"Dear Constance!" said Fleda, unable to help laughing through all her vexation,—"please do not talk so! You know very well Mr. Stackpole only comes to see your mother."

"He was here last night," said Constance in an extreme state of delight,—"with all the rest of your admirers—ranged in the hall, with their hats in a pile at the foot of the staircase as a token of their determination not to go till you came home; and as they could not be induced to come up to the drawing-room Mr. Evelyn was obliged to go down, and with some difficulty persuaded them to disperse."

Fleda was by this time in a state of indecision betwixt crying and laughing, assiduously attentive to her breakfast.

"Mr. Carleton asked me if you would go to ride with him again the other day, Fleda," said Mrs. Evelyn, with her face of delighted mischief,—"and I excused you; for I thought you would thank me for it."

"Mamma," said Constance, "the mention of that name rouses all the bitter feelings I am capable of! My dear Fleda—we have been friends—but if I see you abstracting my English rose"—

"Look at those roses behind you!" said Fleda.

The young lady turned and sprang at the word, followed by both her sisters; and for some moments nothing but a hubbub of exclamations filled the air,

"Joe, you are enchanting!—But did you ever see such flowers?—Oh those rose-buds!—"

"And these Camellias," said Edith,—"look, Florence, how they are cut—with such splendid long stems."

"And the roses too—all of them—see mamma, just cut from the bushes with the buds all left on, and immensely long stems—Mamma, these must have cost an immensity!—"

"That is what I call a bouquet," said Fleda, fain to leave the table too and draw near the tempting shew in Florence's hand.

"This is the handsomest you have had all winter, Florence," said Edith.

"Handsomest!—I never saw anything like it. I shall wear some of these to-night, mamma."

"You are in a great hurry to appropriate it," said Constance,—"how do you know but it is mine?"

"Which of us is it for, Joe?"

"Say it is mine, Joe, and I will vote you—the best article of your kind!" said Constance, with an inexpressible glance at Fleda.

"Who brought it, Joe?" said Mrs. Evelyn.

"Yes, Joe, who brought it? where did it come from, Joe?"

Joe had hardly a chance to answer.

"I really couldn't say, Miss Florence,—the man wasn't known to me."

"But did he say it was for Florence or for me?"

"No ma'am—he"—

"Which did he say it was for?"

"He didn't say it was either for Miss Florence or for you, Miss Constance; he—"

"But didn't he say who sent it?"

"No ma'am. It's"—

"Mamma here is a white moss that is beyond everything! with two of the most lovely buds—Oh!" said Constance clasping her hands and whirling about the room in comic ecstasy—"I sha'n't survive if I cannot find out where it is from!—"

"How delicious the scent of these tea-roses is!" said Fleda. "You ought not to mind the snow storm to-day after this, Florence. I should think you would be perfectly happy."

"I shall be, if I can contrive to keep them fresh to wear to-night. Mamma how sweetly they would dress me."

"They're a great deal too good to be wasted so," said Mrs. Evelyn; "I sha'n't let you do it."

"Mamma!—it wouldn't take any of them at all for my hair and the bouquet de corsage too—there'd be thousands left—Well Joe,—what are you waiting for?"

"I didn't say," said Joe, looking a good deal blank and a little afraid,—"I should have said—that the bouquet—is—"

"What is it?"

"It is—I believe, ma'am,—the man said it was for Miss Ringgan."

"For me!" exclaimed Fleda, her cheeks forming instantly the most exquisite commentary on the gift that the giver could have desired. She took in her hand the superb bunch of flowers from which the fingers of Florence unclosed as if it had been an icicle.

"Why didn't you say so before?" she inquired sharply; but the "fowling-piece" had wisely disappeared.

"I am very glad!" exclaimed Edith. "They have had plenty all winter, and you haven't had one—I am very glad it is yours, Fleda."

But such a shadow had come upon every other face that Fleda's pleasure was completely overclouded. She smelled at her roses, just ready to burst into tears, and wishing sincerely that they had never come.

"I am afraid, my dear Fleda," said Mrs. Evelyn quietly going on with her breakfast,—"that there is a thorn somewhere among those flowers."

Fleda was too sure of it. But not by any means the one Mrs. Evelyn intended.

"He never could have got half those from his own greenhouse, mamma," said Florence,—"if he had cut every rose that was in it; and he isn't very free with his knife either."

"I said nothing about anybody's greenhouse," said Mrs. Evelyn,—"though I don't suppose there is more than one Lot in the city they could have come from."

"Well," said Constance settling herself back in her chair and closing her eyes,—"I feel extinguished!——Mamma, do you suppose it possible that a hot cup of tea might revive me? I am suffering from a universal sense of unappreciated merit!—and nobody can tell what the pain is that hasn't felt it."

"I think you are extremely foolish, Constance," said Edith. "Fleda hasn't had a single flower sent her since she has been here and you have had them every other day. I think Florence is the only one that has a right to be disappointed."

"Dear Florence," said Fleda earnestly,—"you shall have as many of them as you please to dress yourself,—and welcome!"

"Oh no—of course not!—" Florence said,—"it's of no sort of consequence—I don't want them in the least, my dear. I wonder what somebody would think to see his flowers in my head!"

Fleda secretly had mooted the same question and was very well pleased not to have it put to the proof. She took the flowers up stairs after breakfast, resolving that they should not be an eye-sore to her friends; placed them in water and sat down to enjoy and muse over them in a very sorrowful mood. She again thought she would take the first opportunity of going home. How strange—out of their abundance of tributary flowers to grudge her this one bunch! To be sure it was a magnificent one. The flowers were mostly roses, of the rarer kinds, with a very few fine Camellias; all of them cut with a freedom that evidently had known no constraint but that of taste, and put together with an exquisite skill that Fleda felt sure was never possessed by any gardener. She knew that only one hand had had anything to do with them, and that the hand that had bought, not the one that had sold; and "How very kind!"—presently quite supplanted "How very strange!"—"How exactly like him,—and how singular that Mrs. Evelyn and her daughters should have supposed they could have come from Mr. Thorn." It was a moral impossibility that he should have put such a bunch of flowers together; while to Fleda's eye they so bore the impress of another person's character that she had absolutely been glad to get them out of sight for fear they might betray him. She hung over their varied loveliness, tasted and studied it, till the soft breath of the roses had wafted away every cloud of disagreeable feeling and she was drinking in pure and strong pleasure from each leaf and bud. What a very apt emblem of kindness and friendship she thought them; when their gentle preaching and silent sympathy could alone so nearly do friendship's work; for to Fleda there was both counsel and consolation in flowers. So she found it this morning. An hour's talk with them had done her a great deal of good, and when she dressed herself and went down to the drawing-room her grave little face was not less placid than the roses she had left; she would not wear even one of them down to be a disagreeable reminder. And she thought that still snowy day was one of the very pleasantest she had had in New York.

Florence went to Mrs. Decatur's; but Constance according to her avowed determination remained at home to see the fun. Fleda hoped most sincerely there would be none for her to see.

But a good deal to her astonishment, early in the evening Mr. Carleton walked in, followed very soon by Mr. Thorn. Constance and Mrs. Evelyn were forthwith in a perfect effervescence of delight, which as they could not very well give it full play promised to last the evening; and Fleda, all her nervous trembling awakened again, took her work to the table and endeavoured to bury herself in it. But ears could not be fastened as well as eyes; and the mere sound of Mrs. Evelyn's voice sometimes sent a thrill over her.

"Mr. Thorn," said the lady in her smoothest manner,—"are you a lover of floriculture, sir?"

"Can't say that I am, Mrs. Evelyn,—except as practised by others."

"Then you are not a connoisseur in roses?—Miss Ringgan's happy lot—sent her a most exquisite collection this morning, and she has been wanting to apply to somebody who could tell her what they are—I thought you might know.—O they are not here," said Mrs. Evelyn as she noticed the gentleman's look round the room;—"Miss Ringgan judges them too precious for any eyes but her own. Fleda, my dear, won't you bring down your roses to let Mr. Thorn tell us their names?"

"I am sure Mr. Thorn will excuse me, Mrs. Evelyn—I believe he would find it a puzzling task."

"The surest way, Mrs. Evelyn, would be to apply at the fountain head for information," said Thorn dryly.

"If I could get at it," said Mrs. Evelyn, (Fleda knew with quivering lips,)—"but it seems to me I might as well try to find the Dead Sea!"

"Perhaps Mr. Carleton might serve your purpose," said Thorn.

That gentleman was at the moment talking to Constance.

"Mr. Carleton—" said Mrs. Evelyn,—"are you a judge, sir?"

"Of what, Mrs. Evelyn?—I beg your pardon."

The lady's tone somewhat lowered.

"Are you a judge of roses, Mr. Carleton?"

"So far as to know a rose when I see it," he answered smiling, and with an imperturbable coolness that it quieted Fleda to hear.



"Ay, but the thing is," said Constance, "do you know twenty roses when you see them?"

