seem to others; and to defer to Dora's judgment and wishes was perhaps pleasanter and safer in the eyes of the young man than to attempt to consult his own.

But, pleasant though this life might be to both, it came by no means within the scope of Dora's plans; and, so soon as the family were thoroughly settled at Outpost, Karl found himself urged by irresistible pressure to the pursuance of his medical studies.

Five miles from Outpost, in the youthful town of Greenfield, was already established a respectable physician of the old school, who, troubled with certain qualms and doubts as to the ability of the system he had practised so many years to bear the scrutiny of the new lights thrown upon it by the progress of science, was very glad to secure the services, and even advice, of a young man educated in the best medical schools of the Eastern States; and not only consented to take Karl into his office as student until the nominal term of his studies should have expired, but offered him a partnership in his practice so soon as he should receive his diploma.

The arrangement was accordingly made; and every morning after breakfast, Karl, often with a rueful face, often with an audible protest, mounted his horse, and rode to Greenfield, leaving the household at Outpost to a long day of various occupations until his return at night.

Sometimes Dora, upon Max, her little Indian pony, would accompany him a few miles, or as far as his road led toward the scene of her own labors; but no Spartan dame or Roman matron could more sternly have resisted the young man's frequent entreaties to be allowed to accompany her farther than the point at which their roads diverged.

"No, sir! You to your work, and I to mine. Suppose I were to neglect the farm, and come to sit in Dr. Gershom's office all day," argued the fair young moralist, but found herself rather disconcerted by her pupil's gleeful laugh, as he replied,—

"Good, good! Try it once, do; and let me see if it would be so very bad. I think I could forgive you."

"Suppose, then, instead of arguing any more with you, I jump Max over this brook, and leave you where you are?" said Dora, a little vexed; and, suiting the action to the word, she was off before her cousin could remonstrate.

In the evening of the day when this little scene occurred, Karl, upon his return home, found Dora seated with Sunshine upon the grass under the great chestnut-tree.

"A letter for you, you horrid tyrant!" said he, taking one from his pocket, and tossing it into her lap.

"She isn't; and you are a naughty old Karlo to say such names!" cried Sunshine, flashing her blue eyes indignantly upon the laughing face of the young man.

"Such names as what, Dolce?" asked he, jumping from his horse, and trying to catch the child, who evaded his grasp, and replied with dignity,—

"It isn't any consequence, Karlo. She isn't it, and you know she isn't."

"But it is of consequence; for I don't know what it is she isn't. Please tell me, mousey; won't you?"

"She isn't a tireout, you know she isn't, then. You sha'n't laugh! Dora, shall Karlo laugh at me? shall he?"

"No, dear, he won't; but you mustn't be a cross little girl if he does. Now run to the house, and tell Aunt Kitty that Karlo has come home, and see if tea is ready."

The child put up her lips for a kiss, bestowed a glance of dignified severity upon the offender, and walked towards the house with measured steps for a little distance; then, with the frolicsome caprice of a kitten, made a little caper in the air, and danced on, singing, in her clear, sweet voice,—"Dear, dear, what can the matter be? Karlo can't stay from here!"

"Funny child!" exclaimed the object of the stave. "A true little woman, with her loves and spites. Who is the letter from, Dolo?"

"Mr. Brown," said Dora, slowly folding it, and rising from her seat under the tree to return to the house.

"Aha! Seems to me the parson is not so attentive as he used to be. Have you and he fallen out?"

"No, indeed! we are the best of friends; and, in proof of it, this letter is to say he is coming to make a little visit at Outpost, if convenient to us."

"And is it convenient?" asked Karl somewhat curtly.

"Certainly; or, at least, we can make it so. Either you can take him into your room, or Kitty can give him hers, and come into mine."

Karl said nothing; but, as they walked toward the house, his face remained unusually serious, and he seemed to be thinking deeply. Dora glanced at him once or twice, and at last asked abruptly,—

"Don't you want Mr. Brown to come, Karl?"

"Certainly, certainly, if you do. It is your own house, and you have a right to your own guests," replied the young man coldly.

Dora colored indignantly.

"For shame, Karl! Did I ever say a thing like that to you in the old house? and would you have been pleased if I had?"

"No, Dolo; and no again. But you never were a selfish fool, like me. Yes, I am glad Mr. Brown is coming; and I think I will stay at Greenfield while he is here. Then he can have my room."

"No, no: that won't do at all. He comes to see us all; and, of course, we can manage a room without turning you out. Kitty can come into mine"—

"Dora, what is the day of the month?"

"The 17th, I believe."

"Yes, the 17th of August; and seven days more will bring the 24th of August, Dora."

"Of course. Do you suppose he will be here by that time?" asked Dora unconsciously.

Karl looked at her in a sort of comic despair.

"Dora, if you were not the most utterly truthful of girls, you would be the most cruel of coquettes."

Dora's eyes rose swiftly to his face, read it for a moment, and then fell; while a sudden color dyed her own.

"You remember the date now?" asked Karl, almost mockingly. "See here!" and, taking from his pocket the memorandum-book of a year before, he opened it to a page bearing only the words,—

"Dora. Wednesday, Aug. 24."

"O Karl! I thought"—

"Stop, general! It is I who must be officer of the day on this occasion; and I forbid one word. I only wished to let you see that I have not forgotten. And so Mr. Brown is coming to see us?"

Again Dora glanced in perplexity at her cousin's face, but, this time, said not a word. Indeed, if she had wished, there was hardly time; for Kitty, appearing at the door, called,—

"Come, folks, come! Supper is ready and cooling."

"Coming, Kit-kat; and so is somebody else!" cried Karl.

"Somebody? Christmas is coming, I suppose; but not just yet. Did you hear that over at Greenfield?" replied Kitty, resting her hands on her brother's shoulders, and graciously receiving his kiss of greeting.

"It's not Christmas, but Parson Brown, who is coming; and I brought the news from Greenfield, although I did not know it until I arrived here," said Karl.

"Oh, a letter to Dora!" exclaimed Kitty quickly; and over her face, a moment before so bright, fell a scowling cloud, as she turned away, and busied herself with putting tea upon the table.

The meal was rather a silent one. Kitty was decidedly sulky, Dora thoughtful, and Karl a little bitter in his forced gayety; so that Sunshine, sensitive as a mimosa, ate but little, and, creeping close to Dora's side as they rose from the table, whispered,—

"What's the reason it isn't happier, Dora?"

"Aren't you happy, pet? Come and help me wash the teacups, and tell me how the kitties do to-day. Have you given them their milk?"

"I suppose you can do up these dishes without me. I got tea all alone; and I'd like to take my turn at a walk, or something pleasant, now," said Kitty crossly.

"Yes, do, Kitty. Dolce and I will do all that is to be done. It isn't much, because you always clear up as you go along," said Dora.

"There's no need of leaving every thing round, the way some folks do. Dolly, I do wish you'd set up your chair when you've done with it; and here's a mess of stuff"—

"Oh, don't throw it away, Kitty! It's my moss; and I'm going to make the pussies a house of stones, and have it grow all over moss. Dora said I might—Oh, oh! you're real naughty and ugly now, Kitty Windsor; and I sha'n't love you, and Argus shall bite you"—

But Kitty, with a contemptuous laugh, was already walking away, taking especial pains to tread upon the bits of bright moss as they lay scattered along the path.

"Dora, see! I do hate-no, I dislike-Kitty, just as hard as I can; and I can't get any more pretty moss"—

The child was crying passionately; and Dora left every thing to take her in her arms, and soothe and quiet her.