"Miss Ringgan, Mr. Carleton," said Mrs. Evelyn, "has received a most beautiful supply this morning; but like a true woman she is not satisfied to enjoy unless she can enjoy intelligently—they are strangers to us all, and she would like to know what name to give them—Mr. Thorn suggested that perhaps you might help us out of our difficulty."

"With great pleasure, so far as I am able,—if my judgment may be exercised by daylight. I cannot answer for shades of green in the night time."

But he spoke with an ease and simplicity that left no mortal able to guess whether he had ever heard of a particular bunch of roses in his life before.

"You give me more of Eve in my character, Mrs. Evelyn, than I think belongs to me," said Fleda from her work at the far centre-table, which certainly did not get its name from its place in the room. "My enjoyment to-day has not been in the least troubled by curiosity."

Which none of the rest of the family could have affirmed.

"Do you mean to say, Mr. Carleton," said Constance, "that it is necessary to distinguish between shades of green in judging of roses?"

"It is necessary to make shades of distinction in judging of almost anything, Miss Constance. The difference between varieties of the same flower is often extremely nice."

"I have read of magicians," said Thorn softly, bending down towards Fleda's work,—"who did not need to see things to answer questions respecting them."

Fleda thought that was a kind of magic remarkably common in the world; but even her displeasure could not give her courage to speak. It gave her courage to be silent, however; and Mr. Thorn's best efforts in a conversation of some length could gain nothing but very uninterested rejoinders. A sudden pinch from Constance then made her look up and almost destroyed her self-possession as she saw Mr. Stackpole make his way into the room.

"I hope I find my fair enemy in a mollified humour," he said approaching them.

"I suppose you have repaired damages, Mr. Stackpole," said Constance,—"since you venture into the region of broken windows again."

"Mr. Stackpole declared there were none to repair," said Mrs. Evelyn from the sofa.

"More than I knew of," said the gentleman laughing—"there were more than I knew of; but you see I court the danger, having rashly concluded that I might as well know all my weak points at once."

"Miss Ringgan will break nothing to-night, Mr. Stackpole—she promised me she would not."

"Not even her silence?" said the gentleman.

"Is she always so desperately industrious?" said Mr. Thorn.

"Miss Ringgan, Mr. Stackpole," said Constance, "is subject to occasional fits of misanthropy, in which cases her retreating with her work to the solitude of the centre-table is significant of her desire to avoid conversation,—as Mr. Thorn has been experiencing."

"I am happy to see that the malady is not catching, Miss Constance."

"Mr. Stackpole!" said Constance,—"I am in a morose state of mind!—Miss Ringgan this morning received a magnificent bouquet of roses which in the first place I rashly appropriated to myself; and ever since I discovered my mistake I have been meditating the renouncing of society—it has excited more bad feelings than I thought had existence in my nature."

"Mr. Stackpole," said Mrs. Evelyn, "would you ever have supposed that roses could be a cause of discord?"

Mr. Stackpole looked as if he did not exactly know what the ladies were driving at.

"There have five thousand emigrants arrived at this port within a week!" said he, as if that were something worth talking about.

"Poor creatures! where will they all go?" said Mrs. Evelyn comfortably.

"Country's large enough," said Thorn.

"Yes, but such a stream of immigration will reach the Pacific and come back again before long: and then there will be a meeting of the waters! This tide of German and Irish will sweep over everything."

"I suppose if the land will not bear both, one party will have to seek other quarters," said Mrs. Evelyn with an exquisite satisfaction which Fleda could hear in her voice. "You remember the story of Lot and Abraham, Mr. Stackpole,—when a quarrel arose between them?—not about roses."

Mr. Stackpole looked as if women were—to say the least—incomprehensible.

"Five thousand a week!" he repeated.

"I wish there was a Dead Sea for them all to sheer off into!" said Thorn.

"If you had seen the look of grave rebuke that speech called forth, Mr. Thorn," said Constance, "your feelings would have been penetrated—if you have any."

"I had forgotten," he said, looking round with a bland change of manner,—"what gentle charities were so near me."

"Mamma!" said Constance with a most comic shew of indignation,—"Mr. Thorn thought that with Miss Ringgan he had forgotten all the gentle charities in the room!—I am of no further use to society!—I will trouble you to ring that bell, Mr. Thorn, if you please. I shall request candles and retire to the privacy of my own apartment!"

"Not till you have permitted me to expiate my fault!" said Mr. Thorn laughing.

"It cannot be expiated!—My worth will be known at some future day.—Mr. Carleton, will you have the goodness to summon our domestic attendant?"

"If you will permit me to give the order," he said smiling, with his hand on the bell. "I am afraid you are hardly fit to be trusted alone."

"Why?"

"May I delay obeying you long enough to give my reasons?"

"Yes."

"Because," said he coming up to her, "when people turn away from the world in disgust they generally find worse company in themselves."

"Mr. Carleton!—I would not sit still another minute, if curiosity didn't keep me. I thought solitude was said to be such a corrector?"

"Like a clear atmosphere—an excellent medium if your object is to take an observation of your position—worse than lost if you mean to shut up the windows and burn sickly lights of your own."

"Then according to that one shouldn't seek solitude unless one doesn't want it."

"No," said Mr. Carleton, with that eye of deep meaning to which Constance always rendered involuntary homage,—"every one wants it;—if we do not daily take an observation to find where we are, we are sailing about wildly and do not know whither we are going."

"An observation?" said Constance, understanding part and impatient of not catching the whole of his meaning.

"Yes," he said with a smile of singular fascination,—"I mean, consulting the unerring guides of the way to know where we are and if we are sailing safely and happily in the right direction—otherwise we are in danger of striking upon some rock or of never making the harbour; and in either case, all is lost."

The power of eye and smile was too much for Constance, as it had happened more than once before; her own eyes fell and for a moment she wore a look of unwonted sadness and sweetness, at what from any other person would have roused her mockery.

"Mr. Carleton," said she, trying to rally herself but still not daring to look up, knowing that would put it out of her power,—"I can't understand how you ever came to be such a grave person."

"What is your idea of gravity?" said he smiling. "To have a mind so at rest about the future as to be able to enjoy thoroughly all that is worth enjoying in the present?"

"But I can't imagine how you ever came to take up such notions."

"May I ask again, why not I?"

"O you know—you have so much to make you otherwise."

"What degree of present contentment ought to make one satisfied to leave that of the limitless future an uncertain thing?"

"Do you think it can be made certain?"

"Undoubtedly!—why not? the tickets are free—the only thing is to make sure that ours has the true signature. Do you think the possession of that ticket makes life a sadder thing? The very handwriting of it is more precious to me, by far, Miss Constance, than everything else I have."

"But you are a very uncommon instance," said Constance, still unable to look up, and speaking without any of her usual attempt at jocularity.

"No, I hope not," he said quietly.

"I mean," said Constance, "that it is very uncommon language to hear from a person like you."

"I suppose I know your meaning," he said after a minute's pause;—"but, Miss Constance, there is hardly a graver thought to me than that power and responsibility go hand in hand."

"It don't generally work so," said Constance rather uneasily.

"What are you talking about, Constance?" said Mrs. Evelyn.

"Mr. Carleton, mamma,—has been making me melancholy."

"Mr. Carleton," said Mrs. Evelyn, "I am going to petition that you will turn your efforts in another direction—I have felt oppressed all the afternoon from the effects of that funeral service I was attending—I am only just getting over it. The preacher seemed to delight in putting together all the gloomy thoughts he could think of."

"Yes!" said Mr. Stackpole, putting his hands in his pockets,—"it is the particular enjoyment of some of them, I believe, to do their best to make other people miserable."

Mr. Thorn said nothing, being warned by the impatient little hammering of Fleda's worsted needle upon the marble, while her eye was no longer considering her work, and her face rested anxiously upon her hand.

"There wasn't a thing," the lady went on,—"in anything he said, in his prayer or his speech,—there wasn't a single cheering or elevating consideration,—all he talked and prayed for was that the people there might be filled with a sense of their wickedness—"

"It's their trade, ma'am," said Mr. Stackpole,—"it's their trade! I wonder if it ever occurs to them to include themselves in that petition."

"There wasn't the slightest effort made in anything he said or prayed for,—and one would have thought that would have been so natural!—there was not the least endeavour to do away with that superstitious fear of death which is so common—and one would think it was the very occasion to do it;—he never once asked that we might be led to look upon it rationally and calmly.—It's so unreasonable, Mr. Stackpole—it is so dissonant with our views of a benevolent Supreme Being—as if it could be according to his will that his creatures should live lives of tormenting themselves—it so shews a want of trust in his goodness!"

"It's a relic of barbarism, ma'am," said Mr. Stackpole;—"it's a popular delusion—and it is like to be, till you can get men to embrace wider and more liberal views of things."

"What do you suppose it proceeds from?" said Mr. Carleton, as if the question had just occurred to him.

"I suppose, from false notions received from education, sir."

"Hardly," said Mr. Carleton;—"it is too universal. You find it everywhere; and to ascribe it everywhere to education would be but shifting the question back one generation."

"It is a root of barbarous ages," said Mr. Stackpole,—"a piece of superstition handed down from father to son—a set of false ideas which men are bred up and almost born with, and that they can hardly get rid of."

"How can that be a root of barbarism, which the utmost degree of intelligence and cultivation has no power to do away, nor even to lessen, however it may afford motive to control? Men may often put a brave face upon it and shew none of their thoughts to the world; but I think no one capable of reflection has not at times felt the influence of that dread."

"Men have often sought death, of purpose and choice," said Mr. Stackpole dryly and rubbing his chin.

"Not from the absence of this feeling, but from the greater momentary pressure of some other."

"Of course," said Mr. Stackpole, rubbing his chin still,—there is a natural love of life—the world could not get on if there was not."

"If the love of life is natural, the fear of death must be so, by the same reason."

"Undoubtedly," said Mrs. Evelyn, "it is natural—it is part of the constitution of our nature."

"Yes," said Mr. Stackpole, settling himself again in his chair with his hands in his pockets—"it is not unnatural, I suppose,—but then that is the first view of the subject—it is the business of reason to correct many impressions and prejudices that are, as we say, natural."

"And there was where my clergyman of to-day failed utterly," said Mrs. Evelyn;—"he aimed at strengthening that feeling and driving it down as hard as he could into everybody's mind—not a single lisp of anything to do it away or lessen the gloom with which we are, naturally as you say, disposed to invest the subject."

"I dare say he has held it up as a bugbear till it has become one to himself," said Mr. Stackpole.

"It is nothing more than the mere natural dread of dissolution," said Mr. Carleton.

"I think it is that," said Mrs. Evelyn,—"I think that is the principal thing."

"Is there not besides an undefined fear of what lies beyond—an uneasy misgiving that there may be issues which the spirit is not prepared to meet?"

"I suppose there is," said Mrs. Evelyn,—"but sir—"

"Why that is the very thing," said Mr. Stackpole,—"that is the mischief of education I was speaking of—men are brought up to it."

"You cannot dispose of it so, sir, for this feeling is quite as universal as the other; and so strong that men have not only been willing to render life miserable but even to endure death itself, with all the aggravation of torture, to smooth their way in that unknown region beyond."

"It is one of the maladies of human nature," said Mr. Stackpole,—"that it remains for the progress of enlightened reason to dispel."

"What is the cure for the malady?" said Mr. Carleton quietly.

"Why sir!—the looking upon death as a necessary step in the course of our existence which simply introduces us from a lower to a higher sphere,—from a comparatively narrow to a wider and nobler range of feeling and intellect."

"Ay—but how shall we be sure that it is so?"

"Why Mr. Carleton, sir," said Mrs. Evelyn,—"do you doubt that? Do you suppose it possible for a moment that a benevolent being would make creatures to be anything but happy?"

"You believe the Bible, Mrs. Evelyn?" he said smiling slightly.

"Certainly, sir; but Mr. Carleton, the Bible I am sure holds out the same views of the goodness and glory of the Creator; you cannot open it but you find them on every page. If I could take such views of things as some people have," said Mrs. Evelyn, getting up to punch the fire in her extremity,—"I don't know what I should do!—Mr. Carleton, I think I would rather never have been born, sir!"

"Every one runs to the Bible!" said Mr. Stackpole. "It is the general armoury, and all parties draw from it to fight each other."

"True," said Mr. Carleton,—"but only while they draw partially. No man can fight the battle of truth but in the whole panoply; and no man so armed can fight any other."

"What do you mean, sir?"

"I mean that the Bible is not a riddle, neither inconsistent with itself; but if you take off one leg of a pair of compasses the measuring power is gone."

"But Mr. Carleton, sir," said Mrs. Evelyn,—"do you think that reading the Bible is calculated to give one gloomy ideas of the future?"

"By no means," he said with one of those meaning-fraught smiles,—"but is it safe, Mrs. Evelyn, in such a matter, to venture a single grasp of hope without the direct warrant of God's word?"

"Well, sir?"

"Well, ma'am,—that says, 'the soul that sinneth, it shall die.'"

"That disposes of the whole matter comfortably at once," said Mr. Stackpole.

"But, sir," said Mrs. Evelyn,—"that doesn't stand alone—the Bible everywhere speaks of the fulness and freeness of Christ's salvation?"

"Full and free as it can possibly be," he answered with something of a sad expression of countenance;—"but, Mrs. Evelyn, never offered but with conditions."

"What conditions?" said Mr. Stackpole hastily.

"I recommend you to look for them, sir," answered Mr. Carleton, gravely;—"they should not be unknown to a wise man."

"Then you would leave mankind ridden by this nightmare of fear?—or what is your remedy?"

"There is a remedy, sir," said Mr. Carleton, with that dilating and darkening eye which shewed him deeply engaged in what he was thinking about;—"it is not mine. When men feel themselves lost and are willing to be saved in God's way, then the breach is made up—then hope can look across the gap and see its best home and its best friend on the other side—then faith lays hold on forgiveness and trembling is done—then, sin being pardoned, the sting of death is taken away and the fear of death is no more, for it is swallowed up in victory. But men will not apply to a physician while they think themselves well; and people will not seek the sweet way of safety by Christ till they know there is no other; and so, do you see, Mrs. Evelyn, that when the gentleman you were speaking of sought to-day to persuade his hearers that they were poorer than they thought they were, he was but taking the surest way to bring them to be made richer than they ever dreamed."

There was a power of gentle earnestness in his eye that Mrs Evelyn could not answer; her look fell as that of Constance had done, and there was a moment's silence.

Thorn had kept quiet, for two reasons—that he might not displease Fleda, and that he might watch her. She had left her work, and turning half round from the table had listened intently to the conversation, towards the last very forgetful that there might be anybody to observe her,—with eyes fixed, and cheeks flushing, and the corners of the mouth just indicating delight,—till the silence fell; and then she turned round to the table and took up her worsted-work. But the lips were quite grave now, and Thorn's keen eyes discerned that upon one or two of the artificial roses there lay two or three very natural drops.

"Mr. Carleton," said Edith, "what makes you talk such sober things?—you have set Miss Ringgan to crying."

"Mr. Carleton could not be better pleased than at such a tribute to his eloquence," said Mr. Thorn with a saturnine expression.

"Smiles are common things," said Mr. Stackpole a little maliciously; "but any man may be flattered to find his words drop diamonds."

"Fleda my dear," said Mrs. Evelyn, with that trembling tone of concealed ecstasy which always set every one of Fleda's nerves a jarring,—"you may tell the gentlemen that they do not always know when they are making an unfelicitous compliment—I never read what poets say about 'briny drops' and 'salt tears' without imagining the heroine immediately to be something like Lot's wife."

"Nobody said anything about briny drops, mamma," said Edith. "Why there's Florence!—"

Her entrance made a little bustle, which Fleda was very glad of. Unkind!—She was trembling again in every finger. She bent down over her canvas and worked away as hard as she could. That did not hinder her becoming aware presently that Mr. Carleton was standing close beside her.

"Are you not trying your eyes?" said he.

The words were nothing, but the tone was a great deal, there was a kind of quiet intelligence in it. Fleda looked up, and something in the clear steady self-reliant eye she met wrought an instant change in her feeling. She met it a moment and then looked at her work again with nerves quieted.

"Cannot I persuade them to be of my mind?" said Mr. Carleton, bending down a little nearer to their sphere of action.

"Mr. Carleton is unreasonable, to require more testimony of that this evening," said Mr. Thorn;—"his own must have been ill employed."

Fleda did not look up, but the absolute quietness of Mr. Carleton's manner could be felt; she felt it, almost with sympathetic pain. Thorn immediately left them and took leave.

"What are you searching for in the papers, Mr. Carleton?" said Mrs. Evelyn presently coming up to them.

"I was looking for the steamers, Mrs. Evelyn."

"How soon do you think of bidding us good-bye?"

"I do not know, ma'am," he answered coolly—"I expect my mother."

Mrs. Evelyn walked back to her sofa.

But in the space of two minutes she came over to the centre-table again, with an open magazine in her hand.

"Mr. Carleton," said the lady, "you must read this for me and tell me what you think of it, will you sir? I have been shewing it to Mr. Stackpole and he can't see any beauty in it, and I tell him it is his fault and there is some serious want in his composition. Now I want to know what you will say to it."

"An arbiter, Mrs. Evelyn, should be chosen by both parties."

"Read it and tell me what you think!" repeated the lady, walking away to leave him opportunity. Mr. Carleton looked it over.

"That is something pretty," he said putting it before Fleda. Mrs. Evelyn was still at a distance.

"What do you think of that print for trying the eyes?" said Fleda laughing as she took it. But he noticed that her colour rose a little.

"How do you like it?"