"Aunt Kitty is very neat and nice, little Sunshine; and the moss has earth clinging to it that might drop on the floor; and, besides, it takes up room, and we have so little,—hardly more than a mouse has in its nest. Oh! I never told you how I found a whole nest of mice in one of my slippers once,—six little tiny fellows, no bigger than your thumb; and every one with two little black, beady eyes, and a funny little tail."

"When was it? When you was a little teenty girl, like me? And was you afraid of the big mouse? What did you do with them?"

"Come, wipe the teaspoons, and I will tell you," said Dora, going back to her work; and, the April cloud having passed, the Sunshine was as bright as ever.

Karl, behind his newspaper, heard, saw, and understood the whole; and his mental comment might have seemed to some hearers but little connected with the scene that called it forth. It was simply,—

"Confound old Brown!"

Kitty, meantime, had walked rapidly towards the wood; but though the sunset-clouds were gorgeous, the lights and shadows of the forest rare and shifting, and the birds jubilant in their evening song, she saw nothing, heard nothing, knew nothing, except the tumult in her own heart.

For, in the recesses of the wood, she paused, and throwing herself upon the ground, her face hidden upon her arms, gave way to a paroxysm of tears. Then, rising to her feet as suddenly, she paced up and down, her hands clinched before her, her black brows knit, and her mouth hard and sullen.

"I can't help it," muttered she: "it's the way I was made, and the way I shall die, I expect. I know I'm mean and hateful, and not half as good as she; but—Oh! it's too bad, too bad!-it's cruel, and I can't bear it! Mother loved me,—yes, she loved me best of every thing; and that hateful Pic killed her: whose fault was that but Dora's? Then Charlie-what does he care for me beside her? and, and— Well, perhaps Mr. Brown never would have noticed me at any rate; but, while she's round, he has no eyes for any one else. Even the child, and the cats, and the dog, and the horses, every living thing, loves her better than me; and now he's coming to court her right before my eyes! I wish I was dead! I wish I'd never been born! I'm not fit to live!"

She then threw herself again upon the ground, pressing her burning forehead against the cool moss, and grasping handfuls of the leaves rustling about her, while she wailed again and again,—

"I'm not fit to live,—not fit to live! Oh, I wish I was dead this minute! O God! if you love me any better than the rest, let me die, let me die this minute; for I am not fit to live."

"Then you cannot be fit to die, my child," said a voice above her; and, starting up, Kitty found herself confronted by a tall, fine-looking man, of about thirty years of age; his handsome face just now wearing an expression of sorrowful sternness as he fixed his eyes upon Kitty's, which fell before them.

"Mr. Brown!" stammered she.

"Yes, Kitty: my journey has been more rapid than I could have expected; and I arrived at Greenfield about an hour ago. Finding you so near, I took a horse, and came out here to-night. You did not hear me approach; and, when I saw you through the trees, I dismounted, and came to ask you what was the matter. I heard only your last words, and perhaps I should not have noticed them; yet, as a friend of you and yours, I will say again, Kitty, he who is not fit to live should feel himself most unfit to die, which is but to live with all the passions that made life unendurable made ours forever."

"Do you think so? If I should die now, should I feel just as badly when I came to in the other world?" asked Kitty with at startled look.

Mr. Brown smiled, as he answered,—

"I cannot think, Kitty, that your remorse or your sorrows can be as deep as you fancy. Perhaps they are only trifling vexations connected with outside matters, not rising from real wrong within. But you won't want to hear a sermon before I even reach the house: so come and show me the way there, and tell me how you all are."

"Dora is very well," said Kitty, so crisply, that Mr. Brown glanced at her sharply, and walked on in silence. Presently he said,—

"You must not think, Kitty, that I mean to treat your troubles lightly, whatever they may be. Think about them a little longer by yourself; and in a day or two, if they still seem as unendurable, perhaps it will relieve you to talk to me as plainly as you choose. I shall be very glad to help you if I can, Kitty; very glad and willing. You must look upon me as another brother."

"Or a cousin, maybe, sir?" suggested Kitty, turning away her head.



CHAPTER XXXI.

THE FOX UNDER THE ROBE.



DORA sitting upon the doorstep, with Sunshine nestled close beside her, was quite astonished to see Mr. Brown appearing from the forest with Kitty, as his letter had named no day for his arrival; and she had not expected him so soon.

She went to meet him, however, with a greeting of unaffected cordiality; and as, while holding out her hand, she raised to his her clear and steadfast eyes, the young man's somewhat serious face lighted with a sudden, happy glow, making it so handsome, that Kitty, eagerly watching the meeting, turned white to the very lips, and hastily passed on toward the house.

"Come, Dolce," said she, "I will put you to bed. Dora's lover has come to see her, and she won't have a look for either of us to-night."

"I love you, Kitty; and I don't mind if you did throw away my moss. I won't bring any more into the house."

But Sunshine, well disposed as, through Dora's careful suggestions, she had become toward Kitty, was rather alarmed than pleased at the sudden embrace in which she found herself wrapped, and the eager kisses, among which Kitty whispered,—

"O Dolce! do you, do you love poor Kitty a little? You're an angel, and I'm real sorry about the moss; but you can get some more, can't you? I'll help you hunt for it to-morrow while they're gone to walk or ride. They'll be off all day; but we won't mind. Do you love me, Dolly?"

"Yes, I do, Kitty; and I know a place where the moss is so thick, you can't step unless you put your foot on it. But I didn't, 'cause"—

"'Cause what, you darling?"

"'Cause the little creatures that live in the woods come and dance there nights, and they wouldn't like it if it was dirty."

"What creatures? The woodchucks?"

"Why, no, Aunt Kitty! the little girls and boys, or something. They whisper way off among the trees, and dance too, just when the sun sets. Didn't you ever see them skipping in and out among the trees just as far off as you could look?"

"Those are shadows, Dolly; and the whispering in the trees is the wind. You mustn't have so many fancies, child, or by and by you'll get cracked."

"Then you can boil me in milk, just as you did the teacup," murmured Sunshine, half asleep.

Kitty made no answer, but, smoothing the sheet over the little girl, went to seat herself at the open window.

Far off upon the prairie she heard the night-winds come and go,—now moaning like some vast spirit wandering disquieted, now falling soft and low as the breath of the sleeping earth; and the vague voice and the cool touch seemed to quiet the fever of the young girl's heart, although she knew not how or why.

Above, in the purple skies, stood all the host of heaven, looking down with solemn benediction upon the earth, lying peaceful and loving beneath their gaze; and even Kitty-poor, lonely, heartsick Kitty-lifted her hot, tearful face toward them, and felt the holy calm descend upon her aching heart.

Falling upon her knees, she raised her arms yearningly toward heaven; and her whole soul struggled upward in the cry,—

"Oh I wish I could, I wish I could, be good! O God! make me good enough to die and go to where my mother is!"

A light step upon the stair, a gentle hand upon the latch, and strange Kitty, perverse even among her best impulses, started up, and stood cold and silent in the darkness.

"Kitty!" said Dora's voice softly.

"Well. I'm here."

"Won't you come down now? Sunshine is asleep; isn't she?"

"Yes."

"Well, won't you come?"

"By and by: I've got to see to the beds. Where is Mr. Brown going to sleep?"

"I thought you might give him your room, and come in here."

"Indeed I sha'n't!" replied Kitty in a strange voice. "He is no company of mine; and I don't want him even to look into my room. I'd never sleep there again if he did once!"

"Well, then, we can make a bed for Karl on the floor, and Mr. Brown can have his bed," said Dora quietly, seeing nothing deeper in Kitty's refusal than a little impulse of perversity.