"I like it,—pretty well," said Fleda rather hesitatingly.

"You have seen it before?"

"Why?" Fleda said, with a look up at him at once a little startled and a little curious;—"what makes you say so?"

"Because—pardon me—you did not read it."

"Oh," said Fleda laughing, but colouring at the same time very frankly, "I can tell how I like some things without reading them very carefully."

Mr. Carleton looked at her, and then took the magazine again.

"What have you there, Mr. Carleton?" said Florence.

"A piece of English on which I was asking this lady's opinion, Miss Evelyn."

"Now, Mr. Carleton!" exclaimed Constance jumping up,—"I am going to ask you to decide a quarrel between Fleda and me about a point of English"—

"Hush, Constance!" said her mother,—"I want to speak to Mr. Carleton—Mr. Carleton, how do you like it?"

"Like what, mamma?" said Florence.

"A piece I gave Mr. Carleton to read. Mr. Carleton, tell how you like it, sir."

"But what is it, mamma?"

"A piece of poetry in an old Excelsior—'The Spirit of the Fireside.' Mr. Carleton, won't you read it aloud, and let us all hear—but tell me first what you think of it."

"It has pleased me particularly, Mrs. Evelyn."

"Mr. Stackpole says he does not understand it, sir."

"Fanciful," said Mr. Stackpole,—"it's a little fanciful—and I can't quite make out what the fancy is."

"It has been the misfortune of many good things before not to be prized, Mr. Stackpole," said the lady funnily.

"True, ma'am," said that gentleman rubbing his chin—"and the converse is also true unfortunately,—and with a much wider application."

"There is a peculiarity of mental development or training," said Mr. Carleton, "which must fail of pleasing many minds because of their wanting the corresponding key of nature or experience. Some literature has a hidden freemasonry of its own."

"Very hidden indeed!" said Mr. Stackpole;—"the cloud is so thick that I can't see the electricity!"

"Mr. Carleton," said Mrs. Evelyn laughing, "I take that remark as a compliment, sir. I have always appreciated that writer's pieces—I enjoy them very much."

"Well, won't you please read it, Mr. Carleton?" said Florence, "and let us know what we are talking about."

Mr. Carleton obeyed, standing where he was by the centre-table.

"By the old hearthstone a Spirit dwells, The child of bygone years,— He lieth hid the stones amid, And liveth on smiles and tears.

"But when the night is drawing on, And the fire burns clear and bright, He Cometh out and walketh about, In the pleasant grave twilight.

"He goeth round on tiptoe soft, And scanneth close each face; If one in the room be sunk in gloom, By him he taketh his place.

"And then with fingers cool and soft, (Their touch who does not know) With water brought from the well of Thought, That was dug long years ago,

"He layeth his hand on the weary eyes— They are closed and quiet now;— And he wipeth away the dust of the day Which had settled on the brow.

"And gently then he walketh away And sits in the corner chair; And the closed eyes swim—it seemeth to him The form that once sat there.

"And whispered words of comfort and love Fall sweet on the ear of sorrow;— 'Why weepest thou?—thou art troubled now, But there cometh a bright to-morrow.

"'We too have passed over life's wild stream In a frail and shattered boat, But the pilot was sure—and we sailed secure When we seemed but scarce afloat.

"'Though tossed by the rage of waves and wind, The bark held together still,— One arm was strong—it bore us along, And has saved from every ill.'

"The Spirit returns to his hiding-place, But his words have been like balm. The big tears start—but the fluttering heart Is soothed and softened and calm."

"I remember that," said Florence;—"it is beautiful."

"Who's the writer?" said Mr. Stackpole.

"I don't know," said Mrs. Evelyn,—"it is signed 'Hugh'—there have been a good many of his pieces in the Excelsior for a year past—and all of them pretty."

"Hugh!" exclaimed Edith springing forward,—"that's the one that wrote the Chestnuts!—Fleda, won't you read Mr. Carleton the Chestnuts?"

"Why no, Edith, I think not."

"Ah do! I like it so much, and I want him to hear it,—and you know mamma says they're all pretty. Won't you?"

"My dear Edith, you have heard it once already to day."

"But I want you to read it for me again."

"Let me have it, Miss Edith," said Mr. Carleton smiling,—"I will read it for you."

"Ah but it would be twice as good if you could hear her read it," said Edith, fluttering over the leaves of the magazine,—"she reads it so well. It's so funny—about the coffee and buckwheat cakes."

"What is that, Edith?" said her mother.

"Something Mr. Carleton is going to read for me, mamma."

"Don't you trouble Mr. Carleton."

"It won't trouble him, mamma—he promised of his own accord."

"Let us all have the benefit of it, Mr. Carleton," said the lady.

It is worthy of remark that Fleda's politeness utterly deserted her during the reading of both this piece and the last. She as near as possible turned her back upon the reader.

"Merrily sang the crickets forth One fair October night;— And the stars looked down, and the northern crown Gave its strange fantastic light.

"A nipping frost was in the air, On flowers and grass it fell; And the leaves were still on the eastern hill As if touched by a fairy spell.

"To the very top of the tall nut-trees The frost-king seemed to ride; With his wand he stirs the chestnut burs, And straight they are opened wide.

"And squirrels and children together dream Of the coming winter's hoard; And many, I ween, are the chestnuts seen In hole or in garret stored.

"The children are sleeping in feather-beds— Poor Bun in his mossy nest,— He courts repose with his tail on his nose. On the others warm blankets rest.

"Late in the morning the sun gets up From behind the village spire; And the children dream, that the first red gleam Is the chestnut trees on fire!

"The squirrel had on when he first awoke All the clothing he could command; And his breakfast was light—he just took a bite Of an acorn that lay at hand;

"And then he was off to the trees to work;— While the children some time it takes To dress and to eat what they think meet Of coffee and buckwheat cakes.

"The sparkling frost when they first go out, Lies thick upon all around; And earth and grass, as they onward pass, Give a pleasant crackling sound.

"O there is a heap of chestnuts, see!' Cried the youngest of the train; For they came to a stone where the squirrel had thrown What he meant to pick up again.

"And two bright eyes from the tree o'erhead, Looked down at the open bag Where the nuts went in—and so to begin, Almost made his courage flag.

"Away on the hill, outside the wood, Three giant trees there stand; And the chestnuts bright that hang in sight, Are eyed by the youthful band.

"And one of their number climbs the tree, And passes from bough to bough,— And the children run—for with pelting fun The nuts fall thickly now.

"Some of the burs are still shut tight,— Some open with chestnuts three,— And some nuts fall with no burs at all— Smooth, shiny, as nuts should be.

"O who can tell what fun it was To see the prickly shower! To feel what a whack on head or back. Was within a chestnut's power!—

"To run beneath the shaking tree, And then to scamper away; And with laughing shout to dance about The grass where the chestnuts lay.

"With flowing dresses, and blowing hair, And eyes that no shadow knew,— Like the growing light of a morning bright—- The dawn of the summer blue!

"The work was ended—the trees were stripped— The children were 'tired of play.' And they forgot (but the squirrel did not) The wrong they had done that day."

Whether it was from the reader's enjoyment or good giving of these lines, or from Edith's delight in them, he was frequently interrupted with bursts of laughter.

"I can understand that" said Mr. Stackpole, "without any difficulty."

"You are not lost in the mysteries of chestnuting in open daylight," said Mrs. Evelyn.

"Mr. Carleton," said Edith, "wouldn't you have taken the squirrel's chestnuts?"

"I believe I should, Miss Edith,—if I had not been hindered."

"But what would have hindered you? don't you think it was right?"

"Ask your friend Miss Ringgan what she thinks of it," said he smiling.

"Now Mr. Carleton," said Constance as he threw down the magazine, "will you decide that point of English between Miss Ringgan and me?"

"I should like to hear the pleadings on both sides, Miss Constance."

"Well, Fleda, will you agree to submit it to Mr. Carleton?"

"I must know by what standards Mr. Carleton will be guided before I agree to any such thing," said Fleda.

"Standards! but aren't you going to trust anybody in anything without knowing what standards they go by?"

"Would that be a safe rule to follow in general?" said Fleda smiling.

"You won't be a true woman if you don't follow it, sooner or later, my dear Fleda," said Mrs. Evelyn. "Every woman must."

"The later the better, ma'am, I cannot help thinking."

"You will change your mind," said Mrs. Evelyn complacently.

"Mamma's notions, Mr. Stackpole, would satisfy any man's pride, when she is expatiating upon the subject of woman's dependence," said Florence.

"The dependence of affection," said Mrs. Evelyn. "Of course! It's their lot. Affection always leads a true woman to merge her separate judgment, on anything, in the judgment of the beloved object."

"Ay," said Fleda laughing,—"suppose her affection is wasted on an object that has none?"