Kitty made no reply; and Dora, groping her way toward where she stood, put an arm about her waist, saying,—

"Come, Kitty, come down with me. You're tired, I know; and it is too bad you have so much to do. To-morrow I will stay at home and help you. Karl can take a holiday, and show Mr. Brown over the farm."

"What nonsense! I don't do any thing to hurt; and it would be pretty well for you to send Mr. Brown off with Karl, when he came here on purpose to see you."

"Oh, no, he didn't! He came to see us all; and he asked where you were just now, when we came in."

"And that was why you came to look for me; wasn't it?" asked Kitty suspiciously.

"Not wholly. I had been thinking of it for some minutes."

"But couldn't bear to leave long enough," suggested Kitty; adding, however, "Well, I'll come. I suppose it is no more than polite, as long as he's company."

"Of course it isn't; and you know Mr. Brown is very ceremonious," said Dora, so archly, that Kitty paused in smoothing her hair to say,—

"Now, if you're going to make fun of me, Dora"—

"Oh, I'm not!-not a bit of it. There, now, you're nice enough for any thing."

In the kitchen, besides Mr. Brown and Karl, the girls found Mr. and Mrs. Ross; Mehitable demurely seated in a corner, and knitting a long woollen stocking; while Seth, under the skilful management of Mr. Brown, was giving quite an interesting description of life in a Maine logging-camp.

"Do you ever have any trouble from wild beasts in that region?" asked the chaplain.

"Waal, some. There's lots of b'ar about by spells; and once't in a while a painter or a wild-cat-wolverines, some calls 'em out here."

"Did you ever meet one yourself?"

"Which on 'em?"

"Either. Bears, for instance."

"Yes, sir. I've took b'ar ever since I wor old enough to set a trap."

"Did you ever have any trouble with one?"

"Waal, I don' know as I did. They was mostly pooty 'commodatin'," said Seth, drawing the back of his brown hand across his mouth to hide a self-complacent grin at the recollection of his own exploits.

"Tell Mr. Brown 'bout the painter and Uncle 'Siah's Harnah," suggested Mehitable in a low voice; and as Seth only stirred in his chair, and looked rather reprovingly at his wife, the guest added,—

"Yes, Mr. Ross, tell us that, by all means."

"Ho! 'twa'n't much of a story; only the woman thinks consid'able about it, 'cause it wor a cousin of ourn that wor took off."

"Indeed! and what were the circumstances?" politely insisted Mr. Brown. So Seth, tilting his chair upon its hind-legs, and crossing his own, stuck his chin into the air; fixed his eyes upon the ceiling, and began, in the inimitable nasal whining voice of a Down-East Yankee, the story narrated in the following chapter.



CHAPTER XXXII.

THE PAINTER AND UNCLE 'SIAH'S HARNAH.



"WHEN father settled up nigh the head-waters of the Penobscot, folks said we'd have to be mighty car'ful, or some o' the young ones would tumble over the jumping-off-place, we'd got so nigh. But Uncle 'Siah went right along, and took up land furder on, whar there wa'n't nothing but hemlock-trees and chipmunks for company, and no passing to keep the women-folks running to the winders. Thar was a good road cut through the woods, and there was the river run within a stone's-throw of both houses: so, one way and another, we got back'ards and for'ards consid'able often, 'specially when the young folks begun to grow up.

"Harnah wor Uncle 'Siah's second gal, and just as pooty as a picter. She looked suthin' like Dolcy, Dora's little adopted darter, you know: but she wor alluz a-larfin', and gitting off her jokes; and had a sort of a wicked look by spells, enough to make a feller's flesh creep on his bones."

"Lor', that's enough o' Harnah! She wa'n't so drefful different from other folks. Git along to the story part on't," interrupted Mehitable, clicking her knitting-needles energetically.

Seth looked at her a little indignantly for a moment, and then burst into a loud laugh,—

"Lor'! I'd clear forgot how it used ter spite Hit to hear me praise up Harnah. You see, sir, Mehitabul wor a sort o' cousin o' my mother's, and so come to live long of us when her father died: but she never cottoned to Harnah very strong when she see how well I liked her; though, now she's got me for her own man, I'd think"—

"But the panther, Mr. Ross," interposed Dora, who saw, with womanly sympathy, the flush of mortification upon Mehitable's face: "do tell us about the panther."

"Yes: I b'lieve my idees was kind o' wandering from the pint; but that's nothing strange, if you knowed what an out-an-outer that gal was. Well, well, 'tain't no use a-crying over spilt milk, and by-gones may as well be stay-gones.

"Sam Hedge, he was my uncle's hired man, and a plaguy smart feller too; good-looking, merry as a grig, a live Yankee for faculty, and pretty forehanded too, though he hadn't set up for himself then. I more than suspicioned he'd ruther live with Uncle 'Siah, and see Harnah from morning to night, than go off and take up land for himself; or maybe he didn't feel as if he'd the peth to take right hold of new land all alone. Anyway, there he wor, and there he stuck, right squar in my way, do as much as I might to git him out on't.

"Of course, you onderstand about being in my way means all along o' Harnah. We was both sweet on her, and no mistake; though nary one on us, nor, I believe, the gal herself, could ha' told which one she favored.

"Waal, to skip over all the rest (though there's the stuff for half a dozen stories in it), I'll come to one night when I'd been up to Uncle 'Siah's, and Harnah and Sam had come down to the crick to see me off; for I'd come in my boat. I felt kind o' savage; for Harnah had been mighty pooty with me all that evening; and I knew Sam had come down to the boat a purpose to go back to the house with her, and, 'fore they was half-way, she'd come right round, and be just as clever to him as she'd been before to me."

"If you knew your cousin to be such a terrible little flirt as that, I shouldn't think you would have cared so much about her, Seth," suggested Karl, laughing.

"No more shouldn't I, cap'n," replied Seth ruefully. "But somehow I couldn't help it. I'd think it over nights, and say to myself, 'You darned fool! don't you see the gal's a-playing one of you off agin t'other, and maybe don't care a pin for neither? Get shet of her once for all, and be a man; can't ye?' And then I'd find I couldn't; and so it went till we come to that night, and stood there on the edge of the crick,—two on us ready to clinch and fight till one cried enough, and t'other a-laughing at us both.

"So, all to once, Harnah says, says she,—

"'I do believe them harebells are blowed out by this time. Ain't they, boys?'

"'You and I'll go to-morrow and see, anyway,' says Sam, speaking up quick, 'fore I got the chance.

"'I'm a-going to see; and, if Harnah'll come too, all the better,' says I, as pleasant as a bear with a sore head.

"'Two's company, and three's a crowd; so you'd better stop to home, Seth,' says Sam.

"'Two's company, that's Harnah and me; and three's a crowd, that's you: so, ef you don't like crowding nor being crowded, you'd better stop to home yourself,' says I.

"'I believe I spoke first, Seth Ross,' says Sam, pretty savage at last.

"'That don't make no difference, as I know on. Harnah was my cousin long afore you was her father's hired man; and that puts me in mind you hain't asked leave yet. Maybe the old man won't let you go. What you going to do then?' asked I, dreadful kind of sneering; for I felt mad.

"Sam he didn't say nothing; but he drew back, and doubled up his fists. I caught the glint of his eye in the moonlight, and my darnder riz.

"'Come on,' says I; 'I'm ready for you; and we'll fight it out like men. The feller that's licked shall give up once for all.'

"But 'fore Sam could speak, or I could hit out as I wanted ter, Harnah come right in between us. I swow ef that gal didn't look harnsome! Her eyes was wide open, and shining just like blue steel in the moonlight. Her cheeks and lips was white; and seemed to me the very curls of her hair shot out sparks, she was so mad.