"My dear Fleda!" said Mrs. Evelyn with a funny expression,—"that can never be, you know—don't you remember what your favourite Longfellow says—'affection never is wasted'?—Florence, my love, just hand me 'Evangeline' there—I want you to listen to it, Mr. Stackpole—here it is—

'Talk not of wasted affection; affection never was wasted; If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters returning Back to their springs shall fill them full of refreshment. That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.'"

"How very plain it is that was written by a man!" said Fleda.

"Why?" said Mr. Carleton laughing.

"I always thought it was so exquisite!" said Florence.

"I was so struck with it," said Constance, "that I have been looking ever since for an object to waste my affections upon."

"Hush, Constance!" said her mother. "Don't you like it, Mr. Carleton?"

"I should like to hear Miss Ringgan's commentary," said Mr. Stackpole;—" I can't anticipate it. I should have said the sentiment was quite soft and tender enough for a woman."

"Don't you agree with it, Mr. Carleton," repeated Mrs. Evelyn.

"I beg leave to second Mr. Stackpole's motion," he said smiling.

"Fleda my dear, you must explain yourself,—the gentlemen are at a stand."

"I believe, Mrs. Evelyn," said Fleda smiling and blushing,—I am of the mind of the old woman who couldn't bear to see anything wasted."

"But the assertion is that it isn't wasted," said Mr. Stackpole.

"'That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain,'" said Mrs. Evelyn.

"Yes, to flood and lay waste the fair growth of nature," said Fleda with a little energy, though her colour rose and rose higher.

"Did it never occur to you, Mrs. Evelyn, that the streams which fertilize as they flow do but desolate if their course be checked?"

"But your objection lies only against the author's figure," said Mr. Stackpole;—"come to the fact."

"I was speaking as he did, sir, of the fact under the figure—I did not mean to separate them."

Both the gentlemen were smiling, though with very different expression.

"Perhaps," said Mr. Carleton, "the writer was thinking of a gentler and more diffusive flow of kind feeling, which however it may meet with barren ground and raise no fruit there, is sure in due time to come back, heaven-refined, to refresh and replenish its source."

"Perhaps so," said Fleda with a very pleased answering look,—"I do not recollect how it is brought in—I may have answered rather Mrs. Evelyn than Mr. Longfellow."

"But granting that it is an error," said Mr. Stackpole, "as you understood it,—what shews it to have been made by a man?"

"Its utter ignorance of the subject, sir."

"You think they never waste their affections?" said he.

"By no means! but I think they rarely waste so much in any one direction as to leave them quite impoverished."

"Mr. Carleton, how do you bear that, sir?" said Mrs. Evelyn. "Will you let such an assertion pass unchecked?"

"I would not if I could help it, Mrs. Evelyn."

"That isn't saying much for yourself," said Constance;—"but Fleda my dear, where did you get such an experience of waste and desolation?"

"Oh, 'man is a microcosm,' you know," said Fleda lightly.

"But you make it out that only one-half of mankind can appropriate that axiom," said Mr. Stackpole. "How can a woman know men's hearts so well?"

"On the principle that the whole is greater than a part?" said Mr. Carleton smiling.

"I'll sleep upon that before I give my opinion," said Mr. Stackpole. "Mrs. Evelyn, good-evening!—"

"Well Mr. Carleton!" said Constance, "you have said a great deal for women's minds."

"Some women's minds," he said with a smile.

"And some men's minds," said Fleda. "I was speaking only in the general."

Her eye half unconsciously reiterated her meaning as she shook hands with Mr. Carleton. And without speaking a word for other people to hear, his look and smile in return were more than an answer. Fleda sat for some time after he was gone trying to think what it was in eye and lip which had given her so much pleasure. She could not make out anything but approbation,—the look of loving approbation that one gives to a good child; but she thought it had also something of that quiet intelligence—a silent communication of sympathy which the others in company could not share.

She was roused from her reverie by Mrs. Evelyn.

"Fleda my dear, I am writing to your aunt Lucy—have you any message to send?"

"No Mrs. Evelyn—I wrote myself to-day."

And she went back to her musings.

"I am writing about you, Fleda," said Mrs. Evelyn, again in a few minutes.

"Giving a good account, I hope, ma'am," said Fleda smiling.

"I shall tell her I think sea-breezes have an unfavourable effect upon you," said Mrs. Evelyn;—"that I am afraid you are growing pale; and that you have clearly expressed yourself in favour of a garden at Queechy rather than any lot in the city—or anywhere else;—so she had better send for you home immediately."

Fleda tried to find out what the lady really meant; but Mrs. Evelyn's delighted amusement did not consist with making the matter very plain. Fleda's questions did nothing but aggravate the cause of them, to her own annoyance; so she was fain at last to take her light and go to her own room.

She looked at her flowers again with a renewal of the first pleasure and of the quieting influence the giver of them had exercised over her that evening; thought again how very kind it was of him to send them, and to choose them so; how strikingly he differed from other people; how glad she was to have seen him again, and how more than glad that he was so happily changed from his old self. And then from that change and the cause of it, to those higher, more tranquilizing, and sweetening influences that own no kindred with earth's dust and descend like the dew of heaven to lay and fertilize it. And when she laid herself down to sleep it was with a spirit grave but simply happy; every annoyance and unkindness as unfelt now as ever the parching heat of a few hours before when the stars are abroad.



Chapter XXXVII.



A snake bedded himself under the threshold of a country house.

L'Estrange.

To Fleda's very great satisfaction Mr. Thorn was not seen again for several days. It would have been to her very great comfort too if he could have been permitted to die out of mind as well as out of sight; but he was brought up before her "lots of times," till poor Fleda almost felt as if she was really in the moral neighbourhood of the Dead Sea, every natural growth of pleasure was so withered under the barren spirit of raillery. Sea-breezes were never so disagreeable since winds blew; and nervous and fidgety again whenever Mr. Carleton was present, Fleda retreated to her work and the table and withdrew herself as much as she could from notice and conversation; feeling humbled,—feeling sorry and vexed and ashamed, that such ideas should have been put into her head, the absurdity of which, she thought, was only equalled by their needlessness. "As much as she could" she withdrew; but that was not entirely; now and then interest made her forget herself, and quitting her needle she would give eyes and attention to the principal speaker as frankly as he could have desired. Bad weather and bad roads for those days put riding out of the question.

One morning she was called down to see a gentleman, and came eschewing in advance the expected image of Mr. Thorn. It was a very different person.

"Charlton Rossitur! My dear Charlton, how do you do? Where did you come from?"

"You had better ask me what I have come for," he said laughing as he shook hands with her.

"What have you come for?"

"To carry you home."

"Home!" said Fleda.

"I am going up there for a day or two, and mamma wrote me I had better act as your escort, which of course I am most willing to do. See what mamma says to you."

"When are you going, Charlton?" said Fleda as she broke the seal of the note he gave her.

"To-morrow morning."

"That is too sudden a notice, Capt. Rossitur," said Mrs. Evelyn. "Fleda will hurry herself out of her colour, and then your mother will say there is something in sea-breezes that isn't good for her; and then she will never trust her within reach of them again,—which I am sure Miss Ringgan would be sorry for."

Fleda took her note to the window, half angry with herself that a kind of banter in which certainly there was very little wit should have power enough to disturb her. But though the shaft might be a slight one it was winged with a will; the intensity of Mrs. Evelyn's enjoyment in her own mischief gave it all the force that was wanting. Fleda's head was in confusion; she read her aunt's note three times over before she had made up her mind on any point respecting it.

"My Dearest Fleda,

Charlton is coming home for a day or two—hadn't you better take the opportunity to return with him? I feel as if you had been long away, my dear child—don't you feel so too? Your uncle is very desirous of seeing you; and as for Hugh and me we are but half ourselves. I would not still say a word about your coming home if it were for your good to stay; but I fancy from something in Mrs. Evelyn's letter that Queechy air will by this time do you good again; and opportunities of making the journey are very uncertain. My heart has grown lighter since I gave it leave to expect you. Yours, my darling,

L. R.

"P.S. I will write to Mrs. E. soon."

"What string has pulled these wires that are twitching me home?" thought Fleda, as her eyes went over and over the words which the feeling of the lines of her face would alone have told her were unwelcome. And why unwelcome?—"One likes to be moved by fair means and not by foul," was the immediate answer. "And besides, it is very disagreeable to be taken by surprise. Whenever, in any matter of my staying or going, did aunt Lucy have any wish but my pleasure?" Fleda mused a little while; and then with a perfect understanding of the machinery that had been at work, though an extremely vague and repulsed notion of the spring that had moved it, she came quietly out from her window and told Charlton she would go with him.

"But not to-morrow?" said Mrs. Evelyn composedly. "You will not hurry her off so soon as that, Capt. Rossitur?"

"Furloughs are the stubbornest things in the world, Mrs. Evelyn; there is no spirit of accommodation about them. Mine lies between to-morrow morning and one other morning some two days thereafter; and you might as soon persuade Atlas to change his place. Will you be ready, coz?"

"I will be ready," said Fleda; and her cousin departed.