"'You'd better stop while there's time,' says she, still and cold. 'If you strike one another, or if you ever fight, and I the cause, I swear to God I never will speak a civil word to either one of you again as long as I live. So now you know.

"'As for the harebells, you sha'n't neither one of you go for 'em. Ef I want harebells, there's them that can get 'em for me, and not make so much fuss about it neither.'

"She turned, and stepped off toward the house as if she'd got steel springs in the soles of her feet.

"Sam and I eyed each other. It seemed as if Harnah felt that look; for she turned all of a sudden, and come back.

"'Sam,' says she, p'inting up to the house, 'go home; and don't you speak to me again to-night. Seth, get into your boat, and push her off. You needn't come up to-morrow night.'

"We sort o' looked at one another and at her, and then meeched off the way she told us, for all the world like two dogs that's got a licking, and been sent home 'fore the hunt was done.

"I didn't sleep a great deal that night. Fact is, I was turning over in my own mind what Harnah had said about them as would git harebells for her, and not make so much fuss about it neither.

"'I swow,' says I, 'I'd like to clinch that feller, whoever he may be, and not have Harnah nigh enough to interfere.' Then I rec'lected a Cap'n Harris, a British officer, that come down from Canady the summer before, hunting and fishing, and had stopped a week or more at Uncle 'Siah's, mostly for the sake of seeing Harnah, as I thought then, and do now. Ever since, when Harnah didn't know how else to plague Sam and me, she'd set up to talk about 'real gentlemen,' and 'folks that knowed manners,' and all sech stuff. Then she'd pretend she'd got a letter from Cap'n Harris, and that he was coming agin, and all that. So now I got it in my head that Cap'n Harris was coming, and that she meant he'd get the harebells.

"'But I'll bet he won't, without a fight, anyway,' says I, clinching up my fist; and then I went to sleep quite comf'table.

"Now, there wa'n't but one place, as I knew of, where harebells was to be found; and Harnah had showed me that place herself the summer afore, and I had picked the flowers for her. So I made up my mind to go next day and see if they was in blow; and, if they was, to get a bunch anyway, and take the resk of giving 'em to Harnah arterwards.

"I couldn't git away in the morning nohow; for Hitty seemed to know it was something about Harnah that was calling me, and contrived all sorts of business to keep me to hum: but, after dinner, I jist took my hat, and cleared out afore she knowed it, and, by the time she missed me, was half a mile up the river.

"'Twas a pooty day as ever you see; and as I rowed along, listening to the water running by the boat, and the wind rustling in the trees, I began to feel real sort of good, and didn't care half so much about Sam or the British cap'n as I did when I started. When I come to the landing at Uncle 'Siah's, I never stopped, though I looked with all my eyes for any signs of Harnah; but couldn't see no one but Sam going out to the cornfield, with a hoe on his shoulder.

"'Good for you, Sam,' says I to myself. 'Hard work's dreadful wholesome for love-sickness.' So I rowed along as merry as a cricket, and pretty soon tied up my boat, and struck off into the woods. It was consid'able of a walk; and I strolled along easy till I came to the place whar the harebells growed, 'bout a mile and a half from the river. This was a high clift, covered with brush and trees on one side, and on the other falling sheer down to a little deep valley, with another clift rising opposite. These clifts joined each other at the two ends of the valley: so there was no getting into it anyway but down the faces of 'em, and that was as much as a man's neck was worth; but, fur's I know, no man had ever wanted to, nor ever tried to, till that day.

"The harebells growed on the very edge of the fust clift, and a little way down the face of it, and looked mighty pooty a-floating in the wind. Harnah, who was kind of romantic, said they was the plume in the old clift's hat; and she called the place the Lovers' Rock, 'case, she said, the two clifts seemed taking hold of hands, and jist going to kiss."

"That sounds like Harnah, anyway," muttered Mehitable contemptuously.

"Yes, it's more uv an idee than you'd 'a been likely to git off, ain't it, Hit?" asked Seth with a malicious grin, and winking at the company.

But Mehitable preserving a prudent silence, and only showing her feelings by an accelerated movement of her knitting-needles, her husband elevated his eyes again to the ceiling, recrossed his legs, and continued:—

"I scrambled up the back of the clift easy enough; and, sure enough, there was the posies, all in blow, and tossing their heads at me as if they knowed how pooty they was, and dared me not to say so. Somehow they made me think of Harnah; and I spoke right out,—

"'Yes, I know you be; and I hain't never said you ain't as pooty a cretur as walks the airth: but I wish you wan't so awful changeable.'

"Then I laffed right out, to think I was talking to a lot of flowers same as if they was a gal; and, when I done laffin', I went down on my knees, and begun to pick 'em. But I hadn't more than got the first fist-ful when I heerd a groan, a sort uv a faint holler groan, that sounded as if it come right out uv the ground underneath me. I dropped the flowers, and riz right up on eend. My ha'r riz too; for I was scaart, I tell you. 'But,' thinks I, ''twon't do to run away the fust lick:' so I held on, and pooty soon it come agin. This time I listened sharp, and had my wits about me; so that, when it wor through, I clim' right up to the top uv the ledge, and looked down into the valley, hollerin'—

"'Who be you? Is any one thar?'

"A voice answered, faint and weak; but what it said, or whar it was, I couldn't for the life of me tell.

"So I hollered agin,—

"'Whar be you, stranger? Holler as loud as you kin!'

"The voice answered back; and I heerd my own name, and, as I thought, in a voice that turned me as sick and weak as a gal.

"It was Harnah's voice; and my first idee was that she wor dead, and wor ha'nting me.

"'Harnah!' says I, soft and low, 'is it you?'

"There wa'n't no answer, but another groan, and along of it a curious kind of noise, like a lot of cats all growling together. I knowed that noise; and, afore it eended, I knowed whar it come from. And, all to once, the hull story come to me: Harnah was down thar in a painter's den; and the kittens was a-growling round her. The old ones must be away, or one of 'em would 'a been out to see to me afore this.

"I hadn't the fust thing in the way of a we'pon with me; but there was plenty of stones down in the hollow, and I cut a good oak-sapling with my jack-knife. Then I sot myself to scramble down the face of the clift; and, I tell you, I sweat before I got to the bottom. Ef it hadn't been for Harnah, I couldn't 'a done it; but, somehow or 'nother, I reached the bottom, and looked about me. Sure enough, close to my feet was the mouth of a cave, running right in under the ledge, though not more than three foot high. I knelt down and peeked in, calling,—

"'Harnah, be you thar?'

"'Seth, is it you?' asked a voice very faint.

"'Yes, my dear, it is,' says I, 'and bound to get you out uv this scrape about the quickest. What's a-keeping you in there?'

"'My leg is broke, and the horrid creature is lying on my feet!' says Harnah.

"I didn't wait for no more questions, but crawled inter the hole. A dozen feet from the mouth, I come to a snarl of fur, and glary eyes, and snapping teeth, and savage growls, that I finally made out to be a couple of painter-kittens, not more'n a few days old, but savage enough for a hundred. They was snuggled close up to something: what it was I couldn't at fust make out in the darkness; but putty soon I see that it was a full-grown painter, lying stretched out at length. I started back, with all the blood in me pricking at my fingers' ends with the scare I'd got; but Harnah's voice from beyond says,—

"Don't be frightened at the old panther. She's dead. They fought, and one ran away; and this one is dead.'

"And is she a-lying on your feet, did you say? It's so dark in here, I can't see the fust thing,' says I, feeling round for the critter's head, and gitting my paws tore by the young ones, who, I must say for 'em, was mighty handy with their claws for their age. So says I,—

"'Well, fust thing, I'll get red o' these little devils; and then I'll drag out the karkiss, and see to you, my poor gal.'

"So I clinched the fust one by the throat, and, when he hung like a rag, pitched him out, and grappled t'other; but he was a case, I tell you. Fight!—you'd ought ter have seen him!-and scratch and bite, and spit and yowl, till the whole woods rung with his uproar. I mastered him finally; but he'd done his work, and come nigh beating me even arter he was dead, as ye shall hear.

"When the kittens was out of the way, I clinched the karkiss uv the old painter, and dragged it to'rst the mouth uv the cave. It wor hard work; and, when I'd got part way, I left it lying, and squeezed by (for it most filled up the passage), and went to see how bad Harnah might be hurt; for, when I spoke to her last, she hadn't made no reply. Leaning over her, I felt round for her face, and had jist touched her cold cheek, and called to her to know if she was alive, when I heerd jist over my head the awfulest roar that ever come out uv a creter's throat; and so loud, that it echoed through and through the cave enough to deaf you. The minute I heerd it, I knew what was tew pay, and give up for lost. It wor the man o' the house come home in a hurry to see what them squalls uv the dying kittens meant; and that's how I said they come nigh beating me even arter they was dead.

"Now, mister, what would you say a man had ought to have done in such a fix as that?-run, or stay? Mind ye, I hadn't the fust thing in shape uv a we'pon, nor couldn't get hold even uv my stick, nor the stones outside; and what could a feller do with his naked fists, shet up in a hole with a wild-cat?"

"It was a trying situation; but I don't believe you ran away," said Mr. Brown good-humoredly.

"Yer bet your life on that, stranger," replied Seth with emphasis. "I hadn't no idee on't; though the only other chance seemed to be to jump down the critter's throat, and choke him, so's ter spile his stomach for Harnah.

"I looked to the mouth uv the cave, and thought, 'He won't get by that karkiss very easy;' and then, all of a sudden, the strangest idee you ever heerd come acrost me, and I jumped as though I'd been shot. It wor to play off one of the critters agin the other, and keep the old painter out uv his den with the karkiss of his mate.

"It wor a curus idee, now, worn't it; but they say a drownding man'll clinch to a straw, and this wor worth the trying to a feller in as tight a place as I. So I tumbled the old lady over as well as I could, and got her wedged inter the narrerest part uv the road, with her back rounded out, and her paws in, so's't I should have a better chance for hanging on than the old feller outside 'ud have for pulling. Then, with my jack-knife, I cut a slit in one of the fore-legs and one of the hind, to put my hands inter; and then I held on.

"'Twa'n't but a minute arter I got fixed 'fore he wor down upon me, yelling and squalling enough ter make a man's blood run cold. They call 'em Injin Devils down our way; and I guess there ain't no kind uv devils make a wuss-soundin' noise. I jist shut my eyes, and lay low; for when I knowed that furce, wild creter wor within two foot uv me, and nothing ter keep him off but a karkiss that he'd claw ter pieces in ten minutes, I kinder wondered how I'd been sich a plaguy fool as to think uv the plan, and ter feel so pleased with it.

"And didn't yer never mind, sir, when you've been laying out for some great pull, you feel as if you'd got fixed fustrate, and was sure ter win, till the minute comes; and then, all ter once, your gitting-ready seems no account somehow, and you feel downright shamed uv what, a minute before, made you so chirk?"

"Yes, that is human nature, Seth; but it is well to remember that cool precaution is worth more than excitement, after all," said Mr. Brown.

"Yes, sir, I suppose so now; but I didn't then. It only seemed to me as ef I was a darned fool, though I couldn't hev said what I'd ought to hev done different ef I'd been ever so wise. Well, the critter come, and he stuck his head in, snuffing and smelling for a minute; and then reached in one paw, jest as softly as you've seed a pussy-cat feeling uv a ball uv yarn on the floor. Then he growled; for either he'd smelt or he'd seed me a-peekin' over the old woman's corpse at him. Hokey! didn't I wish I'd a good gun handy jis' then, with sech a splendid chance to sight it! But I hadn't; and thar was the critter, growling and tearing away at the karkiss like mad: fer he'd pooty much made up his mind by this time what sort o' game lay behind it, and he was bound to be at it. Any one would 'a thought his nateral feelings would 'a stood in the way some, seein' as 'twor his own wife he wor clapper-clawin' at sich a rate; but they didn't seem to a bit: and, I tell you, he made the fur fly 'thout con-sideration. The blood streamed down inter my face, and the smell of that and the flesh choked me. My arms wor straightened clean out with holding on; and sometimes I could jest see the green eyes o' the painter, an' feel his hot breath, as he opened his jaws to hiss and spit at me jis' like a big cat. I felt the eend uv all things wor at hand; an', shettin' my eyes, I tried hard ter say a prayer, or somethin' good an' fittin'. I couldn't think o' none, hows'ever: so I jis' turned raound, and sez, 'Harnah! good-by, Harnah!' an' felt most as if I'd prayed; though she, poor gal! wor clean swownded away, and never heerd a word on't.

"Jes' then, when my thoughts wor so took up that I'd act'ally most forgot where I wor, and jes' held on to the critter kind o' mechanical-like, I heerd a shot, and then another. The painter heerd 'em too, an' more than heerd 'em, I reckon; for, with a growl an' a roar that made me scringe, he let go the karkiss, an' backed hisself out o' the hole 'thout never sayin good-by to me nor to the old lady.

"Next minute I heerd another shot, and then another; and then sech horrid groans and screams, mixed up with growls and hisses from the painter, that I knew he wor hit hard, an' like to die; and, ef I should say I wor sorry, it 'ud be a lie. Then I heerd feet climbing and scrambling down the rocks; and next I heerd a v'ice calling, kind o' frightened-like,—

"'Be you raound here, Harnah, or Seth?'

"'Yes, we be,' says I, waking up all uv a sudden; for I'd lay sort o' stupid till then: but now I wor wide enough awake, and soon made Sam understand where we was, and what was to be done. He didn't say much, but worked away like a good feller, till he got out, fust the mauled karkiss o' the painter, with the flesh all hanging from it in strips; then me, covered with blood, and looking wuss than a dead man, I expect; and finally Harnah, jes' coming to after her dead faint.

"We must git her out o' this horrid den 'fore she knows whar she is, or it'll skeer her to death,' says I, as soon as I could speak. 'But how'll we do it?'

"'You look as if you b'longed here; so I reckon you'd better stop behind, and I'll git Harnah out by myself,' says Sam, laffin' in a kind o' hard way.

"I didn't say nothing; but I thought I wouldn't 'a took that time to laff at a feller, nor yet to show a spite agin him, if I'd been Sam, and he me.