"Now my dear Fleda" said Mrs. Evelyn, but it was with that funny face, as she saw Fleda standing thoughtfully before the fire,—you must be very careful in getting your things together—"

"Why, Mrs. Evelyn?"

"I am afraid you will leave something behind you, my love."

"I will take care of that, ma'am, and that I may I will go and see about it at once."

Very busy till dinner-time; she would not let herself stop to think about anything. At dinner Mr. Evelyn openly expressed his regrets for her going and his earnest wishes that she would at least stay till the holidays were over.

"Don't you know Fleda better, papa," said Florence, "than to try to make her alter her mind? When she says a thing is determined upon, I know there is nothing to do but to submit, with as good a grace as you can."

"I tried to make Capt. Rossitur leave her a little longer," said Mrs. Evelyn; "but he says furloughs are immovable, and his begins to-morrow morning—so he was immovable too. I should keep her notwithstanding, though, if her aunt Lucy hadn't sent for her."

"Well see what she wants, and come back again," said Mr. Evelyn.

"Thank you, sir," said Fleda smiling gratefully,—"I think not this winter."

"There are two or three of my friends that will be confoundedly taken aback," said Mr. Evelyn, carefully helping himself to gravy.

"I expect that an immediate depopulation of New York will commence," said Constance,—"and go on till the heights about Queechy are all thickly settled with elegant country-seats,—which is the conventional term for a species of mouse trap!"

"Hush, you baggage!" said her father. "Fleda, I wish you could spare her a little of your common-sense, to go through the world with."

"Papa thinks, you see, my dear, that you have more than enough—which is not perhaps precisely the compliment he intended."

"I take the full benefit of his and yours," said Fleda smiling.

After dinner she had just time to run down to the library to bid Dr. Gregory good-bye; her last walk in the city. It wasn't a walk she enjoyed much.

"Going to-morrow," said he. "Why I am going to Boston in a week—you had better stay and go with me."

"I can't now, uncle Orrin—I am dislodged—and you know there is nothing to do then but to go."

"Come and stay with me till next week."

But Fleda said it was best not, and went home to finish her preparations.

She had no chance till late, for several gentlemen spent the evening with them. Mr. Carleton was there part of the time, but he was one of the first to go; and Fleda could not find an opportunity to say that she should not see him again. Her timidity would not allow her to make one. But it grieved her.

At last she escaped to her own room, where most of her packing was still to do. By the time half the floor and all the bed was strewn with neat-looking piles of things, the varieties of her modest wardrobe, Florence and Constance came in to see and talk with her, and sat down on the floor too; partly perhaps because the chairs were all bespoken in the service of boxes and baskets, and partly to follow what seemed to be the prevailing style of things.

"What do you suppose has become of Mr. Thorn?" said Constance. "I have a presentiment that you will find him cracking nuts sociably with Mr. Rossitur or drinking one of aunt Lucy's excellent cups of coffee—in comfortable expectation of your return."

"If I thought that I should stay here," said Fleda. "My dear, those were my cups of coffee!"

"I wish I could make you think it then," said Constance.

"But you are glad to go home, aren't you, Fleda?" said Florence.

"She isn't!" said her sister. "She knows mamma contemplates making a grand entertainment of all the Jews as soon as she is gone. What does mamma mean by that, Fleda?—I observe you comprehend her with most invariable quickness."

"I should be puzzled to explain all that your mother means," said Fleda gently, as she went on bestowing her things in the trunk. "No—I am not particularly glad to go home—but I fancy it is time. I am afraid I have grown too accustomed to your luxury of life, and want knocking about to harden me a little."

"Harden you!" said Constance. "My dear Fleda, you are under a delusion. Why should any one go through an indurating process?—will you inform me?"

"I don't say that every one should," said Fleda,—"but isn't it well for those whose lot does not lie among soft things?"

There was extreme sweetness and a touching insinuation in her manner, and both the young ladies were silent for sometime thereafter watching somewhat wistfully the gentle hands and face that were so quietly busy; till the room was cleared again and looked remarkably empty with Fleda's trunk standing in the middle of it. And then reminding them that she wanted some sleep to fit her for the hardening process and must therefore send them away, she was left alone.

One thing Fleda had put off till then—the care of her bunch of flowers. They were beautiful still. They had given her a very great deal of pleasure; and she was determined they should be left to no servant's hands to be flung into the street. If it had been summer she was sure she could have got buds from them; as it was, perhaps she might strike some cuttings; at all events they should go home with her. So carefully taking them out of the water and wrapping the ends in some fresh earth she had got that very afternoon from her uncle's garden, Fleda bestowed them in the corner of her trunk that she had left for them, and went to bed, feeling weary in body, and in mind to the last degree quiet.

In the same mind and mood she reached Queechy the next afternoon. It was a little before January—just the same time that she had come home last year. As then, it was a bright day, and the country was again covered thick with the unspotted snow; but Fleda forgot to think how bright and fresh it was. Somehow she did not feel this time quite so glad to find herself there. It had never occurred to her so strongly before that Queechy could want anything.

This feeling flew away before the first glimpse of her aunt's smile, and for half an hour after Fleda would have certified that Queechy wanted nothing. At the end of that time came in Mr. Rossitur. His greeting of Charlton was sufficiently unmarked; but eye and lip wakened when he turned to Fleda.

"My dear child," he said, holding her face in both his hands,—how lovely you have grown!"

"That's only because you have forgotten her, father," said Hugh laughing.



It was a very lovely face just then. Mr. Rossitur gazed into it a moment and again kissed first one cheek and then the other, and then suddenly withdrew his hands and turned away, with an air—Fleda could not tell what to make of it—an air that struck her with an immediate feeling of pain; somewhat as if for some cause or other he had nothing to do with her or her loveliness. And she needed not to see him walk the room for three minutes to know that Michigan agencies had done nothing to lighten his brow or uncloud his character. If this had wanted confirmation Fleda would have found it in her aunt's face. She soon discovered, even in the course of the pleasant talkative hours before supper, that it was not brightened as she had expected to find it by her uncle's coming home; and her ears now caught painfully the occasional long breath, but half smothered, which told of a burden upon the heart but half concealed. Fleda supposed that Mr. Rossitur's business affairs at the West must have disappointed him; and resolved not to remember that Michigan was in the map of North America.

Still they talked on, through the afternoon and evening, all of them except him; he was moody and silent. Fleda felt the cloud overshadow sadly her own gayety; but Mrs. Rossitur and Hugh were accustomed to it, and Charlton was much too tall a light to come under any external obscuration whatever. He was descanting brilliantly upon the doings and prospects at Fort Hamilton where he was stationed, much to the entertainment of his mother and brother. Fleda could not listen to him while his father was sitting lost in something not half so pleasant as sleep in the corner of the sofa. Her eyes watched him stealthily till she could not bear it any longer. She resolved to bring the power of her sunbeam to bear, and going round seated herself on the sofa close by him and laid her hand on his arm. He felt it immediately. The arm was instantly drawn away to be put around her and Fleda was pressed nearer to his side, while the other hand took hers; and his lips were again on her forehead.

"And how do you like me for a farmer, uncle Rolf?" she said looking up at him laughingly, and then fearing immediately that she had chosen her subject ill. Not from any change in his countenance however,—that decidedly brightened up. He did not answer at once.

"My child—you make me ashamed of mankind!"

"Of the dominant half of them, sir, do you mean?" said Charlton,—"or is your observation a sweeping one?"

"It would sweep the greatest part of the world into the background, sir," answered his father dryly, "if its sense were the general rule."

"And what has Fleda done to be such a besom of desolation?"

Fleda's laugh set everybody else a going, and there was immediately more life and common feeling in the society than had been all day. They all seemed willing to shake off a weight, and even Fleda, in the endeavour to chase the gloom that hung over others, as it had often happened, lost half of her own.

"But still I am not answered," said Charlton when they were grave again. "What has Fleda done to put such a libel upon mankind?"

"You should call it a label, as Dr. Quackenboss does," said Fleda in a fresh burst,—"he says he never would stand being labelled!"—

"But come back to the point," said Charlton,—"I want to know what is the label in this case, that Fleda's doings put upon those of other people?"

"Insignificance," said his father dryly.

"I should like to know how bestowed," said Charlton.

"Don't enlighten him, uncle Rolf," said Fleda laughing,—"let my doings remain in safe obscurity,—please!"

"I stand as a representative of mankind," said Charlton, "and I demand an explanation."

"Look at what this slight frame and delicate nerves have been found equal to, and then tell me if the broad shoulders of all your mess would have borne half the burden or their united heads accomplished a quarter the results."

He spoke with sufficient depth of meaning, though now with no unpleasant expression. But Charlton notwithstanding rather gathered himself up.

"O uncle Rolf," said Fleda gently,—"nerves and muscles haven't much to do with it—after all you know I have just served the place of a mouth-piece. Seth was the head, and good Earl Douglass the hand."