"It's more nor I could do to justly tell you how we ever got that gal up them rocks. I expect it wor more the hand o' God, so to speak, than us that did it. Fust place, we tied our handkerchers raound her waist, fer a hold; and then Sam went ahead, pulling her after him, and I sort o' helped behind, and clim' along as well's I could; and bimby we got up, and laid Harnah down to rest among the harebells. When she got a little smarter, she told us how she thought she'd come and git 'em fer herself, and then pertend some one had given 'em to her, jest so's to plague us, and see what we'd say. Then, whilst she was a-picking of 'em, she heerd a painter cry right clost to her, and was so scared, she sot out to run, and, fust she knew, was over the edge of the clift, and rolling down the face on't. When she got to the bottom, her leg was broke, and she couldn't stir; and up to the top o' the rocks she see the painter's head, with his green eyeballs a-glaring down at her, and his ears laid back, ready for a spring. What with the pain, and what with the scare, I expect the poor gal fainted. Anyways, the next thing she knowed was finding herself in the cave with the two painter-kittens playing round her, and the old one lying close to, moving his tail from side to side, and yawning till she could see all his white teeth and great red throat. Ef she wor scart afore, she didn't feel no better now, you'd better believe. But Harnah was a stout-hearted gal, with all her delicate ways; and she never stirred, no made a sound, only lay still, and fixed her eyes as stiddy as she could on those uv the great brute beside her. Pooty soon she see that he wor a-looking at her; and pooty soon he began to make a purring sort of noise, like 'bout forty big tomcats tied up in one bag. Then Harnah spoke to him, like as she'd have coaxed a dog, and, arter a while, began to play with the cubs a little. One way and another, they'd got to be 'mazin' good friends all raound, when a cry was heerd outside; and the old man and the little ones pricked up their ears, and yowled in answer. It wor the old woman coming home, sure enough; and the minute she poked her snout inter the den, and see what company her man had got while she wor gone, the trouble begun. Harnah, naterally, wor too much skeered to see justly what went on: but there were a big fight somehow; and she got a notion that the she-painter wanted to fall afoul uv her, and that he wouldn't let her; and, like other married folks, from words they come to blows; and the upshot uv the hull was, that the old lady got the wust on't, and lay dead on the field uv action.

"Whether the husband felt bad, or whether he wanted sunthin' to eat, or whether he had an engagement with another lady, I couldn't say; but, the minute he'd given the finishing blow to his wife, he cleared out, and didn't come back till the cubs called him to see to me.

"Well, we got Harnah home somehow; and next day we come again, and skun the old tiger and the cubs; and I got a hull heap o' harebells. I was bound, that, after all the fuss, Harnah shouldn't lose her harebells; and she didn't."

Seth was silent; and, tilting his chair a little farther back, crossed his hands above his chest, and began to whistle softly. The company looked at him inquiringly; and, after a pause, Karl asked,—

"Well, what next, Seth?"

"Nothing, cap'n: that's all; except I didn't tell how Sam see me going up the river, and suspicioned I wor a going to meet Harnah, and so dropped all, and followed on. What he brought his gun fer, I didn't never ask him."

"But Hannah-what became of her?"

"Oh! she was kind o' peeked a while, with her broken leg; but, arter that, she was as well as ever."

"Yes; but how did her love-affairs terminate?" persisted Karl.

"Waal, she married Sam Hedge the next fall; and I guess their love-affairs turned out like other folkses a good deal,—lots o' 'lasses at fust, and, arter a while, lots o' vinegar: that's the way o' married life."

In delivering this sentiment, Seth bestowed a sidelong glance upon Mehitable, far more merry than sincere in its expression; but she, tranquilly pursuing her knitting, let fall her retort, as if she had not perceived the sarcasm.

"Oh, waal!" said she, "I don't know as I've any call to find fault with merried life. Seth's made as good a husband as a gal has a right to expect that takes a feller out o' pity 'cause he's been mittened by another gal."

The laugh remained upon the feminine side of the argument, and the party merrily separated for the night.



CHAPTER XXXIII.

A GLEAM OF DAWN.



ONCE more a summer sunset at the old farm-house among the Berkshire Hills, where, for a hundred years, successive generations of Windsors had been born and bred; once more we see the level rays glance from the diamond-paned, dairy casement, left ajar to admit the fresh evening air; once more the airy banners of eglantine and maiden's-bower float against the clear blue sky; once more we tread in fancy the green velvet of the turf, creeping over the very edge of the irregular door-stone, worn smooth by feet that long since have travelled beyond earthly limits, and now tread celestial fields and sunny slopes of Paradise. Far across the meadow lies the shadow of the old house,—a strange, fantastic suggestion of a dwellings vague and enticing as the gray turrets of the Castle of St. John, which, as the legend says, are to be shaped at twilight from the crags and ravines of the lonely mountains, but vanish in the daylight. And beside it, not vague, but clear and sharp, lay the shadow of the old well-sweep, like a giant finger, pointing, always pointing, now to the east, whence cometh light and hope, and the promise of another day; and anon due west, as showing to the sad eyes that watched it the road to joy and comfort.

Within the house, much was changed. The floors were covered with matting, the walls with delicate paper-hangings; the old furniture replaced with Indian couches and arm-chairs, whose shape and material suggested luxurious ease and coolness. In the chamber that had been Dora's, was wrought, perhaps, the greatest change of all; for to the rugged simplicity, and, so to speak, severity, of the young girl's surroundings, had succeeded the luxury, the exquisite refinement, essential to the comfort of a woman born and bred in the innermost sanctuary of modern civilization. The martial relics of Dora's camp-life had disappeared from the walls, no longer simply whitewashed, but covered with a pearl-gray paper, over which trailed in graceful curves a mimic ivy-vine, colored like nature. Upon this hung a few choice pictures,—proof-engravings of Correggio's Cherubs; a Christ blessing Little Children; a Madonna, with sad, soft eyes resting upon the Holy Child, whose fixed gaze seemed to read his own sublime destiny; and a Babes in the Wood.

Over the fireplace, the rude sketch of the deformed negro was replaced by an exquisite painting, representing a little girl,—her sweet face framed in a shower of golden ringlets, her blue eyes fixed with a sort of wistful tenderness upon the beholder; this expression repeating itself in the lines of the curving mouth. The dress was carefully copied from that worn by 'Toinette Legrange upon the day she was lost; and the picture had been painted, soon after her disappearance, by an artist friend of the family, who had so often admired the beautiful child, that he found it easy to reproduce her face upon canvas; although his own knowledge of the circumstances, and perhaps the haunting presence of the sad eyes of the mother, as she asked, "Oh! can you give me even a picture of her?" had tinged the whole composition with a pathos not intended by the artist, but indescribably touching to the spectator.

Between the windows, in place of Dora's simple pine table, with its white drapery, its few plain books, and little work-box, stood a toilet-table, covered with the luxurious necessities of an elegant woman's wardrobe. The dressing-case, the jewel-box, the perfume-bottles; the velvet-lined and delicately-scented mouchoir and glove boxes; the varied trifles, so idle in detail, so essential to the whole,—all were there, and all evidently in constant use.

Nor let us too harshly judge the mode of life, differ though it may from our own, which regards these superfluities as essential, and can hardly less dispense with them than with its daily bread. The violet, the anemone, the May-flower, a hundred sweet and hardy blossoms, thrive amid the chills and storms of early spring in the most exposed situations. But are not the exquisite tea-rose, the fragile garden-lily, or the cereus, that dies after one sweet night of perfumed beauty, as true to their nature and to God's law? Did not the same hand form the sparrow, who scatters the late snow from his wings, and gayly pecks the crumbs from our doorstep, and the humming-bird, who waits for gorgeous summer noons to come and sip the honey from our jessamine?

So let us, if we will, love Dora in the Spartan simplicity of her soldierly adornments, and none the less love and cherish the woman who now lies upon the very spot, where, but a year ago, lay little Sunshine, wavering between this life and a better. For some reason unknown to herself, Mrs. Legrange had, from the first, felt a strong affection for this chamber, haunted, though she knew it not, by the presence of the beloved child; and she had taken much pleasure in its adornment; though, now that all was done, she rarely noticed the beautiful articles collected about her, liking best of all to lie in dreamy revery, recalling, day after day, with the minute fondness of a woman's memory, the looks, the gestures, the careless words, the pretty, graceful ways, the artless fascinations, of her whom now she rarely named, holding her memory as something too sacred for common speech, too far withdrawn into her own heart to be lightly brought to the surface.