"I am ashamed of myself and of mankind," Mr. Rossitur repeated, "when I see what mere weakness can do, and how proudly valueless strength is contended to be. You are looking, Capt. Rossitur,—but after all a cap and plume really makes a man taller only to the eye."

"When I have flung my plume in anybody's face, sir," said Charlton rather hotly, "it will be time enough to throw it back again."

Mrs. Rossitur put her hand on his arm and looked her remonstrance.

"Are you glad to be home again, dear Fleda?" she said turning to her.

But Fleda was making some smiling communications to her uncle and did not seem to hear.

"Fleda does it seem pleasant to be here again?"

"Very pleasant, dear aunt Lucy—though I have had a very pleasant visit too."

"On the whole you do not wish you were at this moment driving out of town in Mr. Thorn's cabriolet?" said her cousin.

"Not in the least," said Fleda coolly. "How did you know I ever did such a thing?"

"I wonder what should bring Mr. Thorn to Queechy at this time of year," said Hugh.

Fleda started at this confirmation of Constance's words; and what was very odd, she could not get rid of the impression that Mr. Rossitur had started too. Perhaps it was only her own nerves, but he had certainly taken away the arm that was round her.

"I suppose he has followed Miss Ringgan," said Charlton gravely.

"No," said Hugh, "he has been here some little time."

"Then he preceded her, I suppose, to see and get the sleighs in order."

"He did not know I was coming," said Fleda.

"Didn't!"

"No—I have not seen him for several days."

"My dear little cousin," said Charlton laughing,—"you are not a witch in your own affairs, whatever you may be in those of other people."

"Why, Charlton?"

"You are no adept in the art of concealment."

"I have nothing to conceal," said Fleda. "How do you know he is here, Hugh?"

"I was anxiously asked the other day," said Hugh with a slight smile, "whether you had come home; and then told that Mr. Thorn was in Queechy. There is no mistake about it, for my imformant had actually seen him, and given him the direction to Mr. Plumfield's, for which he was inquiring."

"The direction to Mr. Plumfield's!" said Fleda.

"What's your old friend Mr. Carleton doing in New York?" said Charlton.

"Is he there still?" said Mrs. Rossitur.

"As large as life," answered her son.

"Which, though you might not suppose it, aunt Lucy, is about the height of Capt. Rossitur, with—I should judge—a trifle less weight."

"Your eyes are observant!" said Charlton.

"Of a good many things," said Fleda lightly.

"He is not my height by half an inch," said Charlton;—"I am just six feet without my boots."

"An excellent height!" said Fleda,—"'your six feet was ever the only height.'"

"Who said that?" said Charlton.

"Isn't it enough that I say it?"

"What's he staying here for?"

"I don't know really," said Fleda. "It's very difficult to tell what people do things for."

"Have you seen much of him?" said Mrs. Rossitur.

"Yes ma'am—a good deal—he was often at Mrs. Evelyn's."

"Is he going to marry one of her daughters?"

"Oh no!" said Fleda smiling,—"he isn't thinking of such a thing;—not in America—I don't know what he may do in England."

"No!" said Charlton.—"I suppose he would think himself contaminated by matching with any blood in this hemisphere."

"You do him injustice," said Fleda, colouring;—"you do not know him, Charlton."

"You do?"

"Much better than that."

"And he is not one of the most touch-me-not pieces of English birth and wealth that ever stood upon their own dignity?"

"Not at all!" said Fleda;—"how people may be misunderstood!—he is one of the most gentle and kind persons I ever saw."

"To you!"

"To everybody that deserves it."

"Humph!—And not proud?"

"No, not as you understand it,"—and she felt it was very difficult to make him understand it, as the discovery involved a very offensive implication;—"he is too fine a character to be proud."

"That is arguing in a circle with a vengeance!" said Charlton.

"I know what you are thinking of," said Fleda, "and I suppose it passes for pride with a great many people who cannot comprehend it—he has a singular power of quietly rebuking wrong, and keeping impertinence at a distance—where Capt. Rossitur, for instance, I suppose, would throw his cap in a man's face, Mr. Carleton's mere silence would make the offender doff his and ask pardon."

The manner in which this was said precluded all taking offence.

"Well," said Charlton shrugging his shoulders,—"then I don't know what pride is—that's all!"

"Take care, Capt. Rossitur," said Fleda laughing,—"I have heard of such a thing as American pride before now."

"Certainly!" said Charlton, "and I'm quite willing—but it never reaches quite such a towering height on our side the water."

"I am sure I don't know how that may be," said Fleda, "but I know I have heard a lady, an enlightened, gentle-tempered American lady, so called,—I have heard her talk to a poor Irish woman with whom she had nothing in the world to do, in a style that moved my indignation—it stirred my blood!—and there was nothing whatever to call it out. 'All the blood of all the Howards,' I hope would not have disgraced itself so."

"What business have you to 'hope' anything about it?"

"None—except from the natural desire to find what one has a right to look for. But indeed I wouldn't take the blood of all the Howards for any security—pride as well as high-breeding is a thing of natural not adventitious growth—it belongs to character, not circumstance."

"Do you know that your favourite Mr. Carleton is nearly connected with those same Howards, and quarters their arms with his own?"

"I have a very vague idea of the dignity implied in that expression of 'quartering arms,' which comes so roundly out of your mouth, Charlton," said Fleda laughing. "No, I didn't know it. But in general I am apt to think that pride is a thing which reverses the usual rules of architecture, and builds highest on the narrowest foundations."

"What do you mean?"

"Never mind," said Fleda,—"if a meaning isn't plain it isn't worth looking after. But it will not do to measure pride by its supposed materials. It does not depend on them but on the individual. You everywhere see people assert that most of which they feel least sure, and then it is easy for them to conclude that where there is so much more of the reality there must be proportionably more of the assertion. I wish some of our gentlemen, and ladies, who talk of pride where they see and can see nothing but the habit of wealth—I wish they could see the universal politeness with which Mr. Carleton returns the salutes of his inferiors. Not more respectfully they lift their hats to him than he lifts his to them—unless when he speaks."

"You have seen it?"

"Often."

"Where?"

"In England—at his own place—among his own servants and dependents. I remember very well—it struck even my childish eyes."

"Well, after all, that is nothing still but a refined kind of haughtiness."

"It is a kind that I wish some of our Americans would copy," said Fleda.

"But dear Fleda," said Mrs. Rossitur, "all Americans are not like that lady you were talking of—it would be very unfair to make her a sample. I don't think I ever heard any one speak so in my life—you never heard me speak so."

"Dear aunt Lucy!—no,—I was only giving instance for instance. I have no idea that Mr. Carleton is a type of Englishmen in general—I wish he were. But I think it is the very people that cry out against superiority, who are the most happy to assert their own where they can; the same jealous feeling that repines on the one hand, revenges itself on the other."

"Superiority of what kind?" said Charlton stiffly.

"Of any kind—superiority of wealth, or refinement, or name, or standing. Now it does not follow that an Englishman is proud because he keeps liveried servants, and it by no means follows that an American lacks the essence of haughtiness because he finds fault with him for doing so."

"I dare say some of our neighbours think we are proud," said Hugh, "Because we use silver forks instead of steel."

"Because we're too good for steel forks, you ought to say," said Fleda. "I am sure they think so. I have been given to understand as much. Barby, I believe, has a good opinion of us and charitably concludes that we mean right; but some other of our country friends would think I was far gone in uppishness if they knew that I never touch fish with a steel knife; and it wouldn't mend the matter much to tell them that the combination of flavours is disagreeable to me—it hardly suits the doctrine of liberty and equality that my palate should be so much nicer than theirs."

"Absurd!" said Charlton.

"Very," said Fleda; "but on which side, in all probability, is the pride?"

"It wasn't for liveried servants that I charged Mr. Carleton," said her cousin. "How do the Evelyns like this paragon of yours?"

"O everybody likes him," said Fleda smiling,—"except you and your friend Mr. Thorn."

"Thorn don't like him, eh?"

"I think not."

"What do you suppose is the reason?" said Charlton gravely.

"I don't think Mr. Thorn is particularly apt to like anybody," said Fleda, who knew very well the original cause of both exceptions but did not like to advert to it.

"Apparently you don't like Mr. Thorn?" said Mr. Rossitur, speaking for the first time.

"I don't know who does, sir, much,—except his mother."

"What is he?"

"A man not wanting in parts, sir, and with considerable force of character,—but I am afraid more for ill than for good. I should be very sorry to trust him with anything dear to me."

"How long were you in forming that opinion?" said Charlton looking at her curiously.

"It was formed, substantially, the first evening I saw him, and I hare never seen cause to alter it since."

The several members of the family therewith fell into a general muse, with the single exception of Hugh, whose eyes and thoughts seemed to be occupied with Fleda's living presence. Mr. Rossitur then requested that breakfast might be ready very early—at six o'clock.

"Six o'clock!" exclaimed Mrs. Rossitur.

"I have to take a long ride, on business, which must be done early in the day."

"When will you be back?"

"Not before night-fall."

"But going on another business journey!" said Mrs. Rossitur. "You have but just these few hours come home from one."

"Cannot breakfast be ready?"

"Yes, uncle Rolf," said Fleda bringing her bright face before him,—"ready at half-past five if you like—now that I am to the fore, you know."

He clasped her to his breast and kissed her again; but with a face so very grave that Fleda was glad nobody else saw it.

Then Charlton went, averring that he wanted at least a night and a half of sleep between two such journeys as the one of that day and the one before him on the next,—especially as he must resign himself to going without anything to eat. Him also Fleda laughingly promised that precisely half an hour before the stage time a cup of coffee and a roll should be smoking on the table, with whatever substantial appendages might be within the bounds of possibility, or the house.

"I will pay you for that beforehand with a kiss," said he.

"You will do nothing of the kind," said Fleda stepping back;—"a kiss is a favour taken, not given; and I am entirely ignorant what you have done to deserve it."

"You make a curious difference between me and Hugh," said Charlton, half in jest, half in earnest.

"Hugh is my brother, Capt. Rossitur," said Fleda smiling,—and that is an honour you never made any pretensions to."

"Come, you shall not say that any more," said he, taking the kiss that Fleda had no mind to give him.

Half laughing, but with eyes that were all too ready for something else, she turned again to Hugh when his brother had left the room and looked wistfully in his face, stroking back the hair from his temples with a caressing hand.

"You are just as you were when I left you!—" she said, with lips that seemed too unsteady to say more, and remained parted.

"I am afraid so are you," he replied;—"not a bit fatter. I hoped you would be."

"What have you been smiling at so this evening?"

"I was thinking how well you talked."

"Why Hugh!—You should have helped me—I talked too much."

"I would much rather listen," said Hugh. "Dear Fleda, what a different thing the house is with you in it!"

Fleda said nothing, except an inexplicable little shake of her head which said a great many things; and then she and her aunt were left alone. Mrs. Rossitur drew her to her bosom with a look so exceeding fond that its sadness was hardly discernible. It was mingled however with an expression of some doubt.

"What has made you keep so thin?"

"I have been very well, aunt Lucy,—thinness agrees with me."

"Are you glad to be home again, dear Fleda?"

"I am very glad to be with you, dear aunt Lucy!"

"But not glad to be home?"

"Yes I am," said Fleda,—"but somehow—I don't know—I believe I have got a little spoiled—it is time I was at home I am sure.—I shall be quite glad after a day or two, when I have got into the works again. I am glad now, aunt Lucy."

Mrs. Rossitur seemed unsatisfied, and stroked the hair from Fleda's forehead with an absent look.

"What was there in New York that you were so sorry to leave?"

"Nothing ma'am, in particular,"—said Fleda brightly,—"and I am not sorry, aunt Lucy—I tell you I am a little spoiled with company and easy living—I am glad to be with you again."

Mrs. Rossitur was silent.

"Don't you get up to uncle Rolf's breakfast to-morrow, aunt Lucy."

"Nor you."

"I sha'n't unless I want to—but there'll be nothing for you to do, and you must just lie still. We will all have our breakfast together when Charlton has his."

"You are the veriest sunbeam that ever came into a house," said her aunt kissing her.



Chapter XXXVIII.



My flagging soul flies under her own pitch.

Dryden.

Fleda mused as she went up stairs whether the sun were a luminous body to himself or no, feeling herself at that moment dull enough. Bright, was she, to others? nothing seemed bright to her. Every old shadow was darker than ever. Her uncle's unchanged gloom,—her aunt's unrested face,—Hugh's unaltered delicate sweet look, which always to her fancy seemed to write upon his face, "Passing away!"—and the thickening prospects whence sprang the miasm that infected the whole moral atmosphere—alas, yes!—"Money is a good thing," thought Fleda;—"and poverty need not be a bad thing, if people can take it right;—but if they take it wrong!—"

With a very drooping heart indeed she went to the window. Her old childish habit had never been forgotten; whenever the moon or the stars were abroad Fleda rarely failed to have a talk with them from her window. She stood there now, looking out into the cold still night, with eyes just dimmed with tears—not that she lacked sadness enough, but she did lack spirit enough to cry. It was very still;—after the rattle and confusion of the city streets, that extent of snow-covered country where the very shadows were motionless—the entire absence of soil and of disturbance—the rest of nature—the breathlessness of the very wind—all preached a quaint kind of sermon to Fleda. By the force of contrast they told her what should be;—and there was more yet,—she thought that by the force of example they shewed what might be. Her eyes had not long travelled over the familiar old fields and fences before she came to the conclusion that she was home in good time,—she thought she had been growing selfish, or in danger of it; and she made up her mind she was glad to be back again among the rough things of life, where she could do so much to smooth them for others and her own spirit might grow to a polish it would never gain in the regions of ease and pleasure. "To do life's work!"—thought Fleda clasping her hands,—"no matter where—and mine is here. I am glad I am in my place again—I was forgetting I had one."

It was a face of strange purity and gravity that the moon shone upon, with no power to brighten as in past days; the shadows of life were upon the child's brow. But nothing to brighten it from within? One sweet strong ray of other light suddenly found its way through the shadows and entered her heart. "The Lord reigneth! let the earth be glad!"—and then the moonbeams pouring down with equal ray upon all the unevennesses of this little world seemed to say the same thing over and over. Even so! Not less equally his providence touches all,—not less impartially his faithfulness guides. "The Lord reigneth! let the earth be glad!" There was brightness in the moonbeams now that Fleda could read this in them; she went to sleep, a very child again, with these words for her pillow.

It was not six, and darkness yet filled the world, when Mr. Rossitur came down stairs and softly opened the sitting-room door. But the home fairy had been at work; he was greeted with such a blaze of cheerfulness as seemed to say what a dark place the world was everywhere but at home; his breakfast-table was standing ready, well set and well supplied; and even as he entered by one door Fleda pushed open the other and came in from the kitchen, looking as if she had some strange spirit-like kindred with the cheery hearty glow which filled both rooms.

"Fleda!—you up at this hour!"

"Yes, uncle Rolf," she said coming forward to put her hands upon his,—"you are not sorry to see me, I hope."

But he did not say he was glad; and he did not speak at all; he busied himself gravely with some little matters of preparation for his journey. Evidently the gloom of last night was upon him yet. But Fleda had not wrought for praise, and could work without encouragement; neither step nor hand slackened, till all she and Barby had made ready was in nice order on the table and she was pouring out a cup of smoking coffee.

"You are not fit to be up," said Mr. Rossitur, looking at her,—-"you are pale now, Put yourself in that arm chair, Fleda, and go to sleep—I will do this for myself."

"No indeed, uncle Rolf," she answered brightly,—"I have enjoyed getting breakfast very much at this out-of-the-way hour, and now I am going to have the pleasure of seeing you eat it. Suppose you were to take a cup of coffee instead of my shoulder."

He took it and sat down, but Fleda found that the pleasure of seeing him was to be a very qualified thing. He ate like a business man, in unbroken silence and gravity; and her cheerful words and looks got no return. It became an effort at length to keep either bright. Mr. Rossitur's sole remarks during breakfast were to ask if Charlton was going back that day, and if Philetus was getting the horse ready.

Mr. Skillcorn had been called in good time by Barby at Fleda's suggestion, and coming down stairs had opined discontentedly that "a man hadn't no right to be took out of bed in the morning afore he could see himself." But this, and Barby's spirited reply, that "there was no chance of his doing that at any time of day, so it was no use to wait,"—Fleda did not repeat. Her uncle was in no humour to be amused.

She expected almost that he would go off without speaking to her. But he came up kindly to where she stood watching him.

"You must bid me good-bye for all the family, uncle Rolf, as I am the only one here," she said laughing.

But she was sure that the embrace and kiss which followed were very exclusively for her. They made her face almost as sober as his own.

"There will be a blessing for you," said he,—"if there is a blessing anywhere!"

"If, uncle Rolf?" said Fleda, her heart swelling to her eyes.

He turned away without answering her.

Fleda sat down in the easy chair then and cried. But that lasted very few minutes; she soon left crying for herself to pray for him, that he might have the blessing he did not know. That did not stop tears. She remembered the poor man sick of the palsy who was brought in by friends to be healed, and that "Jesus seeing their faith, said unto the sick of the palsy, 'Son, thy sins be forgiven thee.'" It was a handle that faith took hold of and held fast while love made its petition. It was all she could do, she thought; she never could venture to speak to her uncle on the subject.

Weary and tired, tears and longing at length lost themselves in sleep. When she awaked she found the daylight broadly come, little King in her lap, the fire, instead of being burnt out, in perfect preservation, and Barby standing before it and looking at her.

"You ha'n't got one speck o' good by this journey to New York," was Miss Elster's vexed salutation.