Thus lying in the twilight of this evening, dreamily watching the long white curtains as they filled with the night-air and floated out into the room like the shadowy sails of a bark anchored in some Dreamland bay, and never guessing whose eyes had watched their waving but one short year before, when 'Toinette was first laid in Dora's little bed, Mrs. Legrange heard her husband coming up the stairs, and rose to receive him, with a strange fluttering at her heart,—a sort of nervous hope and terror all in one, as if she had known him the bearer of great news, but could not yet determine its tenor.

Mr. Legrange entered, holding a letter in his hand, and glanced tenderly, but with some surprise, at his wife, who stood with one hand pressing the white folds of her muslin wrapper convulsively to her bosom, the other outstretched toward him, a sudden hectic burning in her cheeks, and her eyes bright with feverish light.

"Fanny! what is it?" exclaimed the husband, pausing upon the threshold.

"That letter-you have some news! O Paul, you have news of"—

Her voice died in a breathless flutter; and Mr. Legrange, coming hastily to her side, drew her to a seat, saying tenderly,—

"No, darling, no news of her,—not yet, at least. What made you fancy it? This is only a letter from your protg at Antioch College: at least, I suppose so from the postmark. Do you care to read it now?"

Mrs. Legrange hid her face upon her husband's breast, trembling nervously.

"O Paul! when I heard you coming up the stairs, such a feeling came over me! I seemed to feel some great revelation approaching. I was sure it was news of her. Paul, Paul, I cannot bear it; I cannot live! My heart is broken; but it will not die, and let me rest. O my God! how long?"

"Hush, dearest, hush! Your wild words are to me worse than the grief we both suffer so keenly. But, my wife, have we not each other? and would you kill me by your own despair? Will God be pleased, that, because he has taken away our Sunshine, we refuse all other blessings, and disdain all other ties and obligations? Fanny, dearest, is it not an earnest duty with you to strive for strength?"

But the mother only moaned impatiently,—

"O Paul! do not try, do not talk: it is useless. When you let fall that crystal vinaigrette this morning, did you tell it that its duty was to be whole, and filled with perfume again? Do you tell those flowers that it is their duty to be fresh and sweet as they were yesterday? or, if you did, would they heed you?"

"No, darling; for they have neither mind nor soul," suggested the husband significantly.

"And mine are swallowed up in the sorrow that has swallowed all else. O Paul! forgive me, and ask God to forgive me; but I cannot, I never can, become resigned. I cannot live; I cannot wish or try to live. A little while, and I shall see her."

She spoke the last words softly, as to her own heart; and over her face passed such a look of solemn joy, such yearning tenderness, mingled with an infinite pathos, that the stronger and less sensitive male organization stood awed and subdued before it.

"Her love and grief are deeper than any words of mine can reach," thought the husband, and, so, tenderly soothed her head upon his breast, and said no more for several minutes, until, to his surprise, it was lifted, and the pale face looked into his with the pensive calmness under which it habitually hid its more intimate expressions.

"From whom did you say the letter came, Paul?" asked Mrs. Legrange.

"From Theodore Ginniss, I believe. Will you read it now?" asked her husband, in some surprise at the sudden transition: for no man ever thoroughly comprehends a woman, no woman a man; and so is the distinctive temperament of the sexes preserved.

"Yes: I told him to write to me once in every month, and he is very punctual."

She opened the letter, and read aloud:—"DEAR MRS. LEGRANGE,—

"Since writing to you last month, I have been going on with my studies under the Rev. Mr. Brown, as I then mentioned. I do not find that it hurts me to study in the hot weather at all; and I have enjoyed my vacation better this way than if I had been idle.

"Part of the month, however, Mr. Brown has been away on a visit to some friends in Iowa; and he says so much about the prairies, and the great rivers, and the wild life out there, that I think I should like to take the two remaining weeks of the vacation, and go and see them, if you have no objection. I have a great plenty of money from my last quarter's allowance, as I have only needed to spend a dollar and forty-five cents. Mr. Brown thinks I should come back fresher to my studies for a little rest; though I do not feel the need of it, and am glad of every day's new chance of learning.

"I hope you will excuse me, Mrs. Legrange, if it is too bold for me to say, but I do wish you could talk with Mr. Brown a little; he is so high in all his ideas, and seems to feel so strong about all the troubles of this world, and puts what a man ought to live for so much above the way he has to live!

"I took the liberty of talking with him about you, and about the great trouble I had helped to bring upon you; and what he said was first-rate, though I cannot tell it again. I felt ever so much better about my own doing wrong, and I could not help wishing you could hear what he said about you.

"This place is a great resort for invalids, and people who like to be retired. The iron-springs, that give the name to the town, are said to be very strengthening; and the Neff House, near them, is a beautiful hotel in very romantic scenery, and quite still. It seems to me that the ladies I see riding out from it on horseback get healthier-looking every day.

"I enclose a letter for mother, and will ask of you the favor to read it to her. I cannot tell you, Mrs. Legrange, how grateful I feel to you for making her so comfortable, as well as for what you are doing for me. And it is not only you I thank and remember every morning and every night; but, with yours, I say the name of the angel that we both love so dear. "Yours respectfully, "THEODORE GINNISS."

Mrs. Legrange slowly folded the letter, and looked at her husband, saying dreamily,—

"I should like to see this Mr. Brown. Perhaps he has some comfort for me; and that was what I felt approaching in that letter."

Mr. Legrange smiled a little compassionately, and more than a little tenderly.

"I am afraid, love, you would be disappointed. A man might seem a marvel of eloquence and wisdom to poor Theodore, while you would find him a very commonplace, perhaps obtrusive individual."

Mrs. Legrange slowly shook her head.

"I feel just as if that man could give me comfort. I must see him."

"Very well, dear: if it will give you the slightest pleasure, you shall certainly do so. Shall I send and invite him here? or do you think the journey to Ohio would be a pleasant variety for you? Perhaps it might; and Teddy's elaborately artless recommendation of the Neff House and the iron-springs is worthy of some attention."

"Yes: I will go there. I think I should like the journey, and I don't object to trying the springs; and I should like to see Theodore, and hear him talk about her. And I am sure I shall not find Mr. Brown commonplace or obtrusive."

"Very well, dear: it shall be as you say. When shall we go? It will be very hot travelling now, I am afraid."

"Oh, no! I don't mind. But I don't want to interfere with the Western excursion Theodore so modestly suggests; nor do I wish to go while he is away. We will go in the middle of September, I think."

"Yes, that will do, and will give you something to be thinking of meantime," said Mr. Legrange, looking with satisfaction at the healthy animation of his wife's face, as she re-read the portion of Teddy's letter relating to Yellow Springs and the Neff House.

"And now," said she, "go and send Mrs. Ginniss up to me to hear her letter too, that is, if you please; for, you humor me so much, I know I am growing tyrannical in speech as well as in act."

Mr. Legrange stooped to kiss his wife's cheek; and, to his eyes, the faint smile with which she repaid the caress was the fair dawn of a brighter day.



CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE FIRST CHANCE.



MR. BROWN had been a week at Outpost, and, at breakfast one morning, announced his departure for the succeeding day.

"And if you feel able to ride so far, Dora," continued he, "perhaps you will show me the way to the curious mounds we heard of from Dr. Gershom."

"They are full ten miles from here, he said," remarked Kitty disapprovingly.

"To-day is the 24th, isn't it, Dora? the 24th of August?" inquired Karl; and Dora, if no other of his auditors, saw the connection between this remark and the proposed long ride with Mr. Brown.

"Yes, Karl; it is the 24th: and I think we can make a party for the mounds, Mr. Brown. Kitty, wouldn't you like to go? and, Karl, can't you take a holiday? Sunshine might stay with Mehitable for once; mightn't she?"

"No; because she speaks too loud, and through her nose: but I'll stay with Argus and the woods," said Sunshine quietly.

"But have we horses enough?" asked Kitty with animation.

"That is easily settled," interposed Karl eagerly. "I will fix Sunshine's pillion upon Major, and Dora can ride behind me. Then Kitty can take Max, and Mr. Brown will ride his own horse."

"Oh! there is no need of Major's carrying double," said Dora hastily. "Seth can spare Sally as well as not, and Kitty can ride her better than she can Max."

At this decision, Kitty looked a little vexed, and Karl a little discomfited; while Mr. Brown bent over his plate to hide a sudden gleam of humor in his dark eyes. As they all rose from table, Karl passed close to his cousin, and whispered,—

"I want to speak to you before we go."

Dora made no answer; nor, in the busy hour before they started, could her cousin find opportunity for a single private word. Nor was he more successful in the bold push made by him, so soon as they had started, for the place beside Dora; for she, thinking just then of some important communication for Kitty's ear, reined her pony close to that younger lady's, and good-humoredly desired him to ride on out of earshot. Karl obeyed the mandate with something less than his usual amiability, and was riding on in advance of the whole party, when he found himself detained by Mr. Brown, who asked some trifling, question about the road, and then attempted a conversation upon the crops and other ordinary topics for a few moments; until, unable to contend with the indifference, if not impatience, Karl was at no trouble to conceal, he remained silent for a moment, and then said abruptly,—

"Windsor, this is not soldierly or manly."

Karl looked at him, but made no reply.

"We both know what is in the other's mind," continued Mr. Brown, and we know that we cannot both succeed; but that is no reason for ill feeling toward each other. If we were Don Quixotes, we might fight; if we were gamesters, we might throw for the first chance: but as we are, I trust, Christian gentlemen, we owe each other every kindly feeling short of a wish for success."

"Yes: you can hardly expect that of me; and I'm sure I don't of you," said Karl, half laughing.

"No: that were inconsistent with a true earnestness of purpose," said Mr. Brown. "And, after all, the girl we both love is no such weakling as to accept a man simply because he asks her. She will decide between us fairly and justly."

"Then let me have the first chance, since you think it no advantage," said Karl impetuously.

Mr. Brown smiled grimly.

"Is there not some proverb about age before merit?" asked he. "Besides, you have had more than four years to ask your question in, and can very well wait a few hours longer. I came to Iowa on purpose to ask mine, and shall go away to-morrow."

"I don't see, sir, but you saints are just as obstinate in getting what you want as we sinners," said the younger man petulantly.

The chaplain laughed outright.

"A man at thirty has seldom subdued his worldly passions and intentions to the degree of sainthood," said he. "And I will not deny that my heart is very much engaged in this matter. However, I will be generous, and you may take your chance first."

He reined in his steed as he spoke, and, waiting beside the road until the young ladies came up, made some remark to Kitty relating to a question she had asked him concerning Virginian roads as compared with those of the West, and, by turning into the track beside her, rather obliged Dora to ride forward to the turn of the road, where Karl awaited her. But Kitty's satisfaction in the decided intention Mr. Brown had shown of speaking to her was rather dampened by perceiving how frequently his attention wandered from what she was saying, and how earnestly his eyes were fixed upon the two figures riding briskly in advance.

"If he can only look at Dora, why don't he go and ride with her?" muttered Kitty; and, as her companion turned his eyes inquiringly upon her, she asked aloud,—

"Are you pretty quick at hearing, Mr. Brown?"

"Not especially. Why?"

"Oh! I thought you looked as if you would like to hear what Charlie is saying to Dora."

"And you thought it was very rude of me to be so inattentive to you," added Mr. Brown, bending his dark eyes upon her with a smile.

Kitty colored guiltily, and answered hastily,—

"Oh dear, no! I'm used to finding myself of no account beside Dora."

Mr. Brown looked again at her, and then, with a sudden association of ideas, asked,—

"Kitty, are you going to tell me, before I go away, what made you feel so badly the day I came and found you in the wood?"

Again Kitty's face glowed beneath his gaze, and her bright black eyes drooped in rare confusion. She was about to answer hastily and coldly, but found herself checked by a softer impulse. Why should she not tell him somewhat of the trouble at her heart, and so win at least sympathy and pity, if nothing more? So she said in a low voice,—

"No one cares much for me, I think."

"No one?-not your brother?"

Kitty raised her eyes to the far vista point where Karl and Dora vanished into the forest, their horses moving close to each other's side, and then brought them back to the face of her companion. The look was eloquent, and he said,—

"Yes; but by and by, perhaps, he will not be so engrossed."

The young girl raised her head with a superb gesture.

"To wait for by and by, when some one else has done with him, is not my idea of love."

Mr. Brown looked at her more attentively, and smiled.

"I think the day will come when some man will love you first and best of all," said he, in a tone, not of flattery, but of honest admiration, which fell like sunlight upon the waste places of poor Kitty's heart.

"Oh! I'm not good enough, or smart enough, or good-looking enough. He never will," replied she hastily, and then colored crimson again at the meaning beneath her words.

Again Mr. Brown keenly eyed her, and asked,—

"He? Do you mean some one in particular? No: forgive me. I have no right to ask such a question. I am only your friend, not a father confessor."

Kitty, dumb with confusion and a sudden terror, made no effort to reply; and, after a moment, Mr. Brown led the way to a quiet conversation upon the young girl's previous life, her early pursuits and affections, and finally to the passionate love and regret for her dead mother, in which he found the key to all she was and all she might be. So employed, the psychological student even forgot his own affairs, and for half an hour hardly remembered Dora riding on beside Karl, who, like the cowardly bather, dallying first with one foot and then the other in the water's edge, and losing all his courage before the final plunge, had talked with her of almost every thing beneath the sun, and worn out his own patience and hers, before she said, turning her clear eyes full upon him,—

"Karl, be honest and straightforward. It is kinder to us both."

The young man heaved a sigh of relief.

"That's it, Dora. There isn't another such girl in the world. Don't you know, in camp I used to say I relied upon you for protection, and for making a man of me instead of an idle boy? O Dora! there's nothing you couldn't do with me."

He spoke the last words in an imploring voice, and fixed his eyes upon her averted face. Then, as she did not speak, he went on:—

"It isn't any thing I can offer you, Dora, except the chance of doing good: I know that well enough. What I am, you know; but what I might become to please you none of us can know. And I do love you so, Dora! I know it sounds bald and silly to say just those few words; but they mean so much to me! and I've meant it so long and so heartily! No; don't speak just yet: I want to make you feel first, if I can, how dreadfully in earnest I am. When I first saw you there at your old home, and you took care of me so tenderly, and looked at me, so pityingly out of your great brown eyes, my heart warmed to you; and then in camp, you know-O Dora Darling! you cannot say but you knew how dearly I grew to love you even then: and when I found you were my own kin; and when you came to my own home, and my mother took you to her heart, and thanked God for having given her another daughter, and such a daughter; and when I saw your daily life among us, and saw how noble, and how unselfish, and how true, and brave, you were through all the sorrow, and the trials, and the loneliness, and the petty spite and insults, you had to endure; and then here, where you are like a wise and gracious queen among her subjects,—O Dora! what is there in you that does not call forth my highest love, my truest reverence? and what better could life do for me than to grant me the privilege of worshipping and following you all my days, and making myself into just what sort of man would suit you best?